The French doors swinging shut behind had cut off the rest of the street’s noise, and yet unfortunately provided no shelter from the commotion inside the building. The mass surged in and out and about like a hive of busy bees in the dazzle of the summer’s heat, inebriated on sweet nectar of flowers and pollen — soldiers, officers, telegraphists, secretaries, police force, you name it — one collection of different shoes and stockings which hurried into one direction and appeared from another, all somehow managing to circumvent each other and steer clear of running face-first into the bodies.

Your destination however (and very much to your relief, do take notice) differed, and the click of your fleet steps carried across the comely halls like a chamber of an echo. Each floor had left less and less visitors to place your gaze upon, and more of the much less pleasant view of doubled and tripled security as you reached and reached the top, the sky overhead laden with lead clouds through the darkened glass.

Bristol, 1915, the sky high with pollution and the war satisfied and purring with its claws sunk into the Empire.

The couple of lieutenants barely shifted their stance as you passed by, and another set of oak doors reclaimed their wooden silence behind your back.

“Colonel reporting for duty, sir.” Your voice pooled across the room evenly. The Field Marshal did not bother to acknowledge the curt greeting, but when had this man ever manage to look impressed by anything?

The mirthful youth behind him was a stark contrast. Carvel grinned at you from behind his father’s shoulder, the white of his teeth merry against the soft dark plum of his mouth. “Colonel, at last. You have been expected. Come, there is plenty to settle.”

Once out of the vicinity of his father’s ears, he stepped forth and pressed close, his chin finding purchase in the dip of your shoulder. “Hello, you,” He drawled, glacé as his pearl gray eyes found yours, pale digits a caress across the cut of your jaw. “It has been quite a while.”