From War Came Words •H.S AU•

Prologue

"Spit it out then Harry," I wait for a response and get nothing. Instead his face goes blank. He isn't one to talk about his feelings, always been talked down by insecure men for opening up so he shuts down.

"Harry, what's the matter? Did something happen?" I'm scared now. What could have happened between last night when he walked me home and this morning that could make him act like this? Distant.

"I love you."

"I love you, nothing is going to change that. Just tell me." I squeeze his hand for reassurance, although I don't know how effective my gesture is.

"It came," he sighs, breaking our physical contact and running his hand through his shoulder length hair.

"What came?"

"My notice." no.

"Are you sure? Positive that's what it was? Maybe it was just a letter saying they got your registration and you've only been added to the potential draft list." my breathing catches in my throat and it's now him squeezing my hand for reassurance. He lets go only to stand up and make his way across the room to his jacket, which is set lazily on the bar. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out an envelope. He crosses the room and hands me the letter, I take it out of its envelope and unfold it.

I start to read and sure enough:

NOTICE OF CONSCRIPTION

The following must report for duty the 9 October 1939 by 10 in the morning at Maunsell Sea Forts located off shore on the Thames estuary for training:

NAME Harry Edward Styles

AGED 21

DOB 01/02/1918

DATE OF CONSCRIPTION 23/09/1939

Congratulations on your conscription and may God save the King.

Signed,

The War Office of His Majesty the King

Whitehall Building #206

London, England

I've been staring at the document for ages now. Scanning it. Waiting for the sentence that says "Harry Styles will serve Her Majesty the Queen in the comforts of his own safe home" to appear but it doesn't. I finally look away when his hand grabs my chin and gently tilts my head to make me look at him.

"It can't be true," he wipes the tears falling down my cheeks and I know it's too late. It's the 29th of September. 10 days until he is taken away from me to fight the devil himself. 10 days of certainty before the fact that he is alive or dead is only a minor detail to that of the English government.

"There isn't enough time, Harry."

"There will never be enough time with you, my love."

"And if you never come home?" He pulls me into him.

"You'll bring me home." He envelopes me in a hug, my head pressed into the crook of his neck and I take in his scent. Vanilla and cedarwood, subtle yet distinctive and I never want to pull away.

We sit there wrapped together—eventually laying down—for hours when the daylight starts to fade and neither one of us can bring ourselves to move. My mother finally comes in and snaps us out of our little bubble.

"You might want to head on home soon, Harry. It's getting pretty late," he adjusts his position slightly. Only enough to face my mother.

"I'll leave soon, Mrs. Cromwell. My draft notice came and I leave in 10 days. I need all the time I can get."