The Scent of Small Victories

“Out here, breakfast isn’t just food—it’s proof we’re still trying.”

The crisp morning air greeted Chris and me as we emerged from our tent, wrapping around us with a breath of cool clarity that seemed to press gently against our skin. There was a particular stillness to dawn in Clivilius—an expectant hush that made every sound feel more vivid, more deliberate. The first light spilled over the camp like a wash of pale gold, catching the dew on the scattered logs and tent flaps, turning everything into a quiet tapestry of morning promise.

The decision to prepare a cooked breakfast wasn’t merely practical—it was an act of defiance against the creeping uncertainties. In a world that constantly threatened to unmake us, the crackle of a fire and the scent of something hot in a pan felt like a declaration: we are still here. We could choose ritual over panic, comfort over uncertainty. It wasn’t just about food. It was about anchoring ourselves.

The thought of bacon or beans or even toasted bread—anything familiar—carried a kind of reverence. I imagined the smell drifting through camp like a beacon, a subtle summons back to something resembling home. The idea alone was enough to stir something warm in my chest, a small but essential ember of hope.

But as we made our way towards the communal fire, we discovered we weren’t the first. Paul and Nial were already there, seated close together beside the flames, their bodies leaning in, voices hushed but animated. The low murmur of their conversation carried just enough for me to detect its urgency, but not enough to decipher its contents.

“Morning,” I greeted them, careful to keep my tone light and non-intrusive, a gentle tap on the surface of their conversation rather than a ripple.

They both looked up, momentarily pulled from their exchange. Paul offered a small nod and a flicker of a smile, the kind that said we’ll talk properly later. Nial’s response was more reserved—just a brief glance and a quiet acknowledgement—but it carried the same underlying message: not now.

Their heads dipped back towards one another almost immediately, and the spell resumed—whatever they were discussing clearly too important to shelve for long. I didn’t press. Insects, I knew, had entire systems of communication invisible to the naked eye—pheromonal signals, silent vibrations. Watching Paul and Nial, I felt a similar rhythm unfolding. Something was being negotiated. Something with weight.

Chris and I stepped back, slipping quietly into the rhythm of our own morning. He fetched kindling while I crouched near the fire pit, coaxing yesterday’s embers back to life. The dry twigs crackled as the flames took hold, their eager tongues licking up into the cool morning air. A cluster of sparks shot upward, pirouetting skyward before drifting back like spent fireflies.

I watched them go, each one a brief, incandescent life—bright and hopeful and then gone.

The fire warmed my hands as I worked, and behind me, I could still hear the soft cadence of Paul and Nial’s voices. Whatever they were planning or considering, it was happening in tandem with the mundane magic of breakfast, with the stirring of coals and the gentle hush of dawn. And somehow, it felt fitting.

We were each doing what we could to build something in this place—one quiet decision at a time. One flame at a time.

Chris busied himself with setting up the griddle over the fire. I began to unpack the makeshift breakfast supplies—carefully unwrapping each item from its cloth wrapping as though it were some small treasure salvaged from the remnants of our former lives. The sizzle of bacon hitting the hot surface cut through the stillness like a sharp note of promise, soon followed by the gentle crackle of eggs. It was a symphony of familiar sounds, comforting in its ordinariness.

The rich, savoury aroma curled up into the air, carried by the early morning breeze like a message of reassurance. I imagined it winding its way through the rows of tents, nudging sleepers awake with its delicious insistence: we are here, we are fed, we endure.

But amid the pleasant smells, another scent crept in—faint at first, then unmistakable. I wrinkled my nose slightly and glanced at Chris, who was crouched by the fire, his shirt clinging damply to his back. A small, sheepish smile tugged at my mouth. The truth was, we both stank. Not in a dramatic, knock-you-flat way, but enough that the growing heat and the smokiness of the fire only seemed to amplify the evidence of long days without proper bathing. It wasn’t unpleasant so much as... human. Real. A reminder that survival demanded sacrifices, and comfort was often the first to go.

I leaned slightly away from the heat and rubbed the back of my neck. “Are you alright to continue cooking breakfast?” I asked, stepping away from the fire, needing a breath of slightly fresher air.

“Of course,” Chris replied with a warm smile, not missing a beat as he flipped the bacon. There was a groundedness to him that I admired—an ability to settle into the moment, no matter how unfamiliar or unforgiving the world around us might be. It anchored me more than I liked to admit.

“Good,” I said, nodding. “I think we need to do some washing today.”

He chuckled, then pulled his collar to his nose and gave it an experimental sniff. The grimace that followed was immediate and theatrical. “I think you’re right,” he agreed, his face contorting with mock horror.

A genuine laugh escaped me, unbidden and refreshing, like stumbling across a rare insect in the field—unexpected and beautiful in its own strange way. I turned to look at the camp, the tents casting long shadows in the angled light, our supplies bundled neatly beneath makeshift awnings. Despite the disarray and hardship, this was our world now. This collection of smells and tasks and rituals was home, in all its imperfect, human glory.

And for this brief, bacon-scented moment, I allowed myself to feel something dangerously close to content.

Inside the tent, the soft glow of morning light filtered through the canvas, casting a warm, amber hue on everything. It was a gentle illumination, the kind that made even our most worn and battered belongings appear momentarily precious, wrapped in gold. Dust motes floated lazily in the air, disturbed only by the subtle movements of my hands as I began my search.

With a quiet breath, I knelt and turned my attention to the heap of clothing and supplies we'd been too exhausted to properly sort. This was no longer a simple tidy-up—it felt almost ceremonial, like unearthing artefacts from another existence. Each item I pulled free was imbued with echoes of our former lives: the faded university hoodie Chris had worn on field trips, a crumpled flannel shirt that still smelled faintly of eucalyptus from our last hike through Mount Field. These weren’t just clothes—they were links to a time when the boundaries of our world were defined by classrooms and research permits, not portals and sharp-toothed predators.

My hands paused over a T-shirt—creased and sweat-stained, its fabric stiff with grime. A sigh escaped me. Nearly everything we owned was the same. Tainted with the sharp tang of sweat, or infused with the clingy, fine dust that seemed to coat every surface in Clivilius, as though the very air were trying to claim us. I felt a sudden pang—sharp and unexpected—for the mundane luxury of laundry days. The scent of detergent. The hum of machines. The way clean clothes made everything feel possible again.

“Kain,” I heard Chris call out firmly from somewhere outside, his voice cutting cleanly through my thoughts.

I blinked, the sound drawing me out of my introspection and back into the present. A smile tugged at my lips. The plan had worked—breakfast had done its job. Around us, the camp was waking. I could hear the soft groans of stretching limbs, the murmur of early conversation, the zippery shuffle of tent flaps being opened. Life was stirring again, drawn by the scent of hot food and the promise of something resembling normal.

Glancing at the small mountain of crumpled clothing I’d unearthed, I gave a resigned shake of my head. There was no time to be sentimental. I gathered the bundle into my arms—an awkward pile of memories and necessity—and made my way out into the light, steeling myself for the next task in the ever-growing list of survival.

Emerging from the tent with purpose, I called out to Kain, my stride determined and arms full of musty clothes. The weight of the bundle pressed into my chest, awkward and uneven, but I kept my grip firm as I crossed the clearing. “Kain, get me your dirty clothes, and I'll wash them along with ours.”

He froze mid-step, as though I’d just asked him to recite poetry to a crowd. His young face, still slightly puffy with sleep, registered a blend of surprise and awkward hesitation. His eyes widened, and his mouth opened but no words followed. For a heartbeat, he simply stared, as if unsure whether he’d heard correctly—or perhaps reconciling the image of me as one of the camp’s senior members with the humble, unceremonious task of laundry duty.

“The camp is starting to stink,” I added, my voice resolute, giving no space for refusal. “I think everything around here could do with a good scrub.”

That seemed to settle it. “Of course,” he said quickly, almost guiltily, as if realising he should have offered before being asked. Then he turned and vanished into his tent with all the enthusiasm of someone avoiding a task rather than preparing for it.

I shifted the weight in my arms, trying to find some semblance of balance as I turned back toward the campfire. Chris was still stationed at the griddle, the hiss of bacon and the scent of cooking oil rising like incense into the fresh morning air. His eyes met mine as I approached, his expression tightening slightly with concern.

“Are you going to eat before you go?” he asked, gesturing toward the pan with the tilt of his chin.

“Come, give me a few mouthfuls now,” I said, nodding towards the food while adjusting my grip on the awkward pile of garments. My arms were beginning to ache, and I didn’t fancy setting everything down only to have to wrestle it all back into submission. A sock already dangled perilously from the heap.

Chris stepped over with the small frying pan, the contents sizzling warmly. I opened my mouth expectantly, tilting my head back just enough to receive the offering. A faint smile pulled at the corners of his lips.

“Blow on it first,” I instructed, shooting him a narrowed look, though my tone carried a teasing edge. The playful smirk on my face betrayed the affection behind the command. I snapped my mouth shut theatrically just as he lifted the fork.

Chris obliged with a dramatic puff, overcompensating with the force of his breath. A handful of beans launched from the fork and scattered across the dusty ground like startled insects. I laughed, an involuntary chuckle bubbling up and escaping before I could stop it.

He offered another forkful, more carefully this time, and I leaned forward to taste it. The beans were hot, smoky and slightly charred, and they hit my empty stomach with immediate comfort. For a brief moment, I allowed myself to simply savour—just the warmth, the familiar flavour, the unexpected intimacy of being fed by someone else in this raw and exposed place.

After a few more bites, I licked the last trail of sauce from my lips and pulled back. “That’ll do,” I murmured contentedly. “I’ll eat more when I’ve finished this washing.”

A flicker of disapproval crossed Chris’s face, a faint frown that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’ll be stone cold by then.”

“You know I’m always happy to eat cold food,” I replied, my voice softening, layered with the familiar weariness of someone too accustomed to compromise. I let out a small sigh—part resignation, part reassurance.

“Okay,” he said at last, a reluctant shrug easing into his posture as he returned the pan to the coals. I could tell he wanted to argue, but he knew me too well by now. There were bigger things at stake, and we both knew it.

The day was beginning to gather itself. I felt its pulse in the heat rising from the fire, in the rhythm of tasks already underway, in the strange new normal we were carving out of this wild and foreign place. And with a final glance at Chris, I turned to face the day’s next duty.

Kain re-emerged from his tent with a stack of clothing so tall it nearly obscured his face, a teetering monument to adolescent indifference. The assortment wobbled in his arms with every step, swaying dangerously like an overburdened leaf caught in the breeze. My eyes widened involuntarily at the sight.

I let out a breath—half sigh, half suppressed groan—feeling the hope for even a sliver of solitude evaporate like mist beneath the morning sun. I had secretly been looking forward to the quiet, the feel of water on my own skin, the small ritual of washing away the grime and dust of the past few days. But now, it seemed, I’d have company. Of course I would.

“You’re going to have to accompany me,” I said, more out of necessity than invitation, shifting the load in my arms as I eyed the leaning tower of cotton and sweat he was barely keeping upright. There was a trace of resignation in my voice, softened by a reluctant amusement at the absurdity of it all.

Kain's head appeared like a meerkat over the summit of his laundry. “It’s not all mine,” he offered quickly, sheepish but also faintly defensive, his tone straddling that fine line between embarrassment and relief.

I raised a brow and gave a small, dry laugh. “Probably just as well,” I muttered, turning on my heels before the mountain collapsed entirely. My arms ached with the weight of the clothes I carried, the fabric digging uncomfortably into my forearms.

Each step toward the lagoon felt like hauling the past few days behind me—dirt, sweat, sorrow, all bundled in threadbare shirts and sun-faded trousers.

“The river?” Kain asked, his voice drifting up beside me as he hurried to catch up. His feet shuffled lightly across the trodden dusty path, unsure and watchful.

“No,” I said, shaking my head, trying to clear the fog of fatigue and disappointment. “I thought we'd go to the lagoon. There are more rocks there to help lay clothes out to dry, seeing as we don't exactly have anything to hang them on here.” I spoke briskly, matter-of-fact, as much to mask my own exhaustion as to set the course. The lagoon wasn’t just the more practical option—it felt more secluded, more removed from the constant noise of camp. I needed that.

Kain’s voice piped up again, directed back toward the fire. “I’ll eat when I get back,” he called to Chris, passing him with a brief glance. Then, as an afterthought: “Oh, and feed Henri for me, please?”

Chris’s response was immediate and dependable. “Sure,” he replied, his voice carrying that warm, familiar cadence that seemed to settle the edges of things. “I’ll make sure he eats something.”

The exchange made something in my chest tighten, a strange twin pulse of affection and worry. Chris’s unwavering willingness to help—it was one of the things I loved most about him. But Henri… Henri had been fading.

His lack of appetite was no longer just concerning—it was starting to feel like a silent countdown. I’d seen it before, in the bush, in the quiet passing of a bonded pair of wrens after one was taken by a hawk. The one left behind always lingered a little longer than it should, as though it, too, had not quite made peace with being alone.

I didn’t let myself dwell on it. Not now. Not with my arms full and my patience fraying. I pressed forward toward the lagoon, the steady rhythm of my steps a quiet meditation. Around us, the morning sun climbed higher, casting long shadows on the path ahead. Behind us, Bixbus buzzed quietly to life, its daily hum unfolding once again—half promise, half warning.