Amiens, 1918

"I'm prepared to sacrifice my life.

I would gladly do it twice.

Oh please have mercy on me."

- Mercy, Shawn Mendes

They're going to chuck everything they've got at them.

With quaking, grimy hands, Tom holds a cigarette to his chapped lips and takes a deep, long drag. It does nothing to calm him, but he takes another and then directs his gaze skyward. It's gray, without a trace of the blue that reminds him of her eyes, even in this hell. It's always gray, has been for days, months even. Every color at the front is faded, somehow, and he finds himself struggling more and more, with every day that passes, to remember what they really look like. She's the only thing that he recalls in vivid color, and that's only because she visits his dreams every night.

He knows that she doesn't love him. Not like he loves her. Maybe, she never will, but he still clings to her memory because he's lost everything else.

Another drag on the cigarette. Another prayer whispered in Gaelic to a God who's proven merciful so far (but may abandon him yet). Another drag on the cigarette.

His mind drifts as he waits for his commanding officer to emerge from the bunker to address them (for quite likely the last time). Before death, people always claim, you relive your life, revisit the moments that made you who you are, but he finds himself dwelling in what-ifs. He chuckles bitterly when he realizes that his regrets are what define him; then, he takes another deep, long drag on his cigarette and prays that his hands will stop quaking long enough for him to actually hit a target.

He fights for himself, not them, never them, only himself (and her, always her). He abandoned his plan to be a conscientious objector when he heard what happened to Mrs. Patmore's nephew. Jail, he could survive. A bullet in the brain, he couldn't.

He may still get that bullet in the brain. But, now, he'd consider it a small mercy.

"Branson, you Irish bastard, where'd you get that cigarette?"

He'd tamed his Irish lilt long ago, learned to keep his politics to himself, schooled his expression into one of permanent neutrality, bordering on boredom. He is a shell of who he once was, but who he once was still haunts him. Some men, like Irving, have figured out that he's Irish, and they hold it against him. As much as he resents their name-calling and pettiness, more than anything, he mourns that silly little chauffeur chap who believed that Lady Sybil would return his love one day.

"You want it?" he mutters as he eyes Irving warily, taking another drag on the cigarette because he's knows that he's about to lose it. He pulls it from his mouth and hands it to Irving without complaint, only exhaling a slender plume of smoke. It lingers in the air, gray on gray. He watches it, idly, Irving forgotten, as it wafts away and finally dissipates, lost like so many of his memories of life before the front.

Irving says something—he catches "filthy" and "Catholic," nothing that sets his teeth on edge these days—before he stalks off. Tom doesn't care; he's too busy trying to latch onto a memory to carry with him as he heads into battle (to comfort him as he lays dying in the mud). He smiles, faintly, as a vision of a dusty garage dances past his eyes. The sky was blue, just like her eyes, which sparkled as they debated about something or other, he can't settle on the subject. It could have been any of her visits to the garage before Mr. Carson handed him (so casually, too, like it wasn't a death sentence) that thick, green envelope from the War Office.

(Blue isn't the only color he remembers, just the one he wants to. The one he wants to escape is red. The red that's so light it's almost pink. The red that's so dark it's almost black. All of the shades of red. At the front, come to think of it, red is the only color that isn't faded. The front is painted in reds and grays, and all of his memories drown in them.)

His commanding officer finally emerges, and he stiffens, lowering his gaze to his mud-crusted boots. As soon as he opens with an appeal to fight for their country, Tom tunes him out, a skill acquired what feels like a lifetime ago as he ferried around the aristocrats who became the commanding officers who now put his life at risk for no reason other than their foolhardy pride.

He longs for a cigarette. His hands won't stop quaking. He idly wonders where she is right now, even though she never answered his letters. Nobody ever answered, and he wonders why every hour of every day (actually, he already knows why but refuses to admit it. Because, if he did, he'd lose his reason to keep fighting).

His commanding officer is finished with his speech. For a moment, all is still, all is silent. All that's left to do is wait for the whistle that will send them into hell. He hates this moment most of all, and he feels the bile rising in the back of his throat, like it did when he stood in that courtyard in York with bet on me and I promise to devote every waking minute to your happiness on his lips and left with them unsaid. One of his many, many regrets, not that saying them would have changed a thing.

(Would it have?)

The whistle cuts through the silence, and the stillness gives way to the rush of men running straight into the arms of death. He has time for one last prayer mumbled in halting Gaelic under his breath before he's caught in the current and carried up and into no man's land.

He immediately bolts for cover. The world is a blur of gray and red, and the stifling air is crackling with gunfire and panic. Something grazes his right ear, and, when he brushes his hand against it, it comes back sticky and red. He sucks in a deep breath and keeps moving, one foot in front of the other, again, again, again and again.

When a shell whizzes overheard, he throws himself into a crater, flattening himself into the mud, his rifle underneath him. There's a boom, a horrible scream, and, once he's determined that it wasn't his scream, he thanks God for sparing him , when the world comes into focus, he finds himself face to face with Irving. And half of Irving's face is gone.

Tom stuffs his fist into his mouth to muffle his cry. On no. Oh please God. Please God, not now. Please. He clenches his eyes shut against the red and forces himself to picture the blue. And she's the only reason he grabs his rifle and hauls himself to his feet. He has to keep moving, he needs to find cover, he's always found cover by now.

And that's when his Irish luck runs out. Seconds after he's pulled himself out of the crater, there's the all too familiar patter of gunfire. He's pitched backwards, and the next thing he knows, he's back in the crater, howling in pain, in fear, in anger that it really is going to end here, after all.

He promised that he'd wait forever. But, oh God, it hurts.

It hurts almost as much as saying goodbye had. It was dusk—the sky was a deep, dark blue, reddish orange where it met the land. He was sitting on the running board of the Renault, reading a newspaper without comprehending a word. His mind was already at the front. She came to him in an evening gown, a tiara in her hair, her blue eyes shining with unshed tears, and sat down beside him. Without saying a word, she rested her head on his shoulder, and he responded by tilting his face so their cheeks touched. He'd be gone tomorrow, anyway, and the fear of war had long since replaced his fear of his Lordship.

They stayed like that for what felt like hours, their silence more meaningful than any words could possibly be. Because what could she say? She was sorry that he was going to his death? And what could he say? Swear his love like he wished that he had in York? He couldn't, wouldn't, do that to her. Not when he was as good as dead. No, she would be better off forgetting the chauffeur who taught her that she could be more, so much more, than a lady on some gentleman's arm (he prayed then not for himself, but for her. For her to still accomplish all of her dreams. For no man to hold her back, not his Lordship, not the one who would be lucky to take her as his wife one day).

It was a cold night, and the garage was drafty and damp. Their breath danced in the air, mingling with each other, white on white. He broke the silence by offering her his jacket when he noticed the goose bumps on her arms; she accepted it only after he assured her that he would be quite alright without it. After he helped her into it, and then took her in, he smiled for the first time since he was called up. "The green suits you, m'lady."

He expected her to laugh. He was only teasing, like friends did. Instead, she cried. And, through her tears, she made him promise to come back. It was a promise he knew that he couldn't keep but made for her. Even though, he also knew, she'd never forgive him if he broke it.

He promised her, and he can hear her now, as he lies on his back in the crater, staring up at the gray sky, red dancing in the corners of his vision. "Branson," she says, and there's a hint of desperation in her voice that makes his heart skip a beat, that doesn't ring quite true to his memory. "You have to come back. When the war is over, the world won't be the same place as it was when it started, and you'll make something of yourself. I'd bet on you so you have to come back. Please, T-Branson, you have to."

He has to get up, he needs to get up, if he stays here, he's as good as dead, and he's not ready for death. Not yet. Not when there's so much left for him to do.

Not when he can hear her calling his name, even here, even in this hell.

Tom doesn't know how he manages it, but he pushes himself to his knees. He clenches his teeth against the pain the movement brings, blinking against the fog that's beginning to cloud his eyes. One hand goes for his rifle, the other goes to his shoulder. There's blood, and it runs through his fingers, thick, sticky and hot. He screams—and it's a horrible sound, more animal than man—when he forces himself to stand.

The world is a blur of gray and red, and the air is crackling with gunfire that's now strangely muted. He hears her calling him, and he half-runs, half-staggers towards her, one foot in front of the other, again, again, again and again. He'll keep going for as long as it takes to reach her (that promise, at least, he can keep).

His prayers are answered, and he makes it back to the trench. It's more, so much more, than a small mercy, and he thanks God because he's almost there, almost in her waiting arms. He's so close now, but his knees give out, and he stumbles, pitches forward, and, oh no, he's not going to make it, and, oh please God no, he's not going to keep his promise, and she'll never forgive him and…

He's falling, and he doesn't know why. It's only after he's slammed into a man who was climbing up the ladder and come to a rest in a muddy, bloody heap, that he realizes that he fell into the trench. Someone howls in pain, but, this time, it's not him. He's too exhausted to lift his head, and a white fog has settled over his gray and red world.

"William, I'm fine," he hears a startlingly familiar voice snap, and it brings back lost memories of the drives to Ripon, the books leant with a knowing smile, the day when he realized what she truly meant to him. "It's just my leg. Go see if he's alive."

(But it can't be. Can it? How could she have known?)

"Branson?" And then, "Captain Crawley, it's Branson!"

By their own accord, his lips quirk into their old smile. It's familiar, but not. He'd laugh, if he weren't already crying. "Fancy seeing you here," he tries for levity but fails miserably when his voice is little more than a whimper. Then, hoping that they understand, praying that they will, because she needs to know that he never meant to break his promise, "Tell…tell her I tried. Please."

She comes to him before the darkness does, a vision from a past with too, too many regrets. She smiles at him sadly, and he can't help but smile with her. She always had that effect on him. "Branson," she whispers, and her hand brushes tenderly against his cheek. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he breathes in response, and he tries to reach for her, to comfort her, but his arms are too heavy, and he's too tired, and she's too far away. But she stays with him, even when the darkness arrives.

And, no longer afraid, he allows it to claim him.

….

He's not expecting to see her again, but he does. When the darkness gives way, it gives way to her. She's wearing a simple cotton dress, and a white scarf covers her hair. Harsh electric lights shine behind her, and he wonders vaguely if she's an angel.

She's never looked more beautiful. Not even in his dreams.

"Matthew was right," she's saying, and her voice is quaking like his hands always do now, and he wants to tell her, more than anything, that it will be alright. But he can't, and his eyes slip shut as she continues, "I didn't believe him, but he was right…"

"My dear, why would you doubt him?" He must be mistaken, but it's the Dowager Countess who replies, her tone as haughty as ever. "Now, let's get him ready."

There's the sound of heels clicking on the floor, and he catches fragments of a hushed conversation nearby—an order from some Lord, it's good for him to be in a familiar place, surrounded by familiar faces, an ambulance is waiting.

"He's a mess," she suddenly reflects, clearly to herself. He feels an ungloved hand on his cheek, and he fights against the creeping darkness as it slides down to his lips and rests there for a moment before being hurriedly drawn back.

This time, when the darkness takes him, he prays that it will deliver him back to her again.

Hey, everyone! I'm back! This can be viewed as the sequel to Ripon, 1914 or it can stand by itself. Ripon, 1914 is referenced in this a few times, but those references can also be taken as coming from the canon. I thought it would be interesting to play out what would happen if Branson actually went to war, and how it would impact him and change he and Sybil's relationship. This is part one of the resulting story. Stay tuned for more, and let me know what you think! ~Moore12