Author's Note:
My first Downton fanfic! I know, it's awfully short. I'm in the middle of a longer one, but this idea came to me and I simply had to write it. I hope you enjoy it!
~CrossingtheStars
Every Sunday a handsome, well-built man passes quietly through the graveyard gates. His feet carry him on a path they know all too well. He never smiles, never laughs- but then again, how often is that done in a cemetary? This is a place of mourning. And mourn he does. With lines creasing the corners of his eyes and lips flattened into a thin grimace, it's easy to see what has brought him here. No one walks among these rows of headstones without the expression of one who has lost someone dear. None enter through the gates with joy in their heart or a spring in their step. There has never been a happy moment within the walls of this silent, painful place.
Tom Branson walks with his head slightly bowed, for even pride and strength can be crushed by pain. His is not a physical one. It lurks, unseen, in the depths of his bleeding heart.
He will never hold his wife again.
That is the thought that haunts him each Sunday- every day, really. Try as he might to let go, to remove this dagger in his chest, he cannot. He sees his darling Sybil everywhere: in the dusty books stacked in the library, in the blooming flowers of spring... and in their daughter. Her laugh, her smile, her eyes. Everything about his beautiful baby girl reminds him of his lovely wife. He adores how much Sybbie looks like her, is thankful for this eternal keepsake of the love they shared. Some days, it is harder than others; some, he can barely bring himself to even look at her. But he must. Time heals the deepest of wounds- or so he has been told.
She's in the kitchen when he returns home from work. Tom stands in the doorway to their cramped living space, holding his breath so as to not ruin the breathtaking moment happening before him. Sybil swings her hips and hums a song-less tune as she places the kettle on the stove. Her rich brown hair is tied back in a loose bun, with wispy strands floating around her head like a halo. Her abdomen protrudes in a slight bump, which she rests one hand on as she makes tea. The dress she is wearing is a plain white, with a rip in one sleeve. Her humming becomes louder, and her swaying turns into dancing. She spins once- and gasps as Tom catches her in his arms. Before she can exclaim her surprise, he whispers fiercely, "Don't stop." The glow in his eyes makes his young bride blush. He spins her around the small room. Their steps are uneven and their tempo off, but neither one cares. They cling to each other, knowing they are only ever at peace when in each other's arms.
As always, he removes his hat upon nearing her grave. The small bunch of flowers in his hands is placed before the stone etched with her name. Tom traces the letters with his fingers, lingering over the word Branson. His wife. Small, silent tears trickle from the corners of his eyes, but he doesn't bother to wipe them away. They're for her, for the life they shared. Even if it had only been for a little while, marrying Sybil Crawley was the best thing he ever did. She was like a light, illuminating his life with her beauty and love. He knew he could live a thousand lifetimes and never meet another woman like her.
Eventually, there comes a time each Sunday when he must leave the dark, ancient cemetery. It is time to return to Downton, to his work there and his new life with his baby girl. He lingers, not wanting to let his dear Sybil out of his sight. It should be him, lying cold and empty in the damp earth. Not her. Never her. He whispers a choked "I love you" and a promise to visit again next week. Tom straightens the flowers before replacing his hat. On an impulse, he presses his lips to his fingers, then tenderly touches the cool stone. A goodbye kiss.