He had never been handsome.

It was true, he was average, at best—he hadn't been hideous, he was aware of that, but he was not dashing either. Women didn't flock to him as they did to his friends. He did not have a vibrant personality. He was a simple man, with simple ambitions, in his opinion, and was never an exciting, engaging person. Oh, he was friendly enough, of course, and could hold his own in social functions. His favorite activities were writing and riding horses. At night he would curl up with his favorite Trollope novel before falling asleep.

He didn't know what he had been thinking bringing Kemal along with him all those years ago to the dinner at Downton Abbey. He was everything Evelyn was not—funny, charming, good-looking, and most importantly, attractive to Lady Mary Crawley. His plans to establish more than an acquaintance with her had failed as soon as the two met eyes. He had felt it, but never really wanted to believe it until the next morning—after Kemal had so suddenly passed away, which was a blow by itself—when she refused to take a walk through the gardens with him. He had taken it as a sign that she was no longer interested in him, that she found him boring, and if she found him boring, she could never love him.

He didn't know what he had been thinking when he had visited her in London, mostly to warn her of the rumors about her and his dead friend. He had broken things off with Sarah after Mary's younger sister Sybil's debutante ball. He had danced with Mary and realized then that he hadn't stopped loving her, despite his efforts. But she had barely noticed him—she had seemed distracted somehow. Not that he had expected her to notice him as anything other than a friend, but he had hoped…that once he told her that he had ended his engagement, she would at least inquire as to the reason, so that he could finally proclaim the words that had been in his heart for years but never on his lips, that he loved her, Mary Crawley, with all that he had…

Then the war had come. He had joined up the day after that conversation with Mary, figuring he had nothing left to lose. Only, he was wrong—he had a great deal to lose. His humanity, for instance, had been erased the first time he drove his bayonet through a German boy's chest. He forgot how to feel—the only thing left was his love for a woman that barely knew he existed. He had thought of writing, several times, but figured it was not his place. She had never been his, nor would she ever, since he did not expect to survive the war.

But the years dragged on—until in late 1916, he was leading his cavalry company across a field on foot, bayonets fixed, as the world around them exploded. They ran, as the shells went off, too close, too close—and Evelyn waved his pistol high, urging them forward. As long as he heard the shells, he was fine, and he had been fine, until he was staring at the sky, face blooded, red obscuring his vision.

He had woken up with some sort of gauze across the left half of his face, only able to see out of one eye. He was told he was in Middlesbrough—north, not quite Yorkshire, but north was where she was. He was told later that he had been in that hospital for six months—six months—because of the infection he'd gotten from the shrapnel. When he was finally strong enough to sit up and look at a mirror, they showed him his face. The right side was fine, the left….there wasn't much left of it. It was raw, red, angry, ugly…and then the mirror shattered, bloodying his hands. He was unaware of what he had done until he looked down, and the orderlies had to restrain him.

—

Charles Blake had been his best friend at Oxford. They had joined the cricket team together, as well as the polo team, and then finally the Army. He had joined the cavalry along with Evelyn, but they had gone to different regiments. Evelyn had not seen Charles since leave in 1915 in London, so he was shocked when he found him on his doorstep in late 1917.

"We're going out." he said simply as the house butler showed him into his study, where Evelyn was struggling to pen his experiences. He had never left the house since returning from the Middlesbrough hospital. He had wanted to convalesce at Downton, before they had taken off the bandages, but had written immediately, claiming something had come up. He couldn't let her see him like this.

"Out where?" Evelyn asked, whirling around in his chair, revealing his scarred face. "Yes, go ahead and stare. The nurses and damn near everyone else did. My own father can barely stand to look at me."

"Your father is glad to have you back, Evelyn, that's more than I can say." There was a resentful vulnerability in Charles's voice that surprised him—he had always been the easygoing one, the one that made him laugh, the one with the larger-than-life personality. Funny, how he chose his friends—they were always so different than he was, so much braver.

That was the first time he had gone out in public since he had been wounded. People had stared, but Charles had stared them down, causing them to look away quickly. It solidified their friendship, and the two were rarely seen apart since.