Hello! And a happy new year to all! I hope 2015 will be everything you wish for it to be and more.

This story is a series of glimpses into the lives of the Crawleys and the Carlisles, written in a non-chronological order, and following the canon of the show up until episode eight of series two. It is inspired by the music of Sleeping At Last (I would definitely listen to South if I were you) and as it is my first published piece of Downton Abbey fanfiction, I am rather nervous to post it. I hope you won't find it too terrible!

I own nothing in this chapter or any of the chapters following it. Enjoy!

October, 1938

It is a service fit for any Countess, but perhaps not for one in possession of the Grantham name. The church, which now stands tall behind the widower – a dark shadow cast in the late morning sun – had been full in appearance but empty with feeling, mirroring the man Matthew fears he will now become. After all, grief is heavy to carry on two shoulders, especially when one is so used to sharing the weight of it over four.

A shaky breath escapes his lips. He is standing over his wife's final resting place, but there is an eerie calm about him, an inner peace he welcomes with arms that are open when they ought to be closed. Lavinia had been the one to die because Lavinia had been the good one, the strong one, the one who hadn't deserved any of it. The cancer had been quick, God had been unjust, and yet there is a small part of him that feels as if this is the way it was always supposed to happen.

He closes his eyes.

Matthew feels her presence before he sees it. His heart skips multiple beats and there is a breathlessness caught in the back of his throat, from which he loses the ability to speak. His eyes open slowly, blinking against the cold light of day, to find Mary standing beside him. Her skin is like paper, pale and thin, her body shrouded in black, and there is a look in her eyes resembling that of a wounded animal.

"I'm sorry for your loss," she says. Her words are hollow.

The silence is broken and Mary watches Matthew as he flinches. She speaks in such a way because she does not trust herself to say anything more; apologies and confessions long since buried beneath the continuity of life are on the tip of her tongue, and now is most certainly not the time to be honest in the way in which her soul cries for her to be.

Her coldness is the most natural thing about her. The sun is warm on her back and it makes her angry, for Lavinia will never feel such warmth again.

Before he replies, Matthew has to swallow bile. When he speaks, his voice is uncharacteristically hoarse and he nods his head in understanding, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"Thank you."

They are numb in equal measure. Perfectly still and perfectly composed.

She can't stop herself from staring at him. His handsome features are impervious to age, but his jaw is set. His eyes are glassy with unspent tears and they are black around the edges due to a lack of sleep. His shoulders are slummed, his back bent, and stubble is visible against cheeks which have a complete lack of colour to them. Despite herself, Mary feels the urge to reach forward and run her fingers through his greying hair, to pat it flat and tame his unruly curls, even though it is not her job to do so. Even though this has not stopped her from doing so in the past.

She settles for his hand instead, her fingers a ghost of a touch, and his whole body quivers at the contact.

"If you ever need anything—"

He pulls his hand away before she can finish and there is a desperate longing in her eyes, as brown as his are blue. Her own hand falls limply by her side and she stares absently at it. Time is beginning to catch up with her. Her veins are now visible beneath porcelain skin, which is less smooth than it once had been, and it makes her feel so terribly old. She is beyond the point of exhaustion these days, often wondering what it would be like to sleep and sleep and never wake up.

Her heart clenches painfully as he notices her staring and turns his face away from her. She then swallows, her eyes – misty from his rejection – shifting to the soil at her feet.

"I won't come to you, that's for sure," says Matthew.

She waits a moment, considering the bitterness of his tone, before a strangled, "Good," escapes her lips and it surprises her how much she means it.

The silence that follows is uncomfortable, even if it is not entirely unwelcome. Lavinia may be at peace, but Matthew is not; and if Matthew is not, neither is Mary. The latter sighs with thoughts of the former, and then the wind picks up and she is taken with it to church, to all of the christenings and the weddings and the funerals where she'd cried Oh, Matthew and he hadn't cried anything at all.

She is interrupted from her rather turbulent line of thought by the rustling of leaves behind them. There is a third figure approaching and she lets her body sag when she realises that their time is up. There is an expected hand on the small of her back before she can step away from such advances, and she finds herself almost leaning into it. She's grateful for that hand because it's the only thing keeping her upright.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Lord Grantham."

Matthew immediately turns his head to the sound of Richard's voice. He is cool and calm, the poised gentleman wearing the wrong attire, even after all of this time. Mary stands between them; a rose nestled between two thorns. Her husband is a man of almost sixty, but his ruthless streak has never strayed far from him and it is obvious that his words contain little compassion, if any at all. He is clinging to propriety as if it is still all he knows when it comes to matters of the heart.

Life has taught her that people don't change, their circumstances change around them.

"Thank you," says Matthew.

Richard thinks for a moment.

"How is Lady Catherine?" he asks and his voice could be considered soft. It is softer than Mary's had been, at least. "She seemed a little distraught during the service, though it was nicely done. Lavinia would've liked it, I think. The simplicity of it all was rather like her."

Mary visibly flinches. From Richard's lips, this is a compliment. To Matthew's ears, it is anything but.

"My mother is taking Lady Catherine back to the house," he says. His voice is completely void of emotion. "You must remember, Sir Richard, that she is an eighteen year old girl who has just lost the only mother she will ever have. I think she has earned the right to be a little distraught, don't you?"

"Of course," comes too quickly from Mary's lips and a hand is on Matthew's arm before she can even think to stop it.

Even though she is not looking at him, Mary can feel Matthew's eyes on her and they burn with great intensity. She is not the only one to notice this, however, because Richard has increased the pressure of his hand against her back, forcing her to remove the arm of the younger man from her grasp. She does so quickly, but Matthew is slow and reluctant to remove his eyes from her face.

"Well," says Richard. "We'll leave you to your grief."

Mary turns to him, perplexed.

"Richard, I don't think—"

"We're going home, Mary," he says, daring her to argue with him by narrowing his eyes. "We are of no use to our children in a boneyard."

She is sure that she has imagined the emphasis that is put on the word our, but then she notices that Matthew has tensed beside her, a deep frown creasing his already worn brow, and her stomach turns itself over. She feels sick.

Richard's lips curve into a small, triumphant smirk at how defeated they both look. And rightly so.

"Goodbye, Cousin Matthew," says Mary, the title a cold comfort against trembling lips.

Matthew exhales heavily and is surprised by the sudden, overwhelming need to feel Lavinia's hand in his – warm and soft and alive. He blinks tears from his eyes as he wills his aching heart to slow. To still. To stop.

Four have become three and he has become one.

"Goodbye, Cousin Mary." He waits a beat. "Sir Richard."

Thank you for reading! Thoughts so far?