He can't move. He absolutely cannot move.
Around him people gasp in delight as bright bursts of color and light explode over the balcony. He's on his first short leave and has been invited to dinner at the home of a friend of a friend's. He's actually not entirely sure how he got here, the journey from the front lines to the ball room is only a smear of motion and train whistles in his memory.
The explosions continue. He knows what they are; he's not blind, damn it. Not yet, at least. He knows these are mere pyrotechnics, expensive entertainment for expensive people. His mind (that sharp, lawyer's mind he has always been so proud of) knows this, but his body rebels. He can feel his fingers spasm around the stem of his champagne flute. His grip tightens; he wants to run.
There is a light touch at his elbow. He does not realize he has shut his eyes until he opens them. A woman. Pretty enough; fair, pale, very English. She's smiling at him and saying something. He blinks rapidly, focusing on her mouth.
She nervously tucks a strand of honey-colored hair behind one ear and his gaze is caught by the white flash of her skin. For a moment, all he can see are limbs, blown to pieces in the trenches. They glow pale in the dark, sitting like fat, white spiders in the mud. Sometimes they were there for days, rotting in the foul trench water, shriveled and stinking and crushed beneath the living and the newly dead.
"-quite loud!" She tugs at one ear, as if he needs the observation acted out. He nods once, sharply. Her smile slips. Realizing his rudeness, he gives her a smile of his own. It feels alien, like a hidden puppeteer is pulling at his strings. Still he does not speak. Inside, his old self is appalled. Do something, idiot!
Do something. She had just stood there, tears in her brown eyes. Behind her, the garden party guests milled aimlessly. He could not move, could not take her in his arms. Nothing to give. Strength he did not have. He should have done something.
She loves me, she loves me not. Irrelevant. Unknowable. Might as well ask the stars.
"-vinia Swire," this new woman says, still smiling up at him, eyes bright.
"Lieutenant Matthew Crawley." He wonders if she can see it in his eyes; the horror of loss, the weariness, all the sick helpless rage, and under it all, the monstrous disgust. In himself. In everyone here, smiling and sipping champagne and creating explosions for fun.
She must not, because she is still smiling. She's still holding his gaze. Her eyes are fresh and clean and cool. If he can just keep his eyes on her. If he can just hear her when she speaks. Maybe she'll let him forget.