My late, rushed, and badly put together Armistice Day offering. Just like always, I unfortunately don't own Downton Abbey. Enjoy...
"They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old."
It had been ten years now since the bright-faced young man she knew so well boarded that train. It had been 3 years since she had last seen him. What would he look like now? Would he have the same shining blue eyes, staring into her own? Would his wide smile still fill her insides with that same warm feeling? She had loved him for ten years now, ever since she said goodbye. The small charm she gave him protected him, kept her love from harm. Until of course that fateful day when her brave husband was taken from the world by a car. A car. A stupid, worthless machine. In those first, fresh months of her grief, she had refused to even touch one. They killed her love, she couldn't possibly ride in one. As she placed her wreath of poppies down, she remembered those not only those who died, but those who thought. His name should be there, a name she held dear in her heart, always. Matthew Crawley.
"Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn them."
His hand reached out to stroke that name. Two words, five syllables. He remembered his son's enthusiasm to leave for the war, and how diligently he stuck by his officer. It is right and just that his name be here, for it is our duty to remember them, just as theirs was to fight. All these years later, he couldn't quite remember his son's face, but he remembered the calming of his voice, his love for piano, all the things that made him love his son were inscribed into two simple words. William Mason.
"At the going down of the sun and in the morning,"
She knew little of her nephew's death. One absolute certainty though, was that he was shot by his own people at sunrise on the 17th February 1917. Every year since his death, she sends a small gift to her sister, and spends a few minutes in lonesome reflection. However, she was sure her sister wouldn't believe the news that the dear boy they loved had his own plaque now; a beautifully carved monument just for him. She had to leave now, with potatoes to boil and meat to roast. Before she left, she took her finger over his name, as though she were carving each letter herself. Archibald Philpotts.
"We will remember them."
As he lowered the flags, showing the monument's true majesty, he felt a deep sense of pride welling in his chest. These are his people, it is his village, and he has done them justice by honouring their sons, brothers, nephews, cousins, and his own footman. It was true, he barely knew the young man, but he had been there when he died, and like the others, he knew just how the young man had sacrificed his life for the heir of the estate. The footman, of course, was not the only man he knew who went down. He knew countless others who died fighting for England, in this war and earlier ones. They had made a sacrifice he never made, went to lengths he never went to. These men, his friends, his comrades, had served with him, and died for him. As he placed his poppies down, he had but one thought. We will remember them.
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