This is the first fanfic I've written in years. I had an idea, wrote a poem about it, and decided to expand it into an AU. Simply do not ask me what this is all about,because I do not know, my dears! Reviews and comments are greatly appreciated by this very amateur fanfic writer.

This first chapter may seem a bit redundant, as it recaps S1 E7, but I swear it'll be wildly different as the story continues! I also promise that I have something lovely planned for darling Edith!

November 10, 1918

"Such good luck," she whispers,
The engine exhales a long gust of goodbyes.
—"Don't be a hero."
His medals dance in sorrowful eyes.

From Ripon to the Somme,
Rails speed past the gossamer night.
From Barchester Towers to Quiet, Quiet on the Western Front,
To fight the Huns who clamor that might, is right.

His photograph by her bedside,
Taken from its frame and polished every day,
Appraised with a prayer,
"Dear Lord, I beg you to keep him safe."

But safety lies only in death,
A sanctuary from the hellfire—
Faceless faces and soundless screams,
Sepulcher trenches and dreams—of Yorkshire.

"It's almost over,
You'll be home soon."
She writes in teary haste.
"So soon—We'll be together at Christmas,"
She says to a blasé, silent moon.

"It's almost over,
You'll be home soon."
He reads by gaslight and shrapnel sparks
The lies of Lord Northcliffe, a newspaper tycoon.

The bullet with his name on it,
Soars through the sable sky.
He presses her letter to his heart,
And swears to heaven, "For this I will not die."

A telegram, a shuddered gasp.
"Killed in action," "An honorable death."
Pathetic wails and chandeliers clanging—"No—!"

An empty grave, a show that flopped.
Home is the hunter, home from the hill.
And the sailor from the sea.
Here he lies, where he never longed to be.

August 4, 1914

As Lady Mary Crawley stared out the window of the library, looking on the grand garden party, she saw her whole life before her. Her father, Lord Grantham, was greeting his guests in a handsome white suit. Carson and Mrs Hughes hurried about, directing Thomas or William to fetch this and that. Edith stood chatting mere nothings to Sir Anthony, while Sybil ducked into a tent, looks of pure delight on her face. Mama (poor Mama!) sat under a canopy, glancing listlessly at her party, smiling an occasional wan smile. Granny, of course, was brandishing her stick in argument to Cousin Isobel. Yet, in seeing all the people she was closest too, Mary felt lonely and lost: where was her place in all this?

And where was Matthew? Her heart gave a twinge as she thought of him. They had argued, and she knew, for a fact, that he hadn't forgiven her. She still heard his angry and exasperated words reverberating in her ears: "Do you love me enough to spend the rest of your life with me?" She regretted, most bitterly, that she hadn't answered him. She hadn't told him what was in her heart: a passionate "Yes!" and a burning desire to break free from everything that kept them apart.

Mary turned away from the window and walked out into the long hall, which lead her outside. An argent ray of sunlight pierced her gloom as she blinked and nearly collided into the head housemaid, Anna.

"Beg your pardon, m'lady."

"I'm sorry—I wondered if you've seen Mr. Crawley." A mere statement concealed a thousand exigencies.

Anna smiled. "I just saw him a moment ago with Dr. Clarkson. Would like me to find him?"

"No. It's quite alright. I'll let you get on with your work."

Mary knew that delaying their encounter was futile, and so she resolved to walk bravely into the sun. She would find comfort in the shades of milky white and luscious green, and Beethoven's 6th Symphony that now sounded across the lawn. At once, she saw Matthew across the expansive grounds. He stood, entirely motionless, balancing a champagne glass and staring into a clear pond, lost in his thoughts. Though she could not see his face, she could well imagine his furrowed brow, resolute lip, and piercing blue eyes that would shatter her resolve.

Now, none of the party seemed to matter, except the man standing aloof and silent. Mary approached him, her footsteps sibilant on the soft grass.

Without turning his head, Matthew shifted his body slightly and uttered, "Mary."

She inhaled sharply. "Matthew. I don't know what to say, but I'm sorry—"

"No, please. I don't want to hear any apologies. I know how terrible this must be for Cousin Robert and Cousin Cora. To lose a child, a son, an heir—to lose everything in one day."

Mary bit her lip. "You're the heir to Downton. That hasn't changed. And you're angry with me."

He turned around in disbelief. "Angry? No, Mary, I'm not angry. I'm only disappointed, and disheartened. Like a fool, I thought you could go past all that nonsense about a position of wealth—being the lady of the county! But, how wrong I was! I saw you for someone you weren't, and that was my mistake. I'm sorry for that."

Shaking her head and holding back tears, Mary managed to say, "No! It's not like that—you don't understand—"

"I loved you, Mary. All you've given me is a dream—a dream that was false and deceitful."

Loved, the past form of "love." That was enough to make her tears break free of their hindrance. "That's not fair. You know that's not fair!—"

"You've been brought up to believe that you can manipulate others at your will, and dispose of them when they cease to be of service, and I fell fool to that." He turned away again, clenching the pallid glass.

Mary was silent for a few moments. She could feel the heat and passion of his anger. His words burnt like brazen tongs onto her heart. She spoke again, "You're right."

Matthew spun around, not so much in anger this time as in surprise. His chest heaved in heated exertion.

"You're right," she repeated, wiping her tears. This time, she chose her words carefully. "I was brought up as the eldest daughter of an earl. I've lived a very different life from you. Growing up, I knew from the start what was expected of me: marry well; what comes before or after are only insignificant details. I longed to escape this life, but this 'duty' is inescapable. When you asked me to marry you, I felt that our marriage would be a compromise—I would be marrying for love and so doing, fulfilling the duty of Downton."

"But when you realized that I might lose my inheritance—"

"Yes, I faltered! Because I thought—"

"You were scared to become the wife of a middle class lawyer and live a life of abject poverty," Matthew spat bitterly.

"Don't joke, Matthew. Please." Mary shook her head in frustration.

"You know I can't forgive you…no matter how much I want to."

Mary gave one last plea. "You must give me credit for one thing—I could have listened to Granny and accepted you while you were still the heir, and withdrawn later when you lost the inheritance. At least I didn't lie to you. Not like that."

"But now this has happened, and I'll never know what you would have done, will I?" Matthew retorted.

"I wasn't taught to marry for love!"

"You should have learned!" Matthew turned his back as he spoke, and began pacing wildly along the edge of the pond. His strained, broken voice rang in the space between them, and Mary fell silent. She felt, at last, that there was nothing she could say or do to heal the wound that pained both of them. And now, the sounds of a garden party brought her back to a reluctant calm. There was nothing to do but wait for a whisper to pass between them, something to place their inevitable parting on better grounds.

He spoke at last. "I'm sorry it has to be like this, but—"

Mary would never know what he was about to say. At that moment, he was interrupted by Robert Crawley's voice from across the lawn. "My Lords, Ladies, and Gentlemen, can I ask for silence?"

Without another word, Matthew and Mary hurried towards the center of the party, both perceiving intuitively the gravity of what was to come. Their steps barely grazed the grass as they walked in tempered haste. Soon, they could hear Robert's voice clearly as he stood in a somber state amidst the mirthful lords, ladies, and gentlemen.

Robert glanced down at the telegram in his hand. "I regret to inform you that we are at war with Germany."

Mary clapped a hand to her mouth, stifling a gasp. Sobs and looks of amazed terror could be heard and seen throughout the throng of immaculately dressed people. A terrible silence ensued, permeated only by long, sad breaths and whispered sighs of "Dear Lord..." Robert walked towards Cora, reaching for her outstretched hand with an equally trembling one. Violet uttered a soundless "My God," as her stick faltered and she found support in Rosamund's arm. From the highest peer to the lowly kitchen maids, everyone marked this day as one of solemnity and solidarity.

In the few minutes after Robert's announcement, Mary had forgotten her argument with Matthew. Now, she turned around to look at him. His eyes brimmed with a resoluteness that spoke more than any words could.

There was no anger or hesitance in his voice as he looked her squarely and said, "I'm going to fight, Mary."

Her lip quivered. "This changes everything, doesn't it?"

"Yes."

"And what about us?" She asked, not wanting to hear his answer.

"I don't know."