A/N: In honour of Remembrance Sunday in the UK (I would've for Friday, the 11th, but didn't have chance), I wanted to write a short piece of Matthew on that first Armistice. So I did, and here it is. This is for the memory of every soldier who has given their life (and I don't mean only those who've died, but all those who've dedicated their life and service) to the fight for peace - because that's what I feel this is all about.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it, and that it makes you think, I suppose. Set during episode 2x06.

Remembrance

"I think while the clock strikes, we should all make a silent prayer to mark the finish of this terrible war – and what that means for each and every one of us. Let us remember the sacrifices that have been made, and the men who will never come back, and give them our thanks."

As Lord Grantham's words rang into the air, silence fell but for the whirring of the clock, which then chimed eleven.

A short shuffle of feet drawing to attention; Matthew straightened as best he could in his wheelchair. He looked solemnly ahead, his eyes glassing over as he thought, and remembered.

One.

He thought of pen putting to paper, of some politicians somewhere in some stuffy office who, at this very, very moment were putting an end to it all. An official end, a proper end… The war was over. The fighting was over. All of it was bloody over… Thank God.

Two.

He wondered what it was like in the trenches. He almost wished he could be there, sharing this tremendous moment with the men who'd stood beside him through it all. The elation that it was over, the terrible sadness that it had all happened in the first place. They'd faced it together, things they never could have imagined…

Three.

He sucked in a breath as the memory of the horror of it washed over him. That last battle… He'd been scared, he didn't mind admitting it. God, he'd been scared. Wasn't he every time? Scared for himself, scared for his men.

Four.

As soon as he'd taken his stance on the firestep, as soon as he'd taken the whistle between his teeth, sent up a quick prayer and blown a sharp blast, as soon as he'd clambered over the top and started running… The noise, the shouts, the gunfire, the smoke, had driven out fear. There wasn't space for it. His blood raced in his veins and he steeled his hands on his knees.

Five.

"Shell!" was his last memory as William had dived in front of him, then… God, William. Matthew's eyes closed a moment as he pictured the young man. William, who'd saved his life. William, who'd lost his own in the process. William, who signified everything that they all were remembering. In his darker moments, Matthew wished dearly that he hadn't bothered. William, who'd saved his life only for it to be reduced to this. Now, though, it was only proper that Matthew felt nothing but the sincerest gratitude, and deepest regret, for the young soldier's sacrifice.

Six.

So many, so many had paid that ultimate price. An imperceptible grimace passed over his face as he thought of them. Part of him wished he could blot out the terrible images, of men that he knew, men that he'd led, lying face down in the mud or caught mercilessly on barbed wire as the bullets rattled into them. But while he wished he could forget, he knew that he never must – they had to be remembered, honoured, respected. Every one of them – though it pained him that he'd so quickly lost track of their names and faces, the count was too high.

Seven.

Countless, nameless men… Faceless men. He thought of those nameless, faceless men on the other side of the wasteland, the men he'd fired bullets into, the men he'd seen drop and fall and cry out and die no differently to his own men. How many had he been the cause of? He didn't like to think. He thought of the men he'd played football with, that first Christmas. What a bloody long time ago that seemed. How many of them were alive now? Were they remembering, at this moment? Thinking of their fallen comrades, just as he was?

Eight.

Matthew tried to ignore the distracting discomfort of his wheelchair, from the unfamiliar straightness of his posture. Beside him, he knew, stood other wounded soldiers, battered and damaged and not quite whole. It was not only those who had died that had lost their lives, in some respects. He thought of the others in the hospital, those without arms or legs at all, those without sight and worse, those who'd lost their very character in the horror of it all. What life had they, now?

Nine.

His thoughts turned to the nurses – Sybil (Mary, Edith too, in their own way) – who'd given up their hours and sensibilities to care for them. He'd seen field hospitals, God, he'd known the state of himself once he'd regained consciousness in the hospital… Their task wasn't easy, or pleasant, or anything that young ladies should be dealing with, and yet they did it without censure or complaint, and he was thankful.

Ten.

He was thankful for the sacrifice that the Crawley's had made of their own house, giving up their very home to the care of poor sods like him. All those homes across the country, turned into hospitals, into centres of convalescence. All this change, all this upheaval, stretching far beyond the realms of the trenches, far beyond the sodden, filthy fields of France and the devastated villages, stretching into England and the homes and lives of every family. Everything had been touched, tainted, changed by it.

Eleven.

It was over.

All of it, the nightmare, the horror, was over. Only it wasn't, for those men were still dead, the wounded were no better off, the young nurses couldn't forget the things they had seen, and done…

But they shouldn't, he thought. They could never forget, and should never forget, or what would it all have been for?

"Thank you, everyone. Remember – this is not just the end of a long war, but it is the dawn of a new age. God bless you all."

Matthew watched Lord Grantham as he spoke, allowing the words to churn in his mind, then his gaze fell thoughtfully as he relaxed his posture at the end of the silence.

Yes, he would remember. How could he ever forget?

Fin

A/N: Thank you so much for reading. Any feedback would be very much appreciated! In closing, I'd like to share Wilfred Owen's poem, The Next War, which is my favourite WW1 poem - it just says so much to me, about the waste of war, particularly the last line - well, I'll let you read it, and hope you enjoy it.

Out there, we've walked quite friendly up to Death,-
Sat down and eaten with him, cool and bland,-
Pardoned his spilling mess-tins in our hand.
We've sniffed the green thick odour of his breath,-
Our eyes wept, but our courage didn't writhe.
He's spat at us with bullets and he's coughed
Shrapnel. We chorussed when he sang aloft,
We whistled while he shaved us with his scythe.

Oh, Death was never enemy of ours!
We laughed at him, we leagued with him, old chum.
No soldier's paid to kick against His powers.
We laughed, -knowing that better men would come,
And greater wars: when each proud fighter brags
He wars on Death, for lives; not men, for flags.