Characters belong to Julian Fellowes. No copyright infringement intended. Any similarity to events or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Author's Notes—So, I came very late to the party, but to quote another fandom, how 'bout we embrace the fact I showed up at all? :) Watched all three seasons in as many weeks. Pretty sure it's safe to say I'm hooked. This was something that wouldn't let me sleep last night until I had scribbled it. Unbeta'ed.
Spoilers—Season 3, Ep 4...
Banshee's Wail—Tom Branson realizes that he should've known death was imminent.
Growing up in Ireland, he'd long been regaled with any number of rich, warm yarns, spun with a kind of lyrical beauty that could only be found in his Emerald Isle. Some of the stories, though, were more believable than others. For some reason, he had no doubt of the exploits of giant warrior Fionn MacCumhaill, but spectral harbingers of death were something else entirely.
Tom Branson didn't believe in ghost stories. And everything he'd ever been told about banshees seemed like they were just that: a tall tale meant to scare more than anything. Some of the banshees were kindly, out to warn a family of an impending death. Some might've even guided the newly departed onto the next life. Others still were vicious and bloodthirsty, out to kill.
As a devout Catholic, it seemed incongruous with his faith, that something short of God Himself should be the one to warn of death, to ferry souls to paradise, or to end a life. More than that, he had never once witnessed a banshee's visit. Tom was no stranger to death. With such a large family, he was always losing relations, some he knew better than others.
When he had heard his beloved Sybil cry out, though, a cold fear had coursed through his veins. It was as though he had been dunked in icy water. After the excitement, panic, and relief at the birth of their beautiful daughter, he had been looking forward to resting as, he knew, had Sybil. But that simply wasn't to be.
The day hadn't been over, not until utter agony and despair was felt deep within the very bones of Downton Abbey and all her inhabitants.
As he numbly stood over his daughter's blissfully sleeping form, his thoughts drifted back to the stories of his father and uncles, the ones about the shrieking banshees of his home. Sybil's wails haunted him, echoing through his pounding head. She'd foretold her own death to him. On some level, he had known that it was over the moment she began to writhe about in the bed, howling inconsolably with such intense ferocity. Even her skin had turned ashen, becoming the pale vision from the vivid descriptions he'd heard as a child.
His wife, his love, his Sybil was gone. His whole world had been shattered.
Slowly easing to sit by the crib, he drew in a shaky breath. "My darling, someday I shall tell you stories. Stories you simply must believe... Stories that, I wish, all had happy endings."
End.