A/N: Song choice kudos go to my daughter, who shared this one with me after encountering it in her own fandom's fic (Camren, not Chelsie). It could NOT be more perfect. Please listen to it - it's easily found online. I've used most of it, intentionally overlapping some of the lyrics.

My thanks to you all for your continued support. Please drop me a review and let me know what you think! I can say without reservation that this will go down as one of my top ten favorite chapters to have written … ever. Especially the second section.

I hope you enjoy it.

xxx,

CSotA

You are the avalanche

One world away

My make-believing

While I'm wide awake

Just a trick of light

To bring me back around again ...

11 November, 1918

Elsie settles in beside Thomas Barrow as their maids and footmen file in, each one taking his or her place along the center of the great hall. Across from them stand the soldiers, save for Mr. Crawley, who is seated in his wheeled chair. Elsie's eyes scan their faces and she sees myriad expressions: some are impassive, all seem proud, and a couple seem a bit unsure as to whether or not they belong there.

The butler stiffens beside her, and she's standing close enough to smell his cologne. It's sharp, not terribly offensive, but a bit too exotic for her taste. If she holds her breath and stares straight ahead, she can imagine that it's Mr. Carson standing beside her and not Thomas Barrow.

She does not close her eyes, but she withdraws into her mind for a few seconds, remembering each and every thing she can about the chaplain: his height, his domineering presence, the scent of him - nothing exotic, but something made up of smoke and tea and fresh air.

There's a wobble in the rays of sunlight streaming into the hall, as if a leaf blew through them; for half a second, she imagines she can feel Mr. Carson's presence. It occurs to her that he should be here, too, acknowledging the end of the war during which he served countless men with superior dedication, one of whom now stands just next to her, and she hopes he's somewhere doing just that.

She glances at Mr. Barrow, at the carefully controlled expression on his face. It isn't that different from how he used to present himself before the war, but now there is more emotion in his eyes. She's discovered over the past few weeks that this emotion boils at times, simmers at others, and she is trying to get used to this, to find the right way to measure her words and deeds accordingly. As butlers go, he's efficient and knowledgeable about everything except the wine, and he's making a bit of progress in that area as well. She recalls saying that to him months ago in the hospital tent, that he'd make a good butler in most ways.

Lord Grantham enters the room, and Elsie trains her gaze on the wall just over one soldier's shoulder as he begins to speak.

"I think while the clock strikes, we should all make a sign of prayer to mark the finish of this terrible war, and what that means for each and every one of us."

His words sound clear and assured in the sombre atmosphere. Elsie's hand is beginning to sweat, and she resists the attempt to wipe it against her skirt.

"Let us remember the sacrifices that have been made, and the men who will never come back, and give them our thanks."

The chimes of the clock are perfectly aligned with his words, and the deep clang of each one echoes in the hall. Upon the first chime, everyone stands at firm attention, and Elsie reflects back on his Lordship's words, her only distraction an occasional sniffle from Mrs. Patmore, who is no doubt remembering and missing her nephew, Archie.

… the men who will never come back …

Her heart clenches at those words, and she feels near to suffocating. As the third chime rings out, Elsie begins praying for the one man she hopes, above all else, will return.

When the eleventh chime has sounded, the staff and soldiers disperse. Elsie hears the others' voices, but nothing they're murmuring about matters much to her at that moment. She wonders if Mr. Carson is home from the front yet, wonders if he's received any of her letters, and wonders if he'll be returning to parish priesthood or moving on to some other opportunity. She'd asked him, but she'd never gotten a reply. Still, she has no reason to question whether or not he'd truly end up in or near Yorkshire as he'd planned.

She reminds herself as she descends the stairs that Mr. Carson and Lord Grantham have a mutual respect, even fondness, between them. Surely if something had happened, something tragic, then the family would have been told.

It's the hope she keeps tucked down in her heart when she feels buried beneath it all, the weight of the not knowing worse than any pain or discomfort she'd experienced while serving her own brief time in the war.

Just a trick of light

To bring me back around again

Those wild eyes

A psychedelic silhouette

I never meant to fall for you but I

Was buried underneath and

All that I could see was white

My salvation

My, my ...

18 November, 1918

Charles struggles to fasten the final button of his cassock. He'd made it through two dozen before his hands began to tremble, and it's a small-but-proud victory knowing he's managed it, given his current state of anxiety.

Three days back in England, he thinks as he reaches for the simple stole that will complete his habit, and today begins a new life. Or rather an old one, begun again.

One final check in the small looking glass assures him that everything is placed as it should be, and he makes his way across the small courtyard to the side door of the church. The wind has picked up these past few hours, and as he ducks through the door and closes it firmly, he absentmindedly brushes back the stubborn curl on his forehead.

The closing of the door instantly shuts off all noise from the blowing wind, casting the sanctuary into silence. His footsteps echo through the stone building as Charles crosses the wooden floor, his eyes looking downward so as to not trip over the hem of his vestments. The robe is unfamiliar to him now after so many months in the snug fit of the Army chaplain's uniform, with trousers cut to the proper length as opposed to fabric that rustles around his legs uncomfortably. He feels nearly swallowed up by the robe, something that gives him pause and makes him remember countless days spent as a young parishioner in pews very like the ones before him now, days when he felt the vestiture made the man who wore it into something imposing, wise and in control.

Looking for some comfort, for a way to fortify his strength before properly starting his first day under Edmund's guidance, Charles walks determinedly in the direction of the altar. He turns to face the cross, bows his head, and slips into the front pew, holding fast to the polished wood as he kneels in prayer.

The words do not come easily, a fact which only serves to increase his level of anxiety, and he forces his wandering mind to learned recitations he could do in his sleep. He remembers the priest who most recently served this parish, and as his lips curl around each syllable, his heart settles into a familiar, peaceful place. His voice moves from faint mumbling to a more powerful tone, although measured; Charles has long been aware of the depth and strength of his deep, bellowing voice, and controlling it once again is a bit of an effort - yet another contrast to the many months he spent on the front, when a loud voice was necessary at times in order to subdue chaos, to encourage people onward, and - in the end - even to lead.

But here, that louder voice is not needed, his words a conversation with God that no one else needs to hear.

He stands with some effort, allowing the blood to return to his knees before sitting in the pew, and his gaze travels over the details of the blessed worship space. The bright, white sun is pouring through the east window, breaking though in a kaleidoscope of colors that are cast onto the floor. Charles notices specks of dust floating in the air, changing color as they travel through light that is red, green, gold, and blue.

Blue …

He looks up at the fourth window from the end, sees a fractured sea of blues and greens, and his heart tightens in his chest.

Charles had not heard Edmund approach him, had not even realized that the older priest had been in the rear of the sanctuary all along, watching as Charles entered and knelt and prayed. The hand to his shoulder startles him, and it is only when he turns to his left, tips his head back a bit to look his oldest friend in the eyes, that he realizes his own are filled with tears.

"Charles, my old friend." Edmund's voice is soft, steady, and understanding. "Budge over a bit, hm?"

Charles obeys, shuffling down the pew and leaving enough space for his friend to sit beside him.

Edmund weaves his fingers together loosely and rests his hands in his lap as and looks up at the windows, at the altar.

"It is beautiful, isn't it?" he breathes.

Charles nods, unaware of how his left hand trembles slightly as it rests on his knee. "It is. I look around this church and can imagine the love, the devotion, and the faith that went into laying each stone, into smoothing each wooden plank or setting each piece of glass." He turns to face Edmund. "I hope to make you proud here, taking over for your friend. God rest his soul."

"I know that is your intention." Edmund turns to face his friend. "But - you'll forgive me, Charles, for saying so, but this place will never be home, will it? Not to you."

Charles feels gooseflesh break out on his arms. "Why would you say that?" he asks slowly.

His friend smiles sadly. "Because I've known you for over half your life, you daft man. You're anguished, and it's written all over your face. I'd thought being back here might bring you a sense of the familiar, a sense of peace. But I no longer think that the Church can provide the peace you require."

There's a lump in Charles's throat that he swallows, albeit with some difficulty. "It is where I belong."

"Is it? Are you so sure?"

The silence lasts so long between them that Edmund isn't sure he'll receive an answer.

"Well ... It was," Charles whispers at last. "But you know me better than anyone, don't you?"

Edmund shrugs.

"I tried so very hard, Edmund. I sat with countless men, gave so many last rites and so many blessings and prayers, said the words so many times that I've forgotten how many days I was gone." He turns to his companion. "I have them all written down, you know. Every name, every soldier whose hand I clasped in my own as he breathed his last."

"I have no doubt of that," Edmund replies, and he reaches over and pats the back of Charles's hand. "But that is not what weighs on you most heavily."

A gruff sort of laugh escapes Charles's mouth. "No."

The wind blows fiercely, and a branch rustles against the wall outside the door.

"How is she called, then, your Mrs. Hughes?" Edmund asks. "You never did say in all the times you wrote of her."

"I didn't write of her all that often." He licks his lips. "And she's hardly mine."

"In every other letter, at least, she is mentioned," Edmund reminds him.

"Hmph."

Edmund sighs, a long, deep breath in and an even longer exhalation.

"Have you considered, Charles, that you may have made the wrong decision in accepting my offer of the post here?"

Charles doesn't know what to say, but his shock is evident.

"I wasn't going to say it, you know, because God knows - he really does - how much I'm enjoying my retirement," Edmund says. "But I'm beginning to think that I might be convinced to settle here myself. Temporarily, mind you. See it through until somebody else can be found so that you might follow your true path."

"It was not my original intention, coming here," Charles admits. "But then, well, circumstances changed and I reconsidered."

"They can change again," Edmund offers.

"Edmund," Charles chides. "Who am I to turn down the opportunity to be of service in a place such as this, to a community that has so many in need? Not to mention that to put that back on you would be most unkind."

"At the risk of sounding terribly Calvinist," Edmund replies with mirth, and he sweeps his hand in a gesture to show off the interior of the church, "what if all of this is not God's purpose for you?"

Charles's prodigious brow furrows. "Whyever not? Life's greatest purpose is to serve, Edmund. Surely you aren't denying me the privilege of serving God?"

"Oh, Charles," Edmund whispers. "Life's greatest purpose isn't service." He reaches over and taps his friend's hand once again, letting his own on top of it, quelling the tremors. "It's love. It's the ability to see into another person's heart, to touch their soul in a way that no one else can."

Charles mulls over that thought, glancing at his friend, who nods slowly as Charles begins to accept his words.

Charles eventually looks up at the windows again. The light has shifted, but what he seeks is still present.

"Do you see the blue, just below the head of the knight?" he asks, and Edmund nods. "See where it blends with the green from the trees, that small sliver of glass that is neither of those different colors, but rather a blending of them both, the deep blue tinged with green?"

"I do."

Charles smiles softly. "It's the color of her eyes in the sunshine, when she's calm," he breathes. "When she's not about to tear the hide off of someone for not preparing a cot properly, when she's not overcome with fatigue or frustrated with the Sisters for not listening to a soldier's pleas."

"Those moods offer different hues, do they?" Edmund asks with a knowing smile and a quirk of his own eyebrows.

"They do," Charles confirms instantly. "Bluer, sometimes, or tinted with grey."

They're silent again for several moments, and it occurs to Charles that he's only ever shared this comfortable type of silence with two people in his entire life.

"I'll need a week," Edmund declares. "Of your assistance, I mean. And if I cannot find a suitable replacement then I'll simply slide into the position myself until one presents himself."

"I cannot ask that of you."

"You aren't asking," Edmund says with a patient sigh. "I'm insisting. But this congregation deserves a leader who can give his entire heart to them, and yours is rather full of other things."

Charles nods, his mind back on the letter that sits atop his desk, the one he'd received just yesterday - the only one not from Elsie Hughes.

"Come on," Edmund says, rising from the pew. "I'll have the cook put together something to eat, and we'll sit and work out the details."

Charles casts one last look at the window and smiles as he joins his friend. They walk side by side down the main aisle, the one by which Edmund had entered earlier, just before Charles crept in through the side door.

"Elsie," Charles says, the syllables falling from his mouth in an altogether different type of prayer. "Her name is Elsie."

My salvation

My, my ...

You are the snowstorm

I'm purified

The darkest fairy tale

In the dead of night …

21 November, 1918

Elsie can't sleep, and she makes her way downstairs for a hot cup of tea. She lifts the kettle in an exhausted daze, knowing she has another hour or so before she's joined by Mrs. Patmore. Her keys jingle against the iron of the aga as she leans forward to place the kettle, and the familiarity of the sound wakes her a bit more.

As she stands and watches the kettle, willing the water to boil, she feels her heart settle into something resembling happiness. Her lips curl into a smile as she thinks back to yesterday afternoon, to rushing through the corridor on her way up the stairs, only to nearly collide with Anna, who'd come tearing down them …

"Mrs. Hughes! There you are!"

Elsie grasped Anna firmly, pulling her aside. "Anna, whatever are you on about? You look as if you're about to burst!"

"I hope you have a moment," Anna said, offering her superior a small bundle. "The mail's just arrived."

Elsie's heart dropped into her stomach as her breath caught in her chest. "What in the world …?" She reached out with trembling hands for the envelopes. "There must be two dozen here," she said.

"Or more," Anna confirmed with a smile. She glanced at the clock that hung through the doorway. "The mail delivery must have been all a jumble as the end of the war neared, as the men were traveling to and fro."

"Yes." Elsie just stared at the letters, at the postmarks that confirmed they were all from Charles, written over the course of the past several weeks.

"Look," Anna said. "It's nearly time to eat. Head on up, and I'll tell the others you've a headache. I'll come on up with a tray in about half an hour, alright?"

Elsie finally tore her gaze from the letters and looked at Anna. "Thank you, Anna," she whispered tearfully, nodding. "I appreciate that more than you know."

But Anna just smiled. "Oh, I think I understand," she murmured kindly. "Now, go."

Elsie scurried up the stairs, her fingers brushing over the rough surface of the outermost envelopes, wondering where they'd been on their travels before finally, finally reaching her hands …

The kettle steams, and Elsie pours the water into the small teapot, which she brings into the servants' hall and sets on the table alongside her cup and saucer. Before sitting, she withdraws a single letter from her pocket, places it beside the saucer, and sits patiently as the tea steeps. She pours a cup just as a bright, white beam of sunlight pours in through the windows.

"Good morning, Mr. Carson," she whispers as she pries open the folded letter. She spent over half the night reading them all once, twice, three times … but this one, by far, is her favorite.

My dearest Mrs. Hughes,

Thank you most kindly for your last two letters, the first of which I replied to despite the knowledge that it was unlikely to find its way to you. It's been over a dozen letters now in which you've mentioned having received nothing from me, and my heart is heavy with the knowledge that you're likely wondering if I've ceased writing them completely - or, worse, if I've not survived to see the day this war would end. However, I will continue to write you regularly, to reassure you that I am, indeed, alive and quite well, despite all that has happened in the past several weeks. One day, God willing, my words will find their way into your hands.

I was heartbroken to hear of your sister's passing. You were correct, you'd not mentioned before that you had a sister. But no matter, for there are lifetimes' worth of things we do not know of one another's pasts, a thought which I freely admit surprises me, for most times I feel few other people on this Earth know me as well as you've come to in the brief time of our acquaintance. I pray that her soul has found peace with God, and that your heart is soothed knowing that she is finally able to exist free of her earthly burdens. I've no siblings of my own, and so I don't pretend to fully understand your heartache, but were I able to share it please have no doubt that I would.

Elsie reaches for her tea, sips it tentatively before placing it back on the saucer, and wipes at her eyes like a child, cursing herself for having forgotten to tuck a handkerchief in her pocket.

I've just received a letter from Lord Grantham, who spoke of William Mason's passing. I knew of it, of course, from your own letters, but it touched me to realise that young William had made such an impression on the family. He wrote that Lady Mary, in particular, was fond of William. Did you know? I wondered if it was her idea that Lord Grantham himself would offer to walk Daisy to her intended on the day of their wedding, knowing the importance of having a father figure by her side. I confess to being rather annoyed that Sgt Barrow couldn't have offered to stand in that place, but perhaps he felt unqualified to do so having just become your new butler. Not knowing your Daisy, I'm unsure as to which she'd have preferred, although her focus was likely on having someone steady to guide her lest she fall.

I head off today for home, at long last. In case my last letters never do reach you, I will say here once again that I am returning to England to be installed at St Felix, in Thirsk, assuming the position vacated upon the Reverend Smythe's demise. It's an old, medieval place, one I'd had a chance to spend some time in years ago, and I look forward to seeing it once again, to running my hands along the outer edge of the basin and to meditating on the beauty of its windows and its simplicity.

I shall write once again once I arrive, but for now I must close this message to you in order that I can post it before boarding the first of several trains to bring us to the boats.

I wish you well, Mrs. Hughes.

I remain, your always faithful friend,

Charles Carson

She folds the paper and tucks it away quickly as Mrs. Patmore bustles into the kitchen. The cook is taken aback for a split second at the sight of the kettle, out of place from where she left it last night, but then she turns and peers into the servants' hall and meets the housekeeper's eyes.

"Up all night?" Her voice is soft and understanding, and there's a kindness in her eyes, and Elsie knows at once that Anna did not quite keep the news of the letters a secret from everyone. "He's well, then, is he? Our Mr. Carson?"

"He is," Elsie says in reply. "And on his way home, which is evidently going to be Thirsk. Of course, he's probably there by now."

"Oh? So not very far, then. He's found a post?"

"Yes, one he's taking over as a favor to an old friend. He mentioned it to me once before, and he spoke with fondness of the community."

"Well, that's good," Mrs. Patmore says with a nod. "They're some of the last to get back to their real lives, I suppose. Although we're still living with the aftermath here, of course, and will be for some time to come."

Her voice wavers, and Elsie is reminded once again of Archie. "Every soldier's death was a sacrifice," she reminds her friend. "No matter how, or when, or where. And it's to the rest of us to move on ahead without them."

Mrs. Patmore nods again and then disappears into the kitchen. She'll knead her sorrow and frustration into loaves of bread as Elsie heads up to her room to put her precious letter in the drawer of her nightstand, atop all the others. There it will rest with what she feels is a precious piece of her heart … until later on tonight, when she can pull them out and read through them all one more time.

Let the band play out

As I'm making my way home again …

26 November, 1918

The priest and the lord sip at their whiskey in the dim light of the pub. The place is clean, well-kept, and while it's a popular gathering spot in Thirsk, the early afternoon hour has ensured that they have the small corner to themselves.

"You're certain, then?" Robert's eyes sparkle with happiness as he enquires this of his companion. "In a week's time?"

"I am," Charles replies. "I will say this, Milord … This has not been the easiest conversation to have."

Robert drains his glass in one long swallow, signaling the barkeep for another. "No, I'm sure hasn't. Affairs of the heart are never comfortably discussed between men. I've often wondered if women have it right in that regard, sharing confidences and helping one another out in that way."

Charles smirks. "I think marriage and the raising of daughters has made you a bit softer, if I may be so bold as to say it."

"You may," Robert laughs, "and I suppose it has, at that."

Two more glasses are set before them, and Charles's protestation goes unheard as he motions toward his own, still-half-full tumbler from before.

"I've got two more hours until the car will return for me," Robert explains. "And whilst Mrs. Patmore's cooking is sublime, I wouldn't say no to a good kidney pie."

"An excellent choice, here," Charles agrees, and he gets the barkeep's attention to order two of them.

They talk about trivial things for a while, as Robert's mind wanders and Charles asks about things like Mr. Crawley's upcoming nuptials and Lady Mary's close relationship with the odious Mr. Carlisle. He's surprised to find that Robert despises the man nearly as much as Elsie does, but that he's loath to do anything about it lest he interfere with a good prospect for his eldest child.

"You should speak from the heart, Milord," Charles advises. "There will likely come a time, and you'll know when it is. Then you must tell her your true feelings, else she may move forward along a path she thinks is adhering to her father's wishes."

"Hm, you may be right." Robert sips at his drink, then turns the conversation back to where they began. "So Mrs. Hughes knows nothing of my offer?"

"No. I dared not mention it, given that my plan up until last week was to turn you down flat." He smiles. "But sometimes God works in mysterious ways. A friend suggested that your timing was impeccable, and I had to agree."

Robert reaches into his coat pocket and withdraws something, setting it on the table and pushing it across toward Charles.

Keys.

"It's the third cottage on the lane, somewhat secluded by a hedgerow," Robert says. "The gate sticks a bit, but I'm sure you'll manage." Charles begins to protest, but Robert ploughs ahead. "Cora's choice, so no arguments, Carson."

It's the sound of his name falling from Robert's lips that silences him: not Padre or Reverend or even Charles, but Carson.

"I didn't expect all this," Charles mumbles, feeling an embarrassment tinge his cheeks with a pink that he hopes will remain invisible in the dark of the pub. "I never expected to be in this position. It began as a friendship, a bit of kindness …"

"Until it was more," Robert says, nodding. "I understand that, you know. I can say this with certainty: if you end up with anything even close to what I've found with Cora, you'll be a lucky man, indeed."

"Do you think so?"

"I do." Robert pauses as their meals arrive. "We had married, of course, and began our lives together. But it was a financial necessity - that's no secret, and I don't deny it - and took a while for us to truly see into the heart of one another. But once we did? It was like an avalanche, really. Like I woke up one day and wondered when and how it all happened. It's been a struggle, sometimes, being married to such a strong spirit, but it's been well worth the effort."

Charles stares at his pie, then breaks into the crust and watches the steam erupt and expand in the air.

"Good to know," he says, and then a thought occurs to him. "Don't tell them, Milord. Please," he asks.

"My lips are sealed, and Cora would never ruin such a glorious surprise."

Charles smiles hesitantly, and Robert sees all the gratitude in his eyes.

"Thank you for the opportunity, and for not denying my request. Your letter couldn't have come at a better time."

"My wife would have had my hide if I denied you a thing in this endeavour," Robert answers truthfully. "But I've never seen you so happy, Carson. It's our pleasure to be able to do this for you. And it's not as if I'm not benefiting!"

"I do hope to be of great assistance," Charles agrees. He raises his fresh glass of whiskey, and Robert does the same. "With my gratitude," he says, clinking their glasses together.

"Best of luck to you, old chap," Robert replies, a twinkle in his eye. "Now, let's tuck in, shall we?"

My salvation

My, my ...

"Salvation," Gabrielle Aplin

St Felix, or Felixkirk, is an actual church in Thirsk, UK. My apologies to anyone who knows it personally, as I've altered what little information I could find (and incorporated some truths) in order to fit this story. x