Prompt: Write something you said you never would for your current fandom/pairing. The title is from 37. Epitaph on William Muir by Robert Burns.
Warning: major character deaths (sorry)
An Honest Man Here Lies At Rest
They bury him on a Tuesday.
It rains, as the weather in February is wont to do and they stand beneath black umbrellas in the downpour.
Mr Travis is long gone and his replacement is young and well-enough liked. He didn't know Mr Carson, only shook his hand on a Sunday, smiled at his wife and offered greetings when they met outside the grocer's. He didn't know him; Downton's favoured former Butler. He who taught so many, kept the great House running through war and Spanish Flu. Through a Labour government. Who argued with his Housekeeper and his Cook.
Who loved a daughter of the House like his own, made grandchildren of the young Master and Misses.
The man who is not Mr Travis asks them to remember Mr Carson kindly, to think of him as he was; with his booming voice and unbreakable rules, his distaste of change and the modern world, his love of tradition and propriety.
They wear black beside his open grave; black and white, shoes polished to a reflective shine, gloves spotless, shirts pressed. They made an effort he would have appreciated, have expected. No one wants to disappoint him, from dear old Mr Molesley to Mr Branson back from America for the week, Miss Sybbie sad and solemn clutching her father's hand. They could not disrespect him so terribly by turning out anything less than perfect.
Mrs Mason née Patmore wears a brooch he bought her three Christmases ago, clings to Daisy Mason and remembers her own husband's funeral only last year. Remembers another this Wednesday last.
Lady Mary cries into her son's shoulder, clutches her daughter tight to her waist; dear little Charlotte who will not remember the man who was her mother's staunchest supporter.
Puddles fill beneath their feet, above his coffin, tears collect in eyes and on cheeks.
His service goes on and behind vacant faces they hear his voice in their memory, telling them to get in from the rain before they spoil their coats, to hurry up with that wood before the whole lot is drowned and unusable, that a little rain never hurt anyone so why are they dallying about in doorways when they should be collecting Her Ladyship's bags from the car.
The farmers predicted sun for the day. A cold bitter wind, dry as bone. He told Mr Barrow that he would visit the churchyard regardless, that it could snow and he would make the trek. He promised nothing would keep him away. He was always very good at keeping his promises.
His Lordship, cane to the side, joints creaking as they bend, throws the first dirt, Lady Mary lays the first rose.
The stone has been carved already, names and dates and a line requested for him, kept a secret among his wife's trusted few.
He told them all in time that he would not have retired, would never have left the Abbey if she had not agreed to be his wife.
He told her on their wedding day that he could no longer picture his life without her in it.
She always said, with a smile, a kiss to his reddening cheek that he wouldn't last a week without her.
The rain doesn't stop when the service does, keeps on pouring as they bend to place their flowers on the raised mound, on mud so recently disturbed. Flowers only six days fresher than those that lay on the churned ground beside them.
His stone reads;
He Learned To Live A Little
Hers;
She Kept Me Steady
They bury him on a Tuesday.
It rains all day.