He was buried alive. At least that's what it felt like. He was pinned down by something, unable to move, an oppressive weight on his chest. Dirt continuously raining down on his face.

They think I'm dead and they're burying me alive!

He wanted to scream to shout but found he had no voice. He tried to calm himself, trying to recall the previous events.

They'd been under heavy fire. The Germans pushing back. If he called out now, it would reveal his position. As he remembered he could hear distant gunfire in the distance.

He breathed in deeply, inhaling a mouth full of dirt. He coughed and could taste it, a mixture of a metal, blood, and sulfur.

He wasn't being buried alive, he realised. He was lying in a shell hole. The debris being kicked up in the air, raining down. But if he stayed her any longer he would be buried alive, granted it would take hours. Hours, days, this could go on for. He had to move on to the next one. Shell holes were the best cover. Shells didn't land in the same place twice. First he had to get off whatever was pinning him.

He finally looked down to see what was on top of him, reaching for it. An arm was laying across his chest. He imagined it to come away and not be attached to anything, that it was a severed arm. He pulled at it but it wouldn't budge. It was attached, to a soldier lying on top of him. He must have been blasted into him, knocking them back into the hole. He rolled the man off him, not checking if he was dead or not. He turned himself onto his stomach, waiting. Instinct told him not to stand up right away. Though it was silent now, another round of attack could come.

After the first series of blasts, he climbs out. Hearing, before seeing the cries of dying men around him. Thousands of bodies littered the muddy field, some in pieces. He had to keep moving, he had not time to stop, not time to help those who were still alive.

He made his way across No Man's Land, diving in and out of the holes, in between blasts, timing them, with the watch his father had giving him for his thirteenth birthday.

How many times had it saved his life?

He stays in one of the holes for a time to catch his breath. The smoke is making it difficult to concentrate, the fumes making him disoriented. He forgot where he was again for a moment. Could the confusion also be due to a knock to the head? He hadn't checked if he had been injured. His head ached and was throbbing. At least that way he could tell he was still alive. He reaches up to touch dried crusted blood or mud at his temple. He couldn't tell which, he had to keep forward. He checks the rest of himself first. He feels something wet on his thigh, that had spread down his trouser leg. Frantically he patted it. No wound. It wasn't blood.

The shock had relieved him of his continence. He was filled with embarrassment. George couldn't find out, no one could.

His throat burns from the fumes and thirst. His stomach rumbles. He can't think of the last times he's eaten.

When he can think more clearly, he climbs out of the hole. One man beside him is still alive, gurgling blood.

The dark is riddled with explosions, illuminating the riddled ground, broken and burnt trees and bodies. He dives back in the hole thinking, sorry, I can't save you.

The rain falls again with body parts and intestines. The man is gone. All that remained was his bag. Andy took that and dived back pulling it with him. He shuffles through the contents, all that remains, his belongings, proof that he existed. But that didn't matter to him. He needed food. Two tin cans rolled out, clinking together. He took the med kit and the two cans. He wouldn't know what was inside until he opened it. He snapped off the key of one of them and peeled back the tab. Biscuits and a few hard candies. His mouth waters. Better than the Bully Beef, which is what the other tin contained, that tasted like old leather and saw dust. He crammed the food into his mind, even the saw dust, he needs to keep his strength up if he were to get out of here. Immediately he wished he hadn't done so all at once, or at least opted out on the beef. It left his mouth dry. There was no water. Just puddles of mud and corrupted flesh and chemicals.

He becomes aware of the stench, that he is not the only occupant of this hole. There were two soldiers, that had already expired. One had almost been scalped by shrapnel, the other was holding his insides in his hands. The are the only company he has.

He shivers and checks his watch. He winds it up.

After an hour of shelling, he climbs his way out. He crawls through the mud using the bodies as cover.

He came to a stop at a pair of feet, a few feet away. Just standing in the middle of No Man's Land. Like he was a part of it, that he belong there. He looked familiar somehow.

He hides but eyes seem to be watching him. The man finds him, hovering over him.

He was missing a leg, his femur sticking out. And when the soldier turned to look at him half of the flesh of his jaw was missing. Bone and teeth lumisint against the mud covering his face. The nightmarish vision made its way toward him.

"No. No. Please. Please."

Andy jarred away, arms holding him. He wanted to wanted to break free. But he was too tired. He tried to get away but with feeble attempts. Then he heard his father's voice.

He dreams of her, rarely of the war.

This time she was out in the garden, hanging the clothes on the line. She uses one of the pins on her hair, then put two of them in her mouth. Sweat glistened off her forehead. He wanted to come up behind her and put his arms around her waist.

I think of you a lot Mademoiselle. He wanted to say.

But before the time he would have to do so, she could reach for the knife hidden in her sock.

When she bring the laundry in, she set it on the chair, then clears off the table. She pulls the pin out of her hair, her blond curls cascading down her shoulders. She takes off her dress.

They sleep in the same bed for the first time that night, not on the palet, like the night previous. And in the morning they make love again. As she lays her head on his arm, he calls his lover by her name for the first time. Whatever time remains for him, whatever time he can borrow, he will make love to her every morning, every evening, God willing, for the rest of his life, in this place, if he never had to go back. How much he loves her. Love is all he had left, in a place full of death, his only protection, can blot out his thoughts, and fears, the terrors of his sleep.

He dresses and walks downstairs, humming to himself. Sunlight streaming through the windows, to start his work out in the fields. And at the end of the day, when he's done, he'll know where he'll be, looking forward to being in his woman's arms again.

George woke with a smile on his face. He blinked his eyes as the sudden light streamed through the curtains.

The calm and peaceful bliss was disrupted by a nightmarish scream. He heard the pattering of feet, thundering down the hall.

By the time he made it his brother's room, his mother was standing outside the door, telling him that everything was under control. "Your father's with him."

Matthew manueverd himself from his chair onto his son's bed. He pulls him back toward him, cradling him, his head and shoulders resting against his chest. He slide one arm under his shoulder, holding him tight.

It's not flattering. What young man would want to wake up to see their father cradling them? But he needed to calm him.

"Shh. And, it's ok." He soothes but he's struggles against him, still trapped in the nightmare. He feels the beginning of moisture in his eyes but dares not let them fall. He hadn't done this for them when they were children, he had had his own nightmares. Many times Mary had pulled him out of his. But that wasn't what was hurting him so. He'd been too worried, to focused on his older son, when he should have been worrying about his youngest one. How had he not seen? He'd been in constant struggle with his inner battles for several years. He needed to comfort, to be there for his son. "It's ok. I've got you. You just need to calm, breath. Everything is fine. Just breathe." The tenseness lessons in his son's body but he is still breathing noisily. "That's it. Everything's going to be ok. I'm here. I'm right here."

He relaxes, his breathing normalizing as he listens to his father's voice.

He blinks once, twice, looking up at him. "Dad?"

There's a knock on the door. Andy turned his gaze to his father, a desperate look.

"It's just your mother." He glanced at the door then back down at his son, who nodded.

"Just let me sit up. I'm not a child." Andy openly jokes, taking his father's arms. He still wanted his father to hold him but he wasn't a child anymore.

"Come in." Matthew called, once they were both sitting up, side by side on the bed.

"Everything alright?" Mary asked, softly.

Andy just gave a small nod again. "I want dad to stay a bit."

"Alright."

They were silent till they heard her retreat.

"I dreamt I was back there, crawling through the mud. It felt so real." It all came back to Matthew. He had never really forgotten that feeling. It never does away. When you think it has. But he said nothing and continued to listen to his son. "There were thousands of bodies around me, men dying. And I was hungry. The shells kept falling. One man was there and then he wasn't. I took his sack and went through it, like it was nothing."

"You know, my squadron and I were declared missing for several weeks, in 1916." As Matthew relayed the events he found it a bit easier about telling it. "We were starving and thirst. We looted the bodies of the Germans we killed."

"I didn't know that."

It was a strange thing to be bonding over. Their similar shared experiences. If this brought his closer to his sons...they could understand, Mary or the girls never could, the darkest part of themselves. What they had to do, the unspeakable acts they had to do, just to survive. Unspeakable for a reason. They could tell no one else unless it with those who had been there, had seen it, had done it. Yet still he will never discuss his most darkest, though he knows he's been forgiven by God, that he had killed a boy in cold blood, about the age Andy is now. What would his sons think of him then? They will still love you. A voice in his head says. But things would be different. He thinks back.

"We were surviving."

Andy looks into his eyes, taking in his father, wondering if he actually believed that. He couldn't read his father's expression.

"When the shells were falling, I used the pocket watch you gave me. To time them. I'd dive in and out of shell holes, between the blasts. It's funny to think..." Something so simple as that saved my life. "It saved my life."

"No. It was you're quick thinking."

"The smoke made it hard to think at times. I was confused. I didn't know where I was, if I was hurt. I felt my pants were wet and,...but I wasn't..."

"It's nothing to be ashamed of."

"Were you ashamed?"

"For a long time. Not anymore."

It had been five months since George had come home. He was still having trouble with his prosthetic and claimed it chafed him terribly.

Mary took him to get it refitted.

George slouched in his wheelchair as they entered the waiting room. He sat up immediately when the doctor called them in. Mary swooped in behind George and grabbed the handles of his chair just as the boy laid hold of the wheels.

"I can do it, mum." He was trying to be nice, not trying to sound like the annoyed son.

"Of course. Of course you can." She sounds way too perky, even for her. His mother was always cool under pressure, calm when everything around her fell apart, was able to fire back a rapid fire response. He never saw her lose it. Ever.

The doctor led them into a large examine room, holding the door open for them.

"You're mother tells me you've been experiencing some things with your prosthesis."

"He's been complaining of pain..."

"It's not a big deal. It hurts after I practice standing."

"Have you been working on your mobility and exercises as you should?" George shakes his head. "Well, there, I think is the most of your problem.

"The wheelchair's more convenient. With the crutches my hands are all tied up and it's like I have four prosthesis instead of one. And it's hard. Walking, I mean."

"Well, how about we take a look anyway?" He rolled George's pant leg back, but then stopped to look up at Mary, Mrs. Crawley, would you mind if you could step out for a moment?"

"No. It's fine. She can stay."

The doctor unstrapped the prosthetic.

"The area is still a little raw. Are you experiencing any pain, any where else?"

"Not in my...not there. I get this pain sometimes, in the day but mostly at night, before I go to bed. Tingly sensations. Phantom pains, they explained it. They told me I could expect that, once the real pain went away after the operation."

"Phantom pains is the brain's way of trying to create input to the nerves to the limb that is no longer there. Practicing your walking will help with that. I'd like to get a few x-rays to rule out bone spurs or stress fractures. You can wait in the waiting room until the nurse calls you."

George wheels out but Mary turns back, shutting the door behind her.

"I was wondering if you I could talk to you, while waiting for the x-rays." She paused, "Did he seem a bit depressed to you? Would counseling be right for him?"

"Well, what do you think about it?"

"I think he ought to be seeing someone, talking to someone. If you recommended it, I think he would listen."

"I am a physician Mrs Crawley, not a magician. I can't convince my patients to do anything simply because I recommended it, not unless their life was at risk."

He is at risk. She wanted to shout. But she didn't want to make a scene.

"What makes you think he would listen to me?"

"You were in the military, I heard one of your nurses."

"I was in the Guards."

"You still have some understanding..."

"And I'm hardly a psychologist."

Mary sucked in her breath. "I don't mean that you should counsel him. You've already gone above beyond as it is. There's still such a stigma and prejudice around mental health. My sister and I were thinking about starting a group for ex-veterans." She could just imagine, how she would try to convince George to talk about it in a room full of strangers, let alone Matthew. "His father was the exact same way." after his war injury. He had wished that he had someone, others to talk to, that had been there.

"I think it's a great thing you're doing. But I don't think you need to look any further. If his father could talk to him about it, I think it would help a great deal. He needs to be encouraged. Or he won't be able to walk at all."

"Is George doing better or am I just imagining it? He seemed rather cheerful." Carrie said to her mother.

"He is rather cheerful." Mary said with confidence, "Miss Weston does him good. I don't know when she's coming again but I hope it's soon. She's the only one that can get him to walk and unless he keeps trying he won't get any stronger."

"But doesn't it hurt for him to walk?"

"I believe so but he has to practice or he'll never walk at all. I've tried talking to him but he won't listen to me."

"Did Papa have the same problem?"

"For a little while. It took a lot of persuading from me."

"Well there you go. All he needs is a woman. And Perhaps a change in scenery. The seaside, perhaps?"

"But who would have the time to go with him? I doubt he'd agree."

"You said Olivia knows how to persuade him." Caroline raised her eyebrows, looking eager, giving a little nod.

Mary finally caught on to her meaning. "My dear, that would be wildly inappropriate. It wouldn't be proper. The world is changing but not that fast."

"She lives in Hampshire with her father remember? If her father's there, it would be proper enough. George used to talk about how Mr Weston used to be a scholar before he became a banker and he loves books and so does Olivia. He showed her the library when they first met at Kate's party."

"I didn't know that."

"Sybie chaperoned them." Both mother and daughter smiled. "Anyway, they can discuss that."

"You know darling, I think you may be onto something. You should write to her, see what she says."

"I shall...at once!" Caroline jumped up from the sofa and headed toward the doors.

"And Carrie, darling..." Caroline stopped and turned, "don't try to be too eager. The faster they expect something, that we're trying to put them together, which we aren't, the faster they'll be at each other's throats.

George had stayed with Miss Weston and her father for six weeks. Olivia and her father made the trip back to Yorkshire with him.

Not an easy man to get along with at first, until you could see eye to eye with him on a business deal, every discussion had to be treated as such, just as Tom had said. He was much like Robert in that retrospect, the late former Earl of Grantham, bless him.

Olivia had joined in the conversation, on ways to manage Downton's finances and improve their income, by helping the farmers grow more crops. They had had less because of the rationing. But if they could grow more, meant more income for them and the farmers. She was saying all this to Tom.

"What a very good idea, Miss Weston." Tom said.

" Very good." Mr Weston agreed. He clearly thought his daughter capable as any man. Olivia beamed, already knowing this. "but I think we should hear what Lord Grantham has to say about that."

Matthew smiled and nodded about to say something.

"I have some exciting news to share with you." Olivia, who was often soft spoken, spoke up, "or rather, we." She took George's hand under the table and took her time to look at every Crawley member. "George had asked me to marry him. And I said yes."

"We plan on the wedding being sometime next year." George added.

Matthew looked at his future daughter in-law with acceptance and confidence. She would be the one to take care of Downton as well, looking over the finances, in the future. That area was never George's strong suit.

Mr Weston said he could get George a job at his bank with his ties to a charity, that helped injured soldiers train for jobs, much to George's disdain.

The conversation turned to the war, and how it's end would have an effect on the nation now that it was over. Mr. Weston rambled on about knowing a number of retired military men in the House Guards. Carrie stated that her husband Miles was in the House Guards.

"You certainly know how to get around Mr Weston." Mary said.

"For a banker you mean." Mr Weston came off as a little rude.

Olivia quickly pointed out that he means well, since his stroke it was hard for him to display any emotion in his face, with the face muscles being paralyzed that were used for such a task.

He didn't like to display emotion in his voice otherwise, a habit of his, and he often came across as a cold and difficult man. "I sometimes forget to throw my range in voice to display to others." He added.

"I am so sorry. I didn't know." Mary apologised.

"I'm partially paralyzed myself." Matthew joked. Then when it went silent, he added with all seriousness, "I can still walk, but on some days it's difficult."

"A price to pay for our service." Weston stated. "I think it's important to have connections in all kinds of circles."

Mary turned her attention to George who she noticed looked a bit uncomfortable. She leaned in and asked him if his leg was bothering, although she knew that wasn't just it.

He denied it at first. Then Olivia leaned over and prompted the same question. He said that it was a bit and that he was tired and thought he should go back to his room. Mary offered but Olivia insisted that she take him.

"I'm so sorry that your son in suffering." Mr Weston said, politely. "He is a nice young man."

Olivia helped George into bed. But due to her small frame she lost her balance, and she fell over, on top of him.

"Oh, sorry."

"Don't be." As she looked up, his hand found the back of her head, a hand around her waist. "Come here."

They started kissing in a heat of passion.

"Are you sure?" She whispered.

"I haven't been more sure of anything in my life." He pulled her onto the bed.

1947

He was getting used to his prosthetic, it had become like a part of him. No one ever hardly noticed, not even the slight limp. He was a handsome and charming man.

He had a beautiful and loving wife and a son, the future Earl of Grantham, who was eighteen months. They had named his George Weston Crawley. For now he was 'Little George' or he could decided on Wes, when he gets older. The future of Downton was secure once more. The Crawley grandchildren would gather in the Great Hall, seeing brand new memories, (adoring their grandfather most of all) Sybie's son, Gilly, toddling along to catch up with the other's, two year old Mattie, holding his hand. She had become somewhat of his guardian. Peter, the boy Kate had adopted when she married Joachim Best, a German prisoner of war she had looked after, during the war, also looked after the younger ones. He was eight.

Kate and Joachim had not gotten along at first, a misunderstanding that he was a Nazi, and she blamed the Germans for shooting down her first husband. When in truth he had been working for the British intelligence. He had promised to Kate that he would burn his uniform once the war was over and he did. Katie was now pregnant with their first child.

It was rare for all the cousins to be in the house at once, except for Holidays. Jo and Nick came down for a trip to London. Hne had gotten a job direction the plays there. That would mean the grandparents having to watch over Noah.

Noah was somewhat shy but was encouraged by little George and little Mattie, both like siblings more than cousins with their blond curls, contrasting with Noah's dark ones, to join play with the others. The parents and Grandparents watched adoringling. A new generation's time had come.

The voices and laughter filled through the Great Hall and the wall of the ancient Castle, would be filled with life and love for ever.