The next morning dawns bright and clear, and for one perfect beautiful moment, with the sun shining and the birds chirping, everything seems perfect.
Everything is far from perfect.
And yet Mary has a certain peace about her. She straightens her shoulders and steels herself and walks through the door of the hospital with heavy resolve.
Matthew is not awake, she sees as she makes a beeline for his bed and pulls out a chair to sit next to him, but he is stirring. And a few minutes after she arrives, his eyes flutter open.
"Matthew," Mary says softly. "How are you feeling?"
He looks calmer today, too. His eyes do not dart around frantically; instead, they focus on her face in an almost unsettling way. He blinks. "I'm..." The words seem to be thick in his mouth; he does not settle easily on any of them. "In Downton," he finally manages to say.
"That's right," Mary says. She tries to smile benignly. It means nothing, but he seems to be doing better. "Are you feeling better?"
He blinks again, and with every flutter of his eyes, Mary can see a bit of the old Matthew start to return. Or she thinks she can, and is so desperate to believe it is true. "My head hurts..." he manages to say clumsily.
"It was concussed." And perhaps that explains his confusion earlier, Mary thinks. She doesn't dare to hope though.
He just lies there, so unnaturally still, and it unsettles her. Finally, he says, "Water, please?"
She wishes she had realized before, that she had known exactly what he needed. She knows it is ridiculous, she isn't psychic, but she hates to see him in any more pain than he already is in.
She stands up to find him a glass of water when his voice starts again, creakily whispering, "Mary... yesterday..."
"You were confused yesterday. It was because of your concussion. We'll say no more about it," she replies softly. A weight lifts off her chest. He seems okay.
He closes his eyes. "I was back there," he says. His lips have to work hard, and his words are dragged out and slow, but he seems to need to say this. "Everything... it feels real there. In spite of it all, I feel..." he swallows, "...I feel alive there. Here, nothing is real."
Mary reaches out to grab his hand. "Does that feel real?"
Matthew swallows thickly again. He doesn't say anything, but he nods his head slowly.
"Good. Now you know that I'm real," she says.
He listens to her footsteps as she heads to get water, and his mind slips into somewhere else.
It is too light. Too clean. It can't be real. He is in a dream, a waking dream where every part of him is aching, especially his leg, and he doesn't know how to wake up. His eyes are open, but he is certain that he is dreaming.
He is holding onto Mary. Her hand is in his. But it couldn't be. No, he remembers touching Mary's hands. They were usually so steady, and so cold. But her hands today are shaking, and they are warm, as if they have been sweating. And if Matthew knows anything about Mary, she would be ashamed to sweat. So of course that touch wasn't Mary's. None of this is real.
His eyelids are heavy and everything seems undefined and shaky, and not quite real. And it is too clean. After four years of mud and filth, he believes that nothing can ever be this clean. Maybe heaven is this clean. Maybe he is dead.
But he does not deserve heaven. He has killed too many men without remorse, how could he be in heaven? He deserves to be in hell. And to him, hell is the trenches, with the screams of the men he has killed.
He can faintly hear the screams. Some are shrill, some are more pathetic whimpers than anything else. He tries not to listen to them, but everything is becoming louder and louder. They are coming for him, he can hear. They are coming to get their revenge on him. He stole them away from their families. Some of those men were fathers, with children, who deserved to live just as much, if not more than he. But no, he selfishly took their lives and now he is paying the price.
He stares at the ceiling. If he stares long enough, it becomes the gray and brown sky over the trenches. He is back in the trenches, and he can see them over him. All the faces he has witnessed. All the men he has killed. He is trapped by them, and he cannot move. They all stare at him, but they do nothing. It is worse torture this way. He can barely breathe, he is so overcome by emotions of remorse.
The sky is still its murky gray, and he is laying in the mud of the trenches, and he can hear the voices and the screams of the men he has killed, and then...
A loud crash shatters him completely.
"Damn," Mary mutters, picking up the pieces of the now shattered water pitcher. It had slipped from her now sweaty hands as she had shakily tried to pour a glass of water. A few soldier recoil from the noise, and she gives a cursory glance over to Matthew's bed. He is rigid and shaking.
An orderly comes by with a broom and a dustpan and a dirty look. Mary avoids eye contact but nods gratefully and makes her way back to Matthew's bed.
His eyes stare straight at the ceiling. They are such a bright blue and yet there is no color to them. Mary stands over him, silent for a few minutes before sighing heavily.
"Matthew," she says softy. "Matthew, you were alright. You're still here. Come back to me."
He doesn't respond. His mouth is forming words but no sound comes out. He is trying so desperately but cannot do anything.
Without really thinking, she slips her hand into his again. "That's real," she whispers. "Feel me. Remember that this is real."
A sound finally comes out of his throat. "Not... real."
Her heart sinks. "No, this is real, Matthew. You're here. You're home. You came home to me and you're real and I'm real. Feel me, I'm real."
He blinks quickly. Too quickly. If Mary thought the intense staring was disconcerting, this is even more so. "Not... like you," he manages to say, and it hits Mary.
"I'm supposed to still be mad at you, aren't I?" Mary says, a note of humor in her voice. His eyes are fixed on her. Mary ignores the pit in her stomach and continues. "I am a little bit mad at you, that you managed to get yourself so hurt. And you hurt me, yesterday," Mary says, holding out her other bruised hand for him to see.
Apparently, this was not the right thing to do, because he begins to breathe heavily again. "No, don't worry," she says. She slips her hand into his again. "I'm not too hurt. Not as badly as you, anyway. And truth be told, I'm still mad at you for what happened before the war. But none of that really seems to matter now. The war has put everything in perspective and I'm just glad to have you home."
He seems to relax. "I'm... home," he says slowly, and he begins to look like himself again.
"I'm sorry if I scared you with the pitcher. Did I?"
He nods, although it seems to cause him pain.
"I'm sorry. I'll go get you a glass of water, and this time, I won't break the pitcher."
For the first time since he's been home, he smiles. It isn't much of a smile, but it's completely real, and Mary smiles back.
The next hour is almost normal. She helps him sit up and drink a glass of water, and he accepts it gratefully, licking his lips and staring at her with those bright eyes of his. They seem almost alive again.
"Could I have... something to eat?" Matthew asks. His voice is still shaky, but it's there.
Mary pats his hand gently. She's found that he responds well to the contact, and so she keeps doing it. What is the harm of doing so? He's just her cousin, and she is helping him keep sane. "Of course. You must be starving. I'll find some toast."
"Thank you," he says softly. For the whole time she is gone, he clenches the sheets of his bed so hard that his knuckles turn white. They're real, he tells himself. I'm here, everything is real. A few times, he feels himself slipping, but he digs his fingernails into his palm and reminds himself that Mary is right, he is not dreaming.
Mary comes back with a plate of toast, obviously pleased to see that he is still himself. "It's dry, I'm afraid, but you're on a lot of pain medication so I doubt your stomach will be able to handle much more than this anyway."
He inclines his head gently. His eyes are still colder, not quite him, but they are warming. He takes a bite of the bread and swallows. "Thank you," he says again. What else can he say? He doesn't deserve to be cared for, not like this, not by Mary. And yet here she is.
There is so much that he doesn't deserve. After the war, after killing so many innocent men.
He digs his fingernails into his palm again, to bring himself back to reality.
He draws blood.
Mary notices. "What did you do?" she asks, picking up his hand in hers. "Here, let me get a bandage for you."
His hand is unsteady as he pulls it up from where Mary left it. He looks at the hand, stares at it until the little streams of blood look like veritable rivers, and then, he's back again. The peace is over; he blinks and he's back in France.
Over on the other side of the ward, Lavinia arrives. She is not prepared for what she sees: Matthew, looking weak and pale, his hands bloody, his eyes wild, beginning to shout obscenities of war.
Matthew glances around. He is laying in the mud. The screams of soldiers are everywhere, he can hear them moaning. The Germans have done their work well, killed them enough to ensure their eventual deaths, but not enough to make it painless.
He is one of the lucky ones again.
Until he sees a German walking right over him. Leaning down to glance at his face.
He reaches for his gun, but discovers that he has no gun. He has no weapon at all. He is helpless.
Instinct takes over, and he balls his hand into a fist.
The punch is quite impressive, landing hard and blacking the German's eye.
Except the German's cry of shock and pain is strange. It sounds effeminate, womanly. It sounds like...
Lavinia.
Her gasp of sorts brings him back.
He closes his eyes, and opens them again.
The bruising is already showing up around her eye.
Regret immediately fills his chest.
"My God, Lavinia," he whispers.
Lavinia stares at him like a lost lamb, her eyes large and her heart confused.
He presses a sore hand to his head. "You're... I thought you were a German. I am so very sorry."
She doesn't say anything, and this puts him even more on edge.
His old self would never have done this to her. He is not his old self now. And he hates the man he has become.
He waits, frozen in time, afraid, unsure, and feeling so broken. He stares at her, willing her to say something, willing her to be angry. After all, that is what he deserves.
She says nothing.
Finally he has to tell her.
"The man you were engaged to... I'm not him."
Her eyebrows draw together. "Matthew..." It is her first word, and he can't quite ascertain what she means by it. She sounds regretful, resigned, but not angry. No, she is not angry, and there is a part of Matthew that more than anything wants her to be angry. She tries to plaster on a smile, but it is obviously fake. "You didn't really hurt me."
"You're lying," Matthew says, and it comes out a lot harsher than he intends it to.
Lavinia takes his hand, the bloody one. "Is this..."
"I don't want to talk about it," he snaps. "He's dead. The man you were engaged to is dead. And I can't possibly take his place."
"Matthew, please…" she begs.
He shakes his head. He is so close to tears, but he has to control himself. "No. You have to leave. I can't do this to you."
Her eyes, so innocent and wide, narrow. "I'm not just going to let you push me away."
"I punched you. Next time, I could kill you. I don't want to, not at all, but... I'm changed. I'm not the same man at all, and my mind is not my own. It's half back in France and I can't pull it out of there," he says.
Mary comes back with the bandage, and sees Lavinia, her blackened eye, and a distressed Matthew.
"What happened?" she asks.
Lavinia closes her eyes. "Matthew doesn't want to marry me anymore. Because he says he isn't the same man."
Mary's world begins to spin. As much as she tries to bear no ill will toward Lavinia, she still harbors feelings of jealousy that are perfectly natural considering Lavinia is engaged to… him. But not anymore, it seems. Perhaps it is better this way, perhaps this is even good.
And she looks at Lavinia's face, wide-eyed and distraught, and Matthew's face, his eyes wild but his mouth set firmly in a frown, and knows that this is not good.
And Matthew realizes that he is shellshocked.
"I hurt her..." His voice shakes and the more cheerful Matthew of the last hour is completely gone. "I thought she was a German and then..."
Lavinia doesn't know how to process any of this. She says nothing.
"Lavinia?" Mary asks, placing a hand on her shaking shoulder.
A small shake of the head, and finally Lavinia's voice makes itself heard. "You seem to think I'm so weak. But I've seen soldiers with shellshock. And I know I can help you heal."
"Sybil told you about the situation," Mary says.
Lavinia nods. "And I'm not afraid."
"But I am." This comes out, barely a hoarse whisper, from Matthew's dry, cracked lips. "I'm scared of hurting you."
"You just need time to process all this," Lavinia says.
Mary puts a soft hand on Lavinia's arm. "I think you do, too. Why don't you go and unpack? I'll keep an eye on him."
Lavinia looks positively thrilled to have an excuse to escape the uncomfortable atmosphere of the room. "Yes, I think I'll do that. Thank you."
Matthew watches her leave. Her shoulders slump, her eyes stare at the floor, and her steps are meek, not confident. He feels everything: the shame, the guilt, the fear, the anger. He wants to cry, he wants to scream, he wants to let out all this emotion that has overtaken him.
But a wave of numbness hits him.
Matthew knows numbness. In the trenches, they had become well acquainted. He had perfected detachment; how else could he justify all the killing? And this numbness is much the same.
Along with it comes a panic, one that should be contradictory but instead fits perfectly well. His heart begins to beat harder and he realizes what has been triggering him, throwing him back to France on the wings of his damaged mind.
The numbness.
He can't control it. It seems to be overtaking him. He can't think. He knows what is coming, and this fear, this anticipation, it is almost worse than the flashbacks.
He does the only thing he can think of.
He grabs Mary's hand and squeezes it.
She squeezes back, and his relief is absolutely palpable. There's still numbness, a freezing of his brain that prevents him from sobbing the way he really desires, but he's aware and Mary's touch keeps him on earth.
"Are you alright?" Mary asks. She isn't sure what she expects for an answer.
"No," he whispers bluntly.
There's still a chair pulled up next to the bed but Mary ignores it entirely and sits on the side of the bed.
He feels it dip down by his thigh and then her warmth touches him. He closes his eyes and for once, he does not see France. Instead it is just blackness, and that blackness is comforting.
"She loves you," Mary says, although she isn't sure why she's saying this. Maybe she isn't talking about Lavinia. Maybe she's talking about herself. She doesn't even know, and she pushes the thought out of her mind.
Matthew opens his eyes again, and the real world encroaches. "I hurt her. I can't... I know I'm not the same man. She may have loved the man that came before me, but he died out there on the battlefield."
Mary clasps his hand in hers. "No. He's still in there, you're still here. He may be hidden behind a wall of trauma and buried in the depths of whatever you experienced out there, but never think you're not still you."
"Would I... would he have ever hurt Lavinia like that?" He murmurs bitterly, his voice low.
"The fact that you feel so awful about it just proves to me that you're still the wonderful and honorable and stubborn man you were before you went to France."
He closes his eyes. "I just... I don't feel the same."
"You're not the same, but you're still Matthew."
"Just a far more broken Matthew." He nearly chokes on his own self loathing, his voice is so rough.
She bravely reaches out a hand and brushes his still dirty hair out of his face. "Lavinia wants to help put you back together. So do I..." Realizing how intimate her words sounded, she adds, "So does the whole family."
"I want her to leave."
"Matthew..."
There are tears that are beginning to fall from his eyes but he ignores them and Mary is sure he would rather she ignored them as well. "No. I can't subject her to this. I... I don't love her enough and yet I love her too much. I don't love her enough to let her throw away her life like this, and I love her too much to let her throw away her life like this. Look at me, an accidentally abusive fiancee. Seeing visions, thinking everyone who loves me is out to kill me... I can't even walk right now. Lavinia can do so much better, she can find someone who loves her more and is far more worthy of her. So I want her to leave. Will you tell her that?"
Mary is about to respond indignantly. How dare Matthew make her dissolve his engagement for him? But she knows Matthew has tried. And one glance at his tear streaked face tells her just how fragile he is. He doesn't know how he's hurting her. He doesn't know how he's hurting Lavinia. But he knows that he's doing it, and he wants to stop the hurt.
"I'll make your wishes known, although I think she's already aware."
He sighs heavily. "I'm just... I'm so scared. Logically, I know I'm here, I know I'm alive, but... there's still so much of me back in France. Clarkson doesn't understand, so don't put too much stock into anything he says about it. I know they're sending an army psychologist out, too, but what does he know? They haven't been out there, they don't... understand."
Mary squeezes his hand. "Don't feel bad, or ashamed for it. There are thousands of soldiers suffering from shellshock and it isn't an indicator of strength or bravery. It just is what it is."
"I tell myself that but..."
She doesn't know how to respond to his despondency. She thinks of Richard, his cold eyes staring right into her soul. And yet Matthew has it so much worse, with the cold eyes of war taking over his soul. She thinks of her familiar mantra. But it doesn't apply to him. "You don't deserve this," she tells him.
"I killed men, Mary. Innocent men, innocent boys even. People with mothers and fathers and wives and children and brothers and sisters and... I robbed all of them of someone they loved. At the very least, I deserve to have them haunting me."
He is so different now, hard and cold and definitely not the Matthew she knew. He's... he's so much like her. Mary used to believe they were polar opposites in terms of personality, only equally matched in stubbornness. But here he is, saying her mantra.
I deserve this.
I deserve this.
The thought haunts both of them and Mary doesn't know what to tell him. She can't quite comprehend what he told her. Of course, Matthew killed people, he was a soldier. That was his job. But she can't reconcile that with the Matthew she knows. For a second, even she begins to think that the Matthew before the war and the Matthew now are different men.
She doesn't let herself fall into that trap though.
"War is not... war is different, Matthew. You were following orders."
"I signed up," he says. "I signed up to go out there and kill men. Maybe it would have been different if I had been drafted in, but no... I bought a commission and went out there to go kill men. I chose it, Mary."
"I don't think war is ever a matter of choice," she says, brushing another stray hair off of his forehead.
He closes his eyes, relaxing under her touch. "I'm going to try to sleep, I think," he says. He hesitates, then mutters, "I'm just... I'm afraid if I fall asleep, I'll be back there again."
"I'll stay here," Mary whispers. "If you look like you're having a nightmare, I'll wake you up."
A ghost of a smile appears on his face. "Thank you," he says, and it is with a surprising conviction that he says it.
It is late afternoon and Matthew awakens peacefully, his hand still in Mary's. "You should go home," he tells her. "At least go have some dinner, go get some sleep."
"Dinner," Mary says quietly, "But I'll come back here." She smiles at him and leaves, and Matthew feels like something is missing when she is gone.
He glances toward the foot of the bed.
"Captain Crawley," Clarkson says, holding a clipboard and looking very serious. "I hope you slept well this afternoon?"
Matthew nods. "Better than usual, I think," he replies.
"Good," Clarkson doesn't look at Matthew, but keeps glancing through his notes. "You're probably exhausted from fighting; most soldiers that come in here are sleep deprived. So don't worry if you sleep more than you normally would."
Matthew thinks to say something about how difficult sleep is with the sort of nightmares that haunt him, but he thinks better of it. Clarkson cannot help him heal his mind.
Clarkson finally looks up from the notes and pulls the blanket down to Matthew's ankles. "How does your leg feel?"
"It's pretty much constantly throbbing," Matthew replies, with a nonchalant tone. "But of course, it's expected to be painful, isn't it?"
"Yes, of course. I'm going to keep you on bedrest for the next week at least; I don't want to plaster the leg until the bullet wound is more healed. Then you'll be on crutches for quite a while, I'm afraid. No weight-bearing at all. Three months is my best estimate at this point. Don't be discouraged by that, we want it to heal as well as it possibly can. It got fractured pretty badly."
Matthew nods. "I understand."
"The army psychologist is coming out tomorrow. Don't feel intimidated by that, he wants to help you get better too."
"Because my mind is broken," Matthew mutters.
Clarkson looks at him with sad eyes. "I wouldn't say that, Captain Crawley. You went through some horrors out there and it's only natural that they should affect you."
Matthew almost laughs, although there is a cynicism, a bitterness that stands behind it. What does Clarkson know, really? He wasn't there. He doesn't know. Matthew isn't sure how to respond, however. "Of course," he says quietly.
"And, of course, it does appear you were concussed when you fell on the battlefield. Not too badly, thankfully. I'd advise rest for that, which shouldn't be a problem for the next week."
Clarkson knows nothing, and Matthew tells himself this, but he can't keep himself from asking a question. "Do you think the concussion might have caused the shellshock?"
"I'm not sure, Captain Crawley. It could have been a contributing factor. Shellshock is a difficult field, as we know so little about it."
Of course. Clarkson knows nothing.
Someone else returns later in the evening, but it isn't Mary. Nor is it Lavinia. It is Isobel, looking so glad to see him and yet so frightened at the same time.
He doesn't say anything as she approaches his bed. His lips are tight. He does not smile, he does not frown. He stares at her, his eyes cold, unblinking.
He is numb, and holding back tears that are threatening to flow.
"Matthew," Isobel says, quickening her steps toward him. "I'm so glad you're home." She kisses his forehead and sits next to him.
There is something in her kiss that unlocks the floodgates, and the next thing he knows, he is bawling. "Mother," he whispers, before wracking sobs take him over.
"Shh, shh," she soothes, running her hands through his hair, and it almost feels normal again. It almost feels right. "You're alright. You're home. You're alive. That's all I care about. And everything will get better, my darling boy."
He doesn't stop crying for quite a while, not until his lungs are exhausted from the heaving of sobs and his cheeks sting from the wet tears and his eyes have no more tears to cry. "Did they tell you? About how I am?"
"The concussion should heal without any issue and as long as you're careful, your leg should heal mostly normally," Isobel tells him. Her fingers run through his hair, just like they did when he was a little boy.
Matthew bites his lip. "That isn't what I meant."
"The shellshock," Isobel says. It isn't a question.
He nods painfully.
Isobel doesn't stop touching his hair, and Matthew is glad, because that is all that is keeping him grounded. "Mary and Clarkson told me bits and pieces. And you broke it off with Lavinia?"
He looks down toward his feet in shame. "I hit her, Mother. I can't marry her when I'd be physically abusive to her. I didn't mean to, but I hit her. I thought she was a German and... I don't think I'll ever be fit to marry, not when I keep going back there."
Isobel wants to pepper him with questions but she abstains. Instead, she whispers, "It's only going to get better, my darling."
"I'm so tired," he says. "But whenever I close my eyes I'm back there. This has been such a long day though. I can't live like this."
She wraps her arms around his head. "I'll get you a sleeping draught. This is the worst of it, it'll get better."
Mary meets Isobel in the hallway of the hospital.
"He's asleep," Isobel tells Mary. It is their first exchange, but Isobel has heard of all that Mary has done, and Isobel knows why. "I gave him a sleeping draught so hopefully he won't dream tonight."
Isobel's brusqueness and lack of greeting might have offended some but to Mary it is comforting. Mary tries to smile. "You might as well get some sleep then. You've come a long way."
It is hard to argue with Mary's logic, but Isobel does. Her own argument is not logical, but strong. "I can't leave him. I need to assure myself... that he's alive. I've heard all that you've done for him, perhaps you should get some rest yourself."
"Are you sure you're fine staying here? I'll come back in the morning." Mary asks. Maybe it is uncommon for her to be so concerned for the feelings of others, but as far as she cares, at this moment, Isobel is an extension of Matthew and everything must be done for Matthew's benefit.
Isobel nods and puts a hand on Mary's arm. "I will be fine. Thank you so much. For all you've done for him."
"It's nothing," Mary brushes off.
As Mary turns to leave, Isobel mutters, "It's the very opposite of nothing."
Thanks for all the support so far, you guys are amazing! I hope you continue to enjoy the story, and if you would, please leave a review! I know I say this every time, but reviews are seriously the best way to encourage a writer to write more!