They had made up a sick room for him for some privacy, which he thought was a joke. They had brought a bed into the sitting room, next to the fireplace. He was thankful for the privacy. He didn't want too many visitors. He didn't want anyone to see him like this, apart from Mary. With her constant insisting he couldn't refuse her.

"I don't know what I was thinking, going back to work in Manchester." He said to Mary from where he lay on the bed. He couldn't tell if it was uncomfortable or not. "I wasn't ready. I don't think I'll ever be."

"Course you will."

"How will I be able to support you? What sort of job would...who would hire me?"

"Matthew, you're crippled in body, not in your mind." She saw him flinch. "I didn't mean how it sounds. When I look at you, you're not crippled to me." She had come to terms, well not completely, but she could see past his wheelchair.

"Then you are blind."

She sighed. "You still have your intelligence, your mind. Use it Matthew. Think of the things that you can do."

"What? You think I could be a lawyer again? I've been out of practice for years." He had turned in his resignation to join the army, right at the start of the war, believing it would be there for him upon his return. He hadn't thought that the war would last for years. But who would want him back now? And there was the time consuming effort. He wasn't as young as he was. There's been a lot of new laws. I'd have to relearn it all, retake the exams. It could take years.

"I'm sure Papa could pull some strings."

"I already have people I have to rely on. He's an awfully busy man. I won't burden him with my problems. He can find someone else to be heir."

"There is no one else!" She raised her voice. How could he be so demeaning and hard on himself? She was the one looking for a silver lining in all of this when it was usually him in situations. It was like they had reversed roles. She didn't plan on getting used to it, his new outlook on everything, it had to be temporary.

"How can I just go back to that? No one would want to hire a crippled lawyer." It would hinder their confidence, that's what being in a wheelchair did. "What kind of Earl..." He began but couldn't finish. He was letting Robert down, all the expectations of him, dashed. What an utter disappointment you are. But it wasn't his voice he heard in his head. You were saved for this?

"Papa does a lot of paper work. He sits behind a desk most of the time."

"Your father has a presence that's required." Public relations were important. He couldn't go out in public like this.

"And so do you!" She said with enthusiasm. That hadn't gone away. He was still himself, albeit cranky and moody half the time. His periods of irritation and frustration and anger were masking his self pity and hatred. She wouldn't let him do that, not if she could help it. At times she didn't understand it, he was always kind and humble and put others before himself, never thinking of himself. Now that was all he seemed to think about, what he had lost, his independence, his freedom. She thought that was selfish of him. Why couldn't he see that he was more fortunate than others, being surrounded by the people that loved him? He still had a future. There was no knowing what that would look like now. No one knew what their future would look like under normal circumstances. She wanted to make this as normal as possible even though it would never be. At least he had a future, a life. Thanks to William. Not one they had pictured but it was a life. She feared to admit to him that for a second, when he had been in that cationic state, she had wondered if it had been better off if he had died. She couldn't admit that to him. She was sure he must have thought that a dozen times. She can't skim over that fact as if it wasn't in the realm of possibility. She would convince him time and time again through her actions that he was needed and loved.

"I couldn't visit properties or the tenant farms, with the rough terrain."

"Tom and I can take care of that bit until we can maneuver around things. When you get stronger. Things will change."

Nothing will change. "It's bad enough being..." Just being was exhausting. At times he wished he didn't have his mind like this. "Having people do things that you normally would...holding doors open for you, looking down at you with pity." and disgust. "Or having them just look at you, not knowing what to say."

"Who does that?"

"Your mother for one."

"She'll have to get used to it. I'll have a word with her."

"No, you won't." He paused for a moment. "I'm concerned about how my mother is taking it. I think she's more worried about it than I am. You know when you think you've failed your parents and you know it will worry them more than it does you?"

"Yes. I know the feeling." She had been more terrified of what her papa would have thought than the whole world, and now what Matthew would think. He didn't know about Pamuk, she reminded herself, mentally kicking herself. But he was too deep in his thoughts to question

"I wasn't always so black and white. I was quite rebellious."

"You, a city born solicitor, I wouldn't have ever guessed!" She teased and at the same time surprised. She had always imagined him clean cut and proper, even as a little boy. "Your parents wanted you to be a doctor that's what made you take interest in becoming a lawyer."

"It was mother more than my father that wanted me to become a doctor, I think. But no, I wasn't always interested in law."

Her eyebrows now raised with intrigue. After five years of knowing him, there was something new to learn. Her face was half obscured by her tea cup, that he could only see the the top half of her face, her eyebrows and her eyes. The action made him smile. She was glad that he was smiling.

"My father taught me to question everything." He continued. "My way of doing that was to defy them. When he died, I was away at school, Cambridge." His mouth dropped into a frown. As did hers, but it was hidden behind her cup. She slowly lowered it. He never spoke of his father. All that she knew was how great a man he was and his great service as a doctor in the Boer War, from Isobel, and that he had died in 1906. Though she never went into specifics. Matthew would have been twenty-one. Still a young enough man to still need his father. "I got the telegram on the way home, on the train." My only regret was not coming to see him when he was sick and not being able to say goodbye. He left that bit out. He didn't want this to be any more depressing. "When he died I felt...it was like a boat that lost it's anchor. You need someone to pull you back, to listen. He was my reasoning. Now, you are." He took her hand, running his thumb over her knuckles. She was deeply touched by his words. She wanted to take in his face, to read the expression in his eyes but once again he wasn't looking at her. "He would pray everyday." He stopped, as if he didn't know where to take the conversation next. After the South African war, he had taken to drink. He was out of work. He was struggling, we all were. One night a crash had woken me up. As I came downstairs I saw him kneeling on the floor, shattered glass across the kitchen floor. He had thrown the bottle across the room in an angry rage. He was uttering under his breath, a bible in his hand. The bible I'd taken with me to battle. The look on his face when he had seen me, he had just crumpled to the floor. I held my father as he broke down, a man I never saw let his strength waver, and I prayed with him. "I'm not angry at God." He said after a short silence. He didn't do this to me. I've done it to myself, somehow.

"I'm surprised that you can still believe in Him." Mary said.

"So am I. Do you still..."

"Believe?" She shrugged, holding her cup in both hands. The tea had gone cold. She felt a slight chill. "That's a hard question. But I do still pray. Only in times of great need or in desperate times."

"That's not how it works." He couldn't help but laugh slightly.

"Then perhaps I don't." Matthew Crawley was clearly a man of God. It reminded her of her fall from grace. She didn't deserve him, even now. She wasn't even worthy of a man confined to a wheelchair. How pathetic of myself to think that. But he needed her, to get better, to accept that he needed to go on with this new life. Oh, how much she still loved him. She didn't know herself without him. She knew he felt the same. His trying to keep her at arms length, he was trying to shield her.

There was a knock on the door. His mother wanted to see him.

"Have you been doing your exercises?" She asked him.

"Yes, mother. Ethel has been very insistent." He tried not to sound annoyed. He knew that she was going to pick over him like a mother hen. She had more time for him now. He had looked after her after father had died, now would she look after him for the rest of her life? After she was gone, who would take care of him? Who would want to? He suppose they could hire a nurse. That was for when he got stronger and could be moved to Crawley House. Moved. Like he was a piece of furniture. That's certainly how Cora made him feel.

"That's good." She talks to him as if he hadn't been injured as if he was still her son. He wasn't the man who had left in 1914. He didn't know who he was.

What a strange breed we are. The wounded.

She went over to open up the blinds. The sun was bright, over the clouds. The brightness made him flinch. He should need some sun to get his coloring back. He was still very pale.

"It's a nice day out." She said. How about we get you into that wheelchair and we can go out."

"I don't want to go out today." He looked out the window, his eyes now adjusted. He was just gazing, not really looking at anything.

"You'll feel much better if you accept it."

"I'm trying."

"Not hard enough apparently. But the only way you will listen is if you're being bullied. You can't be coddled. That's a part of your stubbornness. I know because you got that from me."

"And Ethel has been going a very good job of it." He smiled. Suddenly his face fell, his eyes darkened. "I wonder what it was all for. If it was all worth it, all the suffering." For some of us it will never end. William and others like him were at peace. He supposed that he did have it better than most. Some had no limbs at all. He had seen. He had seen the many ways the body could be mutilated. And those who had come home horribly disfigured.

Lucky in that way, indeed. The out come he had to deal with, maybe not so lucky. His body was whole but his mind? He felt like this wasn't his life at times. That this was a dream. That he'd wake up back in the trenches. He sometimes rather preferred it to this. His mind switching between realities. Back there seemed more real. Downton was the dream.

He wasn't just trapped in his body.

He could hear their screams, see their faces. They were dying and he was here. He would always be haunted by the things he'd seen. There were far worse things than the psychical injury. It was the battle with in your mind, where war still raged. Yes, it was still going on in the real world but he wondered if that feeling would end when it actually ended. He couldn't share this frightening new feeling with his mother. It effected everyone in it's path, not just soldiers. No one could get out unscathed. They would pretend when it was over, that it didn't happen, though they would all carry the scars and disfigurements and missing limbs, in his case, nonworking limbs. Whenever he thought about it, it made him feel sick to his stomach. One time he actually threw up when he told Mary he didn't even want to be with himself. Had it been the affect of the morphine? It had given him a terrible headache and headaches could do that. He hated feeling like this, this self-pity, this dark pit of hatred, he wanted to climb into and give into the bitterness. And when he wasn't irritable and frustrated, he was an emotional wreck. What had William saved? He sacrificed his life for this? This broken, leaden lump of flesh below his waist. He was a burden, useless. He knows William would not want him to think like this but he can't help it. He had no control over his feelings as he had everything else. He had to get on with his life. What ever life that would be. He owed it to the young lad. He had to fight for it, to make his sacrifice worth it, for all his men he had lost. He had not learned of their fate. No one knew yet or they didn't want him to know? Did they think it would break him? He was already broken.

"I used to wonder if it'd be better if I'd died." He saw the worried look she was trying to hide. "I don't think that now. But now I wonder if there was some sin I must have done to deserve this."

"You did nothing wrong, Matthew."

"What?" He asked, snappishly. "I did what I had to do? To survive? That I'm a hero? I'm not that. William's the hero." He turned his head away for a moment, then shook it. "I've killed." The word was poison on his tongue. William hadn't taken a life, that he knew of. It was the way he had killed. They can glorify it all they want, murder was murder.

Those six weeks when they had been determined missing, he and his men had looted bodies to stay hydrated and alert, stripped the meat off dead horses. He had done it with no qualms, had given the order. He had felt nothing. And that wasn't even the worst. He had felt nothing every time he pulled his trigger, even while his men were being shot and blown up beside him. You have to cut off your feelings, to survive. Now that he was back here, it felt so wrong to feel now.
No one is equal till they're dead. That line he had read in Hugo's Les Miserable, something along there, he had never found it more true till now.

"I know that you're not under the illusion that I didn't... but you can't picture it." He said to his mother. "What I've done. What horrible things..." He swallowed, choking on his words. They would pray and death wouldn't come. They would beg me and I couldn't. He begged me, the boy I killed, he didn't want to die but it was too late. He was just a boy. He hadn't known that till it was too late. He had seen him draw his gun. When he had fallen, it was then he realized, he had not been reaching for his gun after all. His canteen, that rattled with emptiness, exactly how he had felt in that moment. Asking for water or surrender? He must have been lost, separated from his regiment, wondering for days, crumpled with exhaustion. Only it wasn't just that. He had shot him.
The boy spoke in soft German, looking up at him with pleading eyes. The rattling in his breath started. In shock of what he had done Matthew slid down the wall of the building. He sat next to the boy, waiting. He'd wait with him. No one should die alone. Then the young lad did reach for his gun this time. They fought over it. It wasn't a long struggle. He was too weak and was no match for Matthew. Still it had been an awfully close call. The gun fired and the young German soldier slumped over on the ground, where blood pooled. It had stopped before it had reached him. The one time he had let himself feel, the one time an act of kindness had almost gotten him killed. He had learned later that the boy had been a decoy. It still made no difference to him.

He didn't know how long he had sat there.

"Jesus, Crawley." It was Levine, Fergus, another foul mouth Irishman. He never had heard such language spoken outside of the war. He had never heard Tom talk like that. It had to be an army thing. All things forbidden became not forbidden. Levine often joked how the Frauleins were Verboten and what he would like to do with the whores. He was all talk. It made Matthew blush and they teased him about it and offered to pay for one for him. He had refused of course. He'd hang around Thomas after that, and took tea with him late at night. They wouldn't really talk about much. And that he was thankful. He hadn't seen Thomas in a while. Most likely he'd been transferred somewhere else. It seemed everything had been going off the rails since he left.

Levine's voice had sounded like he was talking through a hollow tube as he spoke to him. "Let's get you out of here. There could be more coming. We're outnumbered. They'll be blowing us all too shit."

He hadn't remembered much after that. Parts of the conversation were missing. Those seemed to be his last words, he couldn't recall. Levine was literally 'blown to shit." as he had called it. It had been night and they were being shelled. He was no stranger to the damage they caused. Men blown to bits, unrecognizable pieces. You were there and the next moment you could be wiped from existence. One moment he'd been standing not that far from him, the next, all that was left was a hole in the ground. One man had been talking about shoes, next to him. He had the man's blood on him for days. All that was left. He remembered having to shake out his shirt, where there were pieces of him. It was when he saw that it was brain matter, that he had vomited.

That he couldn't forget, among other things. Some things were still jumbled, one death blurred into another. Death was all the same. Perhaps that had been Levine talking to him about shoes. Those two deaths could be one in the same. He couldn't recall. There were things that he could.

A shell had ripped off an arm and a leg of one of his friends, like the wings off a fly. It took some time to die. He stayed with him in the end and all he felt when it was over, was relief. No grief. No tears. There was no time for that here. When he could finally change into a fresh uniform, he felt the same relief he had felt for Edwards and he was ashamed of it.

Those deaths stayed with him the most. The boy's life he had taken, his face, he'd never forget.

She saw the frightened look in her son's eyes, yet they looked so far away, distant. It lasted several seconds.

"I've done horrible..." He continued as if there hadn't been a lapse in time. She didn't mention it. She didn't want him to worry when she couldn't be sure. He was struggling not to think of those things, the things he couldn't say. With her being a nurse and his father having been a doctor, having saved lives, inflicting any pain on anyone must weigh heavy on his conscience. And the things he'd seen and done, no one should have to see or do. Some could not handle or cope with it as well as others. That wasn't her Matthew. He could cope, he could get through this, if he allowed it. He stopped, his eyes stinging with hot tears. He closed them briefly, willing them not to fall.

"horrible things." He was finally able to choke out. "And I'm being punished." He sounded like a little boy again.

"No!" Isobel shook her head. "That shell wasn't meant for anyone. Anyone could have come across it's path. That is war. It's unpredictable. It is in no way your fault. And don't you think any of it is." He gave her an agitated look. "You're here and you're alive. That's all I ever prayed for. I want to take care of you." She had never gotten the chance when he was younger.

"Since when do you pray? I thought you didn't believe in God."

"I never said that. He brought you back to me, didn't he?" He smiled again before she continued, "This isn't the end of your life. We just have to find a way. You have people who care about you, who will help you. You just have to let them."

"I think I am starting to accept it. I just need more time. I have a lot of that now." His spirits sounded genuinely raised.

It didn't last. He and Mary were soon arguing again.

"If I had been more persistent with you, not taking no for answer, we would have been married by now." He said.

"You would not have done something like that. That's not like you."

"If we were married, we'd have had a least a few children by now, perhaps even a son. But we were too busy dragging our feet, dancing around our feelings." He said it with a kind of morbid humor. Dragging was all he could do with his legs, a dead weight, he had to drag and move around into position. Dancing, he would never do again. He would never be able to do that with her, feel the warmness of her cheek against his, her breath on his neck, her head on his chest.

If only they hadn't waited till the end of the war. They had written several letters to each other. When he had been on leave last summer in 1916, he had invited her up to London. She had brought Anna of course, to deflect attention, using the excuse that she was going there to shop. Only Anna knew the truth that she was going to see him and that she was to be their chaperone. They managed to give her the slip so they could have lunch on the terrace of his hotel room. It was there he had proposed to her. They had agreed to wait till the war was over. How foolish they had been. They should have eloped right then and there. Soon after that he had gone missing. He could have given her at least one child before there, in case if anything happened to him, she would have a part of him.

"I've told you that side of things doesn't matter."

"But it will someday. Don't you see. I know how much you want my children. How I want yours. I can try to rebuild my life, go back to what I'm good at, being a solicitor and help running of the estate. That's all I'm good for."

"You're more than that."

"Don't you see, Mary. I'm not Perseus. You were right. I am the sea monster." He was trapped in his own body, his mind, this damn wheelchair.

"No." She sat down on the bed next to him. "You're not." She put a hand to his face. She could feel the beginnings of rough stubble. "How can you think that I could ever hate you."

"Because I do. I hate myself." He gasped in shaky breaths, to keep himself from giving into the tears. "I'm so sorry. Here I am, blubbering again, when I have a beautiful woman beside me. I don't know how lucky I am. How incredibly selfish of me. They both couldn't help but laugh.

He was in better moods in the months that followed. He could find a way to live. Mary smiled brightly. He was still shielding her though. It was like he was two different people. There was a secret side of him that he wouldn't let her see. He'd offer to bring him his tray but he preferred Tally to do it. She had called him on it.

"It's like you're two different people."

"Because I am." He was trying to be the man he is now and the man that he was.

"You're kind and generous as you ever were. But there's another part of you that's secret, that no one is supposed to know or God forbid question."

"You don't know...'

"No. I don't. Perhaps I never did at all."

I need to accept my condition. In order to do that, first things first, I need to make a list.

Step 1: Admit you're disabled and find someone to listen
I am disabled.

There, I said it, but what does it mean? Disabled is a generalization. It seems less harsh than cripple or invalid. Does it mean I am incapable of doing anything? I don't think so. I feel that am very capable, I just have parts of my body that doesn't work correctly. Facing the reality is daunting but I can find other things to live for. The people I surround myself with can help me, at least those of my choosing and are willing.

I never really liked Ethel but she gets the job done, when I'm being stubborn. Reminding me when I should turn over in the bed or when to do my exercises. I need to be persistent if I want to become stronger. This I heard from many people, manly mother. We've come to a certain understanding, Ethel and I, though sometimes we still don't get along. Mary teased she was sweet on me, and looked forward to help. Ethel was not in a joking mood. She never was. She had lost so much as well. Losing her soldier and then her child. She wanted to be useful, I could tell. We've been given a second chance. She says. The question is, if I believe her. I'm not quite so sure.

I need someone to just listen. Someone I can talk to things about I can't say to Mary or mother. People I know I can trust. What I needed was someone to listen to me on my own terms. I needed to talk everything through: how I would manage the pain, how I would hold down a job, how I would remain active. This is where step 2 comes in.

Step 2: Mourn the thing I can no longer do

This is a tough, but also a necessary step. I need to accept the reality that there are things I cannot do any more at all and things that I can no longer do the way I once did them. Instead of dwelling on what I can no longer do, I have to mourn the losses and focus on what I can. I also need to focus on different ways of doing things.

Don't dwell on what you can no longer do; it will prevent you from moving forward. Focus on what you can do and find ways to do new things. These things I can talk about, what I can and can't do, managing the pain, my physical pain at least.

Simple things I can tell Mary and Mother. I think I got most of those worked out. Yes, I still feel pain, in my upper back, where I can feel. It's debilitating at times. I don't want to take pills because I don't like how it makes my head feel. I want my head clear. Never thought I'd hear myself think a lot of the time I still prefer the company of Ethel. I still have my dark spirals but they're not as frequent and don't want anyone else to see. Ethel take the brunt of them. As much as I like Ethel's company, (thankfully she doesn't talk too much) I like Tally's as well, maybe even more so. Tally, she was a sweet girl. I loaned a book to her on Christmas Eve. She claims I had a nightmare but I don't recall.

Step 3: DON'T LET THEM DEFINE WHO YOU ARE.

It's pretty straight forward

Step 4: Look for people who can inspire you
Don't need to look far. No need to talk to them. Just being around others wounded like me will get me in the right mindset to move forward.

Step 5: EXERCISE REGULARLY
I need help working out new exercises.

This list is so very lawyer like.

Writing that, I find myself smiling and give a small breath that is a laugh before I can start to feel it slipping.

Not every day will be a happy day. There will still be sad days. If I allow myself to be, away from everyone, it won't come off as misplaced anger at misplaced times. I shudder to think about how I had misplaced it when we had all gathered in the drawing room, when I broke the news about Patrick. Some of which that anger had been deliberate. I won't ever purposely misplace my anger at anyone again. It's towards myself not them. They had been so helpful, in this long recovery, striving forward to whatever recovery I can achieve.
I appreciate the help but I am growing anxious to get back to work. It's been eight months since my injury. January, 1918 and still no end of the war in sight. I can work from the Abbey. I don't need to go out. It was still a challenge to get ready in the mornings and evenings. I got a handle on maneuvering in and out of bed to my chair but still needed to from chair to the bed. I don't have any qualms about Molesley or Bates dressing me, because they're Mosley and Bates. Molesley looked far too cheerful. He was glad he had more to do with his job. I had heard of Anna's concerns, well 'her complains' to Bates that it was too much work on him. Bates had joked about it with me. It was difficult the first time with the bath, not because of my embarrassment and shame of my own body. It was a harder task to do for the older men. Thomas was suggested.

"No!" I had angrily refused.

What reason would I have to be angry at the man?

They had eventually gotten Daniel. I never really meant the chap till now. I didn't know if I could trust him. He was O'Brien's nephew. But I shouldn't base it on that. He was an intelligent young man, willing to help anywhere he could. The first time I had unofficially met him, was at the concert last year, the woman's movement had been handing out the white feathers. They had given one to the new footman, William and Tom.

I couldn't be mad at him for them. He and Tom had had the good sense to not get involved in the war, sparing both their lives. While William and I had been blindly convinced that it was for 'honor and glory and freedom. The first wave of nightmares I've haven't for months, had came back in full force that night. A man ran past, his back turned, through a barren, muddy landscape. Something about him looked familiar.

AN: I ended it here, to show Matthew's distorted thoughts. It's still months away till November 1918, the armistice. Which I will probably cover. The announcement of it's end won't feel real to him at first. I didn't cover the part about Patrick as much, for reasons, (don't want to over rehash) and how it affected his and Mary's friendship briefly. He tries to never think about it. I'll have the readers determine, when that took place, when he went back to Crawley house with his mother for about a week. The writing seems distorted because it's intended, what certain events happened when. This is a man's trouble mind scarred by war, still picking up the pieces.