Chapter Twenty-Two

A/N: Hello! Happy Sunday! Thank you so much for your responses and reviews, and for following and/or favouriting this fic! I'm so hugely grateful to you :)

June 1926

Love.

What a strange, chameleonic, paradoxical thing it was.

The same emotion that caused his arms to tremble while they enfolded the little wriggling bundle of white blankets, and yet rendered him unable to move.

The same emotion that had hewn into words the myriad of loving expressions, of soul-deep adoration, of wonder and admiration and gratitude that he wanted to say to his wife; but rendered his tongue paralysed, making his lips and eyes speak instead, gazing with untiring devotion at the crumpled red flower of his baby son's face, a tiny, pudgy hand breaking free of the fine white cotton, transparent fingers waving in the air.

Three little words could not be enough—could never be enough—to articulate just what Mary Crawley meant to him.

"He put up quite a fight, didn't he," Mary smiled weakly, her dishevelled, long brown hair a stark contrast to the white of her nightgown.

"He certainly did," Matthew whispered with a helpless, breathless grin, pressing a trembling kiss to her temple. "Are you sure you're all right, my darling?"

"Quite sure," she said, her brilliant brown eyes beaming with love, despite the overwhelming exhaustion that bound her following the war waged within her that she had fought so fiercely for a third time … "I wish—Papa— "

"I know, I know," Matthew murmured quietly, tendering gentle kisses to her forehead, her small hand cradled lovingly in his larger one. "He'd have been so terribly, terribly pleased, wouldn't he."

They gazed down, enraptured, bewitched with their third bundle of joy, his little eyes still sealed shut. A quantity of thick brown hair covered his head, silky-soft against her palm. His lips smacked together soundlessly like a goldfish out of water. His first yawn, his sleepy twitches. They never could get enough.

"William Reginald Crawley," Mary breathed to him, to their second little prince; named after another young, innocent boy who had paid the ultimate price for his unselfish, unforgotten sacrifice so long ago, without which neither Matthew nor his family would ever have existed. "Hello, my dearest little darling ..."

William he was, and William he remained; a brave, bouncing, laughing little boy with his mother's brunette brushes of hair and his father's cerulean eyes that sparkled like diamonds turned towards the blinding sun on a warm day; a baby one minute and a boy the next; quarrelling with his blonde-haired big brother who was so much shyer and quieter than he was, revelling in his mother's love and his father's devotion … for years and years to come.

Time flowed onwards like a stream burbling through the woods, days and weeks and months and years smudging into one another like the streaked colours of a sunset. Milk and honey, black ink and clear water; passing so quickly they hardly realised how it had all passed, in a glorious dream. It had its ups and downs: flu, injuries, arguments and quarrels ever more fierce between Downton's king and queen; fighting over rearing their children (as he'd predicted so long ago on their wedding eve), whether to send George and Will to Eton or Radley College (it was Radley, in the end; Mary had to admit that the arrangement had worked out quite well); sharp struggles of the world that seemed every day to be slipping beneath their feet, the world of their youth utterly unrecognisable from what it used to be.

Such long, long days, intense joy and shared battles fought, large and small; every storm braved hand in hand; buttercup-gold days and bluebell nights—long walks and rides out together over the deep and dark green hills; lips red, eyes shining, frosty wind whipping the blood in their cheeks;—their passionate, cherished lovemaking that never ceased to overflow with adoration, their souls blending more into each other every time—Christmas roses and Downton's halls decked with feathery green boughs of holly and their scarlet berries … a cherished visit from the King and Queen themselves … a Hollywood film crew lodged at Downton to shoot a silent film … chandelier-lit dances at ballrooms and their own private dances in the firelit drawing-room to the old strains of the gramophone … and always, always falling in love with each other through it all.

Violet passed away in 1928, on a warm spring day, her bed surrounded by her loving family over whom she had presided for so long; every one of them had gathered to say goodbye to their matriarch, their rock, her indomitable spirit that they knew would continue to haunt Downton long after she was gone. It wrung their hearts, really, to see in this state their grandmother, hard as steel, who had watched them grow up, guided them through thick and thin, her heart's concealed tenderness shining out in those rare moments when she allowed it to … shadows of death kissing with reverence her wrinkled face, concealing the stunning, spirited beauty she once was. She bore it stoically, spiritedly, much as her life had been lived; tumultuous, passion hidden beneath the opaque draperies of propriety, a dragon breathing fire; and those who knew her and loved her best smiled despite the pain, at the knowledge that the end had been peaceful, and tranquil, and calm.

Cora left life in 1930; Aunt Rosamund a year later; and the losses deeply shook Matthew and Mary; it felt more than ever now as though the world they had known was falling away, really falling away … Painswick House had been left to them both in Rosamund's will, though the knowledge gave them no pleasure at all. Petals were falling thick and fast off the enchanted red rose.

Isobel? She died much like her sparring partner, confidant and friend had done, who she had missed deeply and dearly all these years, in addition to every other beloved friend and family member who had left her behind in this world … warm in her bed, the whispers of old age finally settling upon her aged limbs, her fierce, fiery strength curbed at last, with a quietness and gentleness that broke Matthew's heart. His dear mother, how strong she'd been, all those times long ago when it had been just the two of them—first in Manchester, then in Downton; just the two of them thrust together into this realm of the aristocracy they'd been so wholly unprepared for … he had never known anyone quite like her—so resilient, so brave, after every hardship life had thrown at her—unfailingly kind, compassionate, always so ready to help those less fortunate than herself, no matter the cost … he hoped, as the burning hot tears slid slowly down his cheeks, that she was finally, finally at peace, reunited with all those she had loved so devotedly all this time.

Through it all, Matthew and Mary had each other—and them. Their three wonderful, beautifully precious darlings, growing older every day … their childlike faces melting into more serious, thoughtful, grown-up ones, the last vestiges and remnants of childish innocence slowly fading away … three darling children who had become their parents' universe, giving them their hearts, every joy confided, every sorrow soothed in their loving arms …

But it was not until September of 1939 that the storm clouds of fearful pain and terror and anguish descended upon them once again; when they both knew beyond a shadow of doubt that this irrevocable hurdle would alter them forever, perhaps even more so than the first one, that their lives never would be quite the same again.

Only this time, they would face it together.

A/N: Thank you for reading! I'm so sorry if this chapter was a bit gloomy, I felt upset while writing it myself :( Penny for your thoughts?