A/N: Thank you so much to those of you reading and reviewing. This piece initially started as a one-shot until I woke up one morning with chapter 2 in my head. Now I'm finding that I have even more to write, and consequently I expect the contents of the chapters will not remain strictly chronological. I will try to reference the period of time that each chapter or section is set within the story, but if I get feedback that the temporal leaps are too confusing I will start labeling each section. Thanks again! -PV
When Sybil was a little girl she would jump down from her chair as her father walked in for breakfast. She stood by the table, hands clasped behind her back, heels raised off the floor so she swayed on her toes as she watched him fill his plate. Lord Grantham would greet his two oldest daughters and chat with Carson about the upcoming day, all the while watching his youngest girl discreetly from the corner of his eye. Sometimes he would deliberately linger with Carson until Sybil would pout her little lips and bounce up and down in pained impatience until both earl and butler struggled to hide their grins. When he finally sat she would approach the arm of his chair and look up at him expectantly. Lord Grantham would feign a put upon sigh and lift her onto his knee.
"Well, my little Sybil, of what did you dream last night?" She would sit calm and still, reciting her dreams as her father listened and nodded solemnly. They were dreams inspired by the familiarities of Downton Abbey, pictures of people wearing interesting clothes had seen in books, or exciting places her mother told her about in America. One morning as Sybil was describing her dream about Mary's horse galloping through the woods, Lord Grantham looked down into her clear eyes gray eyes and realized that he had never heard her speak of a nightmare. The thought pained him unexpectedly, and he drew her close to kiss the top of her head.
"Don't worry, Papa," she continued softly, "I dreamed that Mary's horse came home again."
...
Sybil passes a hand over her bleary eyes and assures herself that it was not unusual for Branson to appear in her dream; after all she had fallen asleep with the pamphlets he had given her resting on the bedside table, having been read over and over again by lamplight the night before. He had appeared only for a moment, a flash of blue eyes and gleaming smile, but as she sits up in bed squinting against the morning light Sybil feels unaccountably peculiar over the notion that she summoned his image in her sleep. She rubs at her eyes again and looks down at the pamphlets, then without thinking she opens the top drawer of the bedside table, sweeps the papers inside, and closes it on one swift motion. This makes her feel better, and by the time she is dressed for breakfast Sybil has forgotten she dreamed of him at all.
.
Branson splashes cold water across his face and assures himself it is not unusual that he dreamed of Lady Sybil. She is a beautiful girl, and why shouldn't he dream of a pretty face? He can't even remember what the dream was about, just that she was there, gray eyes peering up at him from under the brim of her hat. The image bothers him and he can't help but dwell on it until the reason dawns on him; it wasn't only a dream, it was a memory. Yesterday when they arrived at Downton he had opened the door and waited for a moment as she folded the pamphlets and tucked them into her pocket. She stepped down out of the car and looked up at him to say "Thank you, Branson," but when she met his eyes it was not a polite acknowledgement of his presence, she saw him, maybe even for the first time. She seemed surprised and curious and a little wary. He liked seeing that look on her face. It haunts him the rest of the day, and as he drifts off to sleep that night Branson hopes he will dream of Lady Sybil again.
...
When she dreams of him, he is always in uniform. Crisp lines and gleaming buttons. She dreams of his arm circling her shoulders, of their hands clasped together, sometimes she dreams of his lips brushing against her mouth and when she wakes the lonely ache inside her is so strong she only wants to return to sleep and dream herself beside him again. At first the dreams are pleasant, she welcomes them because they make him feel less distant and the war less real. Weeks go by, and then months and the dreams change. She starts to dream of the count again, of Branson grasping her shoulder and holding her against his chest as bodies press against them, but in these dreams they are both knocked down and he is dragged away through the dirt as booted feet pin her to the ground. Eventually she sees him wearing a different uniform and it is stained with grime and blood. Before long she begins to dream of battle, of open wounds and death and pain. Each morning she wakes feeling drained of all energy, and all through the day the images cling to her mind like cobwebs. One night she dreams she falls into a muddy ditch, and at the bottom she finds Branson's body. He is torn and cold, his blue eyes are empty and she screams and tries to climb out but the mud gives way under her hands and the more she struggles the faster she slides back down. She wakes with a strangled cry tearing out of her throat. It is still the middle of the night but she dresses herself and goes to work, keeping busy all day and well into the next night until Mary insists that she goes to bed before she makes herself truly ill. Before she falls asleep in her silent room, Sybil wonders if the dreams will drive her mad.
.
When he dreams of her, everything is green and blue. He dreams them into beautiful places; traveling a familiar country road, lingering in the great shadow of Downton Abbey cool against the heat of a summer day, sometimes he even dreams her into Ireland where they stand at shore lines or sit in mist shrouded hills. She takes his hand and speaks to him in her voice low and soft like smoke. She lets down her long dark hair and allows him to run his hand through its tresses, and when he pulls her body against his she is soft and sweet. He dreams of her every night, and the dreams are calm and lovely. When he wakes to a world of heat and noise and stink, Branson wonders if they are the only thing keeping him sane.