When you experience loss, people say you'll move through the 5 stages of grief….Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance….What they don't tell you is that you'll cycle through them all every day. - Ranata Suzuki

November 1, 1920

The Collins Home

"Um…where's Aislinn?" Michael tried to keep his voice level; no need to act as if it mattered where she was. Because it didn't, of course. They had barely spoken to each other in the two weeks since she'd left him at the docks. It was just that she was always home by now, and her being late was a bit off-putting.

Kathleen and Deaglan looked up from the chess board. Neither of them knew much about chess, but it was an excuse to stare at each other while pondering moves. "Said she was going to the library after work," Deaglan said. "Why?"

"Oh, nothing," said Michael, carefully keeping his tone breezy and nonchalant. He was there ostensibly to walk Kathleen home; Mr. Collins was out on government business, and Deaglan and his sister were totally wrapped up in each other. He was bored, that was all. Ok, so he'd come an hour early; it didn't mean he cared.

He picked up a book, leafed idly through its pages. Put it down again. Books reminded him of Aislinn. Where the hell was she?

Another fifteen minutes crawled by. Was she seeing someone? It was all right if she was, as long as she was okay, he told himself. But she should have been home by now.

At 8:00 he gave up the pretence. "I'm going to the library," he announced.

"All right," said Kathleen absently. "I think I just captured your bishop!" she crowed in delight. Michael glared at them and left.

Aislinn was not at the library. The librarian was surprised at his question, and told him that she had not been there all day. He sat on the front step and worried. This was not like her. She worked until five, and then came right home. The library was the only other place she went; he was sure of it. Maybe by now she was home. His footsteps quickened as he returned to the Collins home, on the edge of panic now.

As Michael came up the front walk, he saw a small figure in the distance, trudging up the walk toward him. She slowed when she saw him, and he could see that her face was tear-stained.

"Where have you been?" The words came out more harshly than he had intended. "I-we've been worried about you!"

She stared at him as if at a stranger, and then opened her mouth and said, in a flat voice, "They took me in."

"What? Who? Where?" Michael realized that he wasn't making sense, and started again. He took her by the arms and looked into her eyes, as he asked, "Who took you in?"

"The RIC. They came to the brewery at closing and took me with them. I didn't even have time to tell Deaglan! They took me to their station and questioned me for hours…about Uncle Michael…about you." Her voice shook with the memory.

Michael's blood froze. "What did they do to you?" His voice was raspy with anger and fear for her. "Did they hurt you?"

"N-no," she said slowly, as if in a daze. "They were very polite, at first. But when they realized that I had nothing to tell them, they became angry. They-they threatened me, Michael, but I didn't tell them anything. There's nothing to tell! And they had to let me go. I was so scared! I hate this war!" She put her head in her hands and began to cry…deep sobs that shook her body. Without thinking, Michael took her into his arms and simply held her while she let all the fear and anxiety out. She didn't pull away; laid her head on his chest and let it all go.

"Shhh, a stór," Michael murmured to her. "It'll be all right, I'm here now, no one will hurt you." He continued to croon soft phrases, rocking her until her shaking subsided and she relaxed in his arms. It occurred to him as they stood there that this was exactly what she had done for him over a month ago, and suddenly he grinned.

"We're even." He pulled away and looked into her tear-streaked face. She stared at him for a moment, and then slowly a smile spread.

"I guess we are," she told him. And just like that, they were friends again.

November 10, 1920

The Branson Flat

"How was your day, darling?" Sybil asked, as Tom came into the flat. There was no answer. He hung up his coat in the front hall, crossed over and kissed his wife and daughter, and flung himself down in the chair by the hearth.

"Was it a rough day?" Sybil tried again.

"Umph." Tom grunted.

"Would you like mouldy cheese and stale bread for dinner, dear?"

"That would be grand."

Sybil rolled her eyes. She got up, put the baby into her cradle, and crossed to where her husband sat, staring into the fire. She knelt on the carpet and looked into his eyes. "All right, what's wrong, darling? Did something happen at work?"

Tom stared at her, but his eyes were far away. "I watched them hang a young man today." His voice was bleak. "He was only eighteen years old, Sybil, and now he'll never have a chance to be a man, have a family, love someone…like you…". His words trailed off.

"Who was he?" his wife asked softly. This was what Tom's work entailed sometimes. She couldn't even imagine how the constant exposure to the ferocity of this war tore at his soul, tried to eat away at his humanity. He had to follow the tragedies, report on the unfairness, on man's cruelty to his fellow man, every single day. He was the bravest person she knew. And all she could do was be there for him when he came home…and thank God that he did come home.

Tom pulled Sybil up and into his arms. He hugged her fiercely to him, as if the contact was all that was keeping him together. "His name was Kevin Barry. He had a mother, and two sisters, and a Gran. He was somebody's son, brother, grandson. He was loved. And he was in the IRA. He took part in an ambush that killed three British soldiers, and today I watched him hang for it. Where does it all end, Sybil? How can we raise Abby in such a world? Am I doing wrong to put my family in this kind of danger? Is Ireland worth it?"

"I don't know," Sybil answered honestly. "All I know is that this is your world, and mine now, and I don't think we could do anything else or be anywhere else. How could you live with yourself if you ran away from this, if you abandoned Ireland to her own foolishness? Abby is growing up in terrible times, but we can't protect her by running, Tom."

She leaned back and looked deep into his troubled eyes. "And I don't think Abby is who you're worried for right now, is she?"

Tom gave her a weak smile. "You know me too well. No…it's Michael. I worry about him every day, and this hanging just brought it home again. I know he's smart, and a grown man, not a child like this poor lad today. I also know that without the Volunteers we'd be at the mercy of the British Army and Ireland would have no chance.

"But he's a soldier, Sybil, and he's taking his life into his hands every day! He's right in the thick of it all the time. And I don't like how much time he spends over at the Collins house. I admire Michael Collins… I do, but I don't like where his passion leads him sometimes. Did you know that he has a special group of soldiers called the Squad, who perform assassinations of RIC and British officers for him?"

Sybil shook her head. She knew that Tom tried to keep much of the horror of the war out of their home, and she appreciated it, but she also worried about his holding so much inside. She read his articles, discussed them with him, but this "squad" was something entirely new.

"It's been around since last March," Tom went on. "Collins is in charge of intelligence for the IRA. He's a spy, and spies do terrible things in wartime. They have to be ruthless; there's no room for compassion. And I worry that Michael is spending so much time with him. I trust my brother's judgement to a point, but that man is so persuasive, so magnetic…I just worry, that's all."

"We all do," Sybil agreed. "But even though he's over there more, Kathleen says he's spending less time with Mr. Collins lately. And do you know why?" She grinned at him suddenly.

Tom's eyebrows went up in question.

"Because he's spending it with Deaglan's sister!" She gave her husband a triumphant grin, happy to take his mind off the war.

"What? Michael…finding time to notice a girl? I don't believe it! And how come I don't know this? He never said anything to me!"

Sybil snorted. "You don't know about it because he doesn't realize what's happening to him yet! I know that you took the lead in our relationship, but you're special." She kissed him lightly. "Usually, a man is the last to know when a woman is after his heart!"

November 12, 1920

Downton Abbey

"The newspapers you requested, my lady." Carson handed Edith a stack of newspapers.

"Thank you, Carson," she said, her voice listless. Carson went on his way, shaking his head. There was something quite wrong with Lady Edith. Was he the only one to notice? He had been surprised when she went to visit Lady Sybil, more surprised when she had not returned after a suitable time. And then, after a year in that godforsaken country, she had come back. Carson did not like surprises, and he most certainly did not like mysteries. Lady Edith was back where she belonged, but somehow she was not here. She had always been a bit moody, but now she seemed to be in a fog much of the time.

All she did was mope around the house all day, reading the papers from Ireland. She lacked the energy even to spar with her sister, although heaven knew Lady Mary tried. As well she should, Carson thought. Someone needed to break through the misery with which Lady Edith had surrounded herself. She would make herself sick if she kept on like this! This was what came of leaving home, the butler thought darkly.

Unaware of Carson's ruminations, Edith took the papers to a chair in a corner of the library, opened the first one, and began to read. She began with Tom's paper, The Irish Bulletin, looked for his articles and read each one word for word, and then continued through The Irish Times, The Irish Independent, and The Herald. She read everything, occasionally taking notes, and then she started over and read them all again. Lady Edith Crawley was grieving, and her grief was dogged and singleminded.

She did not discuss what she read with her parents or her sister. It was hers and hers alone, and she could not bear to share. No one would have understood anyway. Edith knew that her mother was worried about her, but she didn't care. A part of her blamed Cora for the decision she had made to leave Ireland, although she knew it to be unfair. She had no one but herself to blame.

She stopped suddenly, her eye caught by an advertisement in the The Irish Times. "Grand Opening of Branson and Ryan Furniture, Saturday, November 20!" Her fingers clutched the carved bead necklace she always wore as tears blurred her vision. So, he had done it. He was opening his furniture shop. Patrick's dreams were coming true…and she was no longer a part of them. The weight of it threatened to crush her. She let the paper fall to the floor as she thought about him…his beloved face, his humor, his love for her shining through his clear blue eyes.

She did not allow herself to envision his face on the day she told him she was leaving; that would have broken her. She had been right to leave, she assured herself. Love wasn't always enough; staying would have destroyed them both in the end. She was tied to this life, the pampered, stultifying life she had been raised to accept and now hated. She would never have made it in Ireland, although it was all she thought of in the long, dull days. She was a coward…she would never have been accepted, she insisted to herself.

Except by him, said a small voice. He would have accepted you, treasured you, made your life real. The voice went on, telling her that she had made the worst mistake of her life, that she would never be happy again. She bowed her head and let the tears come as she cycled through the stages of grief again, just as she had done every single day since her return from Ireland.


A/N: On November 1, 1920, 18-year-old IRA volunteer Kevin Barry was hanged in Dublin for his part in an ambush in which three British soldiers were killed. He was the first Irish republican to be executed since the leaders of the Easter Rising, and a member of a group of IRA members executed in 1920-21 who are known as "The Forgotten Ten".

A/N: In the early days of the war, intimidation tactics, boycotting, and persuasion succeeded against many RIC and British officers. However, others began to increase their activities against Irish republicans, and in March of 1920 Michael Collins, in his role as Director of Intelligence, authorized the selection of a small group of men to form an assassination unit. Originally the "Squad", as it was known, consisted of twelve men who were called the "Twelve Apostles".

Pronunciation Guide:

Aislinn - ash + ling

Deaglan - deck + lan