There is some good in this world, and it's worth fighting for. - J.R.R. Tolkien

March 3, 1921

The Branson Flat

"Stop, it, Patrick!"

Patrick removed his hand and tried to look innocent. "Whaat?" he asked, blue eyes wide.

"I have to finish this article, and I can't concentrate with you hanging about!" Edith said, trying to look aggravated and failing. "Go help Sybil in the kitchen or something—Lord knows she needs it."

Patrick walked away, turning at the doorway of Edith's room to shoot a devilish grin her way. She gave him a look of frustration which dissolved into a giggle. The truth was, her brain turned to mush around him, and she seemed unable to focus on anything else if he was nearby. She sighed. She hadn't been able to think of anything much but him when they were in separate countries, so she supposed this was to be expected.

Edith shuddered as she remembered those dark days at Downton, the sulking and moping, mired in a gloom that she couldn't share with a living soul. What an idiot she had been—a self-absorbed, wilted weed of a person! She had made self-pity an art form. How had Patrick ever seen anything in her in the first place? It was a miracle.

A slow smile spread over her face as she thought of him. He had fought for her, had gone to battle against her doubts and refused to let her expunge him from her heart. And he had won. He'd won that day at the dock when he'd looked into her eyes and smiled at her, daring her to deny the attraction both had felt the first time they'd met, at Tom and Sybil's wedding. He had staked his claim in Murphy's Tavern, when he had reached for her hand and sparks had jolted through her body.

And then…the grin widened…he had sealed the deal when he appeared at her door and walked straight into her arms as if he'd always belonged there. And finally there was that fateful day last April, when they'd been discovered wearing nothing but a quilt! Oh God, the look on Sybil's face! Edith put her own burning face in her hands and gave in to the laughter, remembering it as both the most embarrassing and the best day in her life.

"I don't think you're getting anywhere on that article," came a low, husky voice behind her, and warm lips brushed her ear. "Would you like some help?"

"For heaven's sake!" Edith tried for at least three seconds to stand against him, but she was lost. She stood and allowed him to fold her into his arms. For a moment they stood still, content just to hold each other. In that moment, Edith came to an understanding that made everything clear for the first time.

Before she had left, they had stood together like this many times. They had been physically as close as two people could be, and they had been happy. But they had not known then what it meant to share the deepest corners of one's heart with another, to breathe as one, to wake up each day wanting only for the other person to be happy. Edith had not known then what it would mean to be wrenched apart, to face the future without that other part of your soul.

It had taken her panicked flight, her denial and self-doubt, to bring about that epiphany. And in this precious moment, standing here in Patrick's arms again, she realized that it had all been necessary—all that pain and the lonely nights in a gilded cage called Downton, to bring about the miracle that was them.

"Mo chroi?" Patrick whispered. "I think we have time for a bit of a lie-down before dinner. You've been working too hard. That article will be there later."

"Mmm, what article?" she murmured, allowing him to lead her to the bed.

March 12, 1921

The Branson Home

Claire Branson woke with a start. The room was dark. Familiar shadows hung in the corners where the dresser stood. A chair leaned against the wall, her dressing gown slung over it. A sliver of moonlight filtered in behind the curtained window, casting a silver pathway into the room. Nothing was amiss.

So what had awakened her? Claire was a light sleeper. Six children and two grandchildren living in close proximity will do that to you. She had always been the one to hear Fiona's night terrors first, even though the baby slept in the same room as her parents. Daniel's snoring was a part of the fabric of the house now. She had caught Patrick countless times returning from a sojourn with his latest girlfriend, hair mussed and lipstick marks on his sheepish face. Claire had been the one to hear Maire's cries after her attack, though her daughter had tried to stifle them in the pillow. But she heard nothing now. So why was she awake, every nerve ending on alert?

Claire took stock without thinking. Her home was her fortress, and she knew every creak, every sigh, every ache of the old house. It seemed almost empty these days. Daniel and Bernadette were with the children down the hall. Kathleen slept alone in the room that she had once shared with Maire. Patrick was over at Tom and Sybil's—Edith's. She sighed to herself. He hadn't slept at home in weeks. But he'd never been happier, so that was something to be thankful for.

Michael was at the Collins'. His excuse was that he wanted to spend time with his best friend Deaglan, since he had almost lost him to his bizarre accident and subsequent illness, and Deaglan had invited him to stay over. Humph! Her children still labored under the illusion that their mother knew nothing of the world. Claire knew perfectly well that the attraction over there was not Deaglan. She just hoped that Aislinn Collins was the nice girl she thought she was, and that Michael was behaving himself. But they were adults, and her opinion hadn't been solicited.

There. There it was again—a soft padding sound like a footstep, furtive and muffled. And then the third step, the one that Daniel had fixed innumerable times, let out a soft squeak. The next moment, as if knowing that the time for secrecy was past, heavy boots hammered up the remaining stairs and her door was flung open, slamming hard into the wall. The dim light from the window framed the large forms of at least three men wearing stocking masks, and Claire heard other boots thundering down the hallway. Frozen in shock, she heard Connor begin to screech for his mother.

"Don't move!" a voice said, low and rough. "Where is he?"

Claire ignored the command as a hot wave of fury washed through her. This was her house—her home! How dared they burst in without warning and attempt to frighten her? And she was frightened; she could feel her terror building as her anger took over. She knew them. The masks did not disguise who—what—they were. She had heard the unmistakeable accent that marked the intruders as British soldiers, Black and Tans. Even in her fear, she could mark the difference between these coarse, rude voices and the cultured, modulated tones of her son-in-law Evan, whose voice she had once hated so much. The thought gave the scene a sense of odd clarity.

Another soldier appeared in the doorway. "We found one man in the bedroom down the hall, sir. He's got a wife and a couple of screaming kids. It's not him. A young woman in another room. There's no one else here."

"Where is he?" the soldier in the doorway said again, taking a step forward. "I won't ask again."

Claire Branson stood and, ignoring the soldier, crossed to retrieve her dressing gown. Wrapped in its warm folds, she felt stronger, braver. She turned and stretched to her full height of five foot three.

"It might help," she said in the coldest tone she could manage, "if I knew who he is, and why you have broken into my home univited in the middle of the night!" She glared at the men as if they were unruly children, although every muscle in her body threatened to betray her and she was afraid that her legs might not support her much longer.

"This is the home of Michael Branson, isn't it? Where is he?"

Claire stiffened at her son's name. Oh, Michael, she thought. I knew this day would come!

"I have a son named Michael," she said, trying to look confused. "But he doesn't live here anymore. I have no idea where he might be."

"I think you're lying!" said the leader of the group. "We've been watching your house, and we know there's at least one IRA soldier living here!"

"Well, you're obviously not going to take my word for it," Claire said, "so why don't you do whatever it is your lot does when you're misinformed, and then get the hell out of my house!"

A small voice gasped in the hallway. Connor looked up at his mother, who at six months into her pregnancy was a taking up more than a little of the space in the narrow passage as she stood holding her children tight in her arms. Behind her, Daniel stood with his hands in the air as a soldier held a rifle pointed at him. Kathleen swayed against him, her face white and her eyes huge.

Connor's shrill little voice rang out in horror. "Grandmam said a bad word!"

The child's voice broke the tension, the soldiers' eyes darting uncertainly from the holes in their masks. One or two shuffled their feet, but none spoke. They all looked at their leader. The soldier holding his rifle on Daniel lowered his weapon, and Daniel pulled Connor up with one arm, the other going around Bernadette. "You are frightening my children," he said in his calm voice. "My mother-in-law is speaking the truth. There is no one here by that name."

The leader of the Black and Tans seemed to realize that he had lost the battle. "You Irish had best understand that the British Army is here to stay!" he snarled. "We'll root out Collins' IRA scum, mark my words, and they'll all hang!" He turned to his men and strode through them, jostling Bernadette as he passed. The others turned without a word and followed him down the stairs and out the door. There was a collective exhalation of breath as the Bransons stood staring at each other, the shock of the night's activity etched on their faces.

"Let's have some tea," said Claire. "Connor, can you help me get out the biscuits?"

March 13, 1921

The Branson Flat

"I think you should all move in here for a while," Tom insisted as he gripped the back of a chair to keep from throwing it. His mother laughed at him.

"Well, sure and that would be a right fine camping experience, Tom! Where would we all sleep? You have three bedrooms, and very nice they are, too, but there are eleven of us, if you haven't noticed." She shook her head. "Besides, no British soldier is going to chase me out of my own home!" The stubborn set of his mother's head told Tom there was no point in pursuing that line of thought.

"Well, at least Michael should stay here for a while," he tried again. The entire clan was gathered at the flat on this Sunday afternoon, along with Aislinn and Deaglan Collins. Tom had been beside himself since he'd heard about the break-in the night before by the Black and Tans. The bastards had attacked his mother! Would this persecution never end? He felt sick to his stomach as he looked at his family. How could he protect the people he loved in the midst of this insanity?

"Are you serious?" Michael had been uncharactistically quiet, but Tom's statement had him jerking upright from where he was slouched on the couch. "Here? With all the lovebirds? Not gonna happen, mate! I'll sleep at the docks!"

"Shut up, Michael!" Tom snarled. "We're trying to keep you from hanging, in case you hadn't noticed!"

He continued, "It's only going to get worse now, since the Dáil's declared war on the powers in London." Tom ran his fingers through his hair, making it stand on end. "The Tans are making sweeps all over the country now, looking for IRA soldiers and rounding them up to be hanged, or even shooting them in their beds! They're not even bothering with trials. I just sent in a report on six more men who are due to be hanged tomorrow morning at Mountjoy! How long do you think you'd last hanging out at the docks, Michael?"

Michael went silent. He knew Tom had the right of it there. He had had to quit work at the docks a week ago when a fellow Volunteer had warned him that the army was looking for him, and since then he'd been staying away from home as much as possible, afraid of what had just happened. He looked down at his hands. Filled with sudden self-loathing, he couldn't look at his family.

He'd brought them to this-he should have quit back in January when he'd wanted to. Now it was too late…maybe it had already been too late, even then. They had his name, knew where he lived, and probably knew his connection to the Collins family. In fact, he couldn't think of any other reason they'd be targeting him. He wasn't a big fish, just another swimmer in the IRA pond.

Yes. It had to be a way of getting at Michael Collins. But it didn't matter. He'd known when he took the oath almost two years ago that he was giving up a normal life. He'd known that he was risking more than his own neck by joining the IRA. Just as he knew he'd do it all over again, because that was who he was. Maire would have understood, but Maire was thousands of miles away, safe in a country not torn apart by war. At least he could be glad for that.

"I can't come home, Mam," Michael looked up at his mother, tears standing in his eyes. "I can't put you and Bernadette and the little ones at risk. I won't do that!"

Sybil had come back into the sitting room from putting Abby down for a nap. Now she moved to sit down next to her brother-in-law. "We won't let you risk yourself any more than you already are doing, Michael," she said softly, in the steady tone she used with her more recalcitrant patients. "Please let us help by putting you up here. We can move Abby back into our room and you can have Tom's office. There's a couch in there. Please!"

His look was stubborn. "No, Sybil! I know you mean well and I love you for it, but Tom already has a dangerous job, and the RIC know he's my brother. I wouldn't be surprised if they come skulking around here before long, and I won't put you or Abby in danger on my account. It won't work!" Sybil's eyes sought Tom's, her expression sad. Quiet fell as Michael's family took in his words. He was right, and they all knew it.

"He will stay at our house," came a quiet voice, and everyone turned to look at Aislinn. "He's there half the time anyway," she blushed but didn't look away from the staring eyes, "and there isn't anywhere safer than right under the nose of the great Michael Collins, minister of finance for the Dáil Éireann!" Her tone was lightly mocking, but her steady gaze held them all.

"And," Aislinn added, "I might as well tell you, since you're all here together. Michael Branson means quite a lot to me," she lifted her chin, "and I intend to make sure he's safe. You see, he's not the only soldier in this room. I happen to think that there is still some good in this world, and it's worth fighting for. He's worth fighting for." She stared around at the people clustered in the sitting room, as if daring them to argue. No one said a word.


A/N: As ambushes by the IRA increased in frequency, so did reprisals from the Black and Tans, and frequent sweeps were conducted to root out those with IRA connections. On March 9, 1921, a party of masked policemen broke into the home of the Loughnane family and shot William Loughnane dead in his bed. William, his father and his three brothers were active members of the local IRA company.

A/N: On March 11, 1921, the Dáil Éireann debated, resolved, and declared war officially on the British Administration.

A/N: On March 13, six IRA prisoners were hanged by the British in Mountjoy Prison. And the war marched on.