1928

Ms. Sybil Afton Branson would never forget that night as long as she lived.

They had just gotten back from France – 'Villa of the White Dove' – her future house – of which was a time and place that she would never, ever, forget as long as she lived. And upon their return, everyone was on a high after the picturesque holiday. That was, everyone, except Granny and Donk. For reasons that they hadn't told Aunt Edith nor their eldest grandchild, they were sad and anxious. One might have thought that it had something to do with Granny Violet dying … but it was something else.

All the time they were in France, Granny had been trying to reach George, asking their hosts if – by a slim chance - they had seen him. There was something important that she needed to tell him. Their last night at the villa, while she was dancing with Aunt Lucy to the jazz music, she had caught sight of Granny giving Aunt Edith a letter, saying 'For George'. Her aunt looked rather spooked by the encounter and when Daddy asked why the letter, her aunt told them that she wasn't quite sure to be honest … but she didn't like it. The letter, the sadness of Granny and Donk, her desperation to contact George had been dominating in Sybbie's mind all the trip back. But then there came that night, that special night when she saw her mamma was in front of a microphone …

And her life was changed forever.

"The Gambler" – a Hollywood movie filmed on location at Downton Abbey - was near a wrap. She remembered standing in the back of the dining room with everyone and watching her mamma as she read the lines for Myrna Dalgleish who pantomimed, while the rest of the staff was dressed up in costume as extra's for the movie. The finery and make-up had shined all of them up like new pennies, showing a different side to them that Sybbie Branson had never seen nor thought they had. But of all of them, she was impressed with Mr. Moseley of whom had found his courage while they had been away. Not only had he wrote dialogue for her mamma and Guy Dexter, but somewhere down the line he had decided that it was time for him to – finally – propose to Mrs. Baxter. And in true Moseley fashion he had unwittingly done it in front of a "Boom Microphone" – whatever that was – that broadcasted it for all of them to hear.

Yet, in so many things coming to fruition for everyone – Daddy's new happiness, her new house, and the staff getting such a treat - all the young beauty's attention, every last inch of it, was paid to the true star of this movie they had been shooting. One might have thought that in the young girl's mind that it had been Myrna Dalgleish, so glamorous and at the very peak of what she had looked like in every photoplay magazine that she and Aunt Lucy had. But as the camera whirred, and Jack Barber called 'action' on the final scene of the movie, the girl looked nowhere but at Lady Mary Talbot.

She had been radiant, confident, and so beautiful, capturing the heart and mind of one that loved her more than anything in the world. As Sybbie watched her in this unknown element that she had found herself thriving within, it was the first time in years, too many to count, that Lady Mary looked happy, truly happy. Acting, contributing to this new artform, was something that she found herself enjoying - would never had believed that she would unnaturally exceed at. And on that day, in that very hour, standing in the back of the dining room with the rest of her family, seeing her mamma's smile, catching her eye and getting just the tiniest of private winks, that was when, truly, Sybil Afton Branson fell in love with Cinema.

Forever had she wanted to feel that same way that she had on that night with their staff, and their family all about watching on with delight as Lady Mary stole the show.

Sybbie Branson did not have a mummy – she died the day, perhaps the very hour, that she was born. For years upon years, Lady Mary Crawley, her aunt, was all she had. There was not a moment that she couldn't remember when she looked at that beautiful woman with red tinted amber eyes and luxurious dark chocolate locks and did not think of her as her mamma. The woman who snuck into the nursery every chance she got just to look at a motherless baby girl, to lift her out of her crib and hold her, kiss her, cherish her. From the very first moment that Lady Mary looked upon Ms. Sybil Afton Branson, she had taken her into her heart, claimed her as her daughter. Even now that Tom was married, in love with the exceedingly lovely and humble Lucy Smith, Mary would not relinquish the title of mamma to her. If Lucy Branson would remain 'Aunt Lucy' for the rest of her days as far as Sybbie was concerned … how was that Mary's fault?

For all of her life, Mary had treated and considered Sybbie her daughter. She cut the girl's hair in the same style as her own, she picked out all of her outfits, and tailored her style to match her fashionable mamma. When Mary went anywhere of substance, she had taken Sybbie with her. When the girl started calling her mamma, she met Edith's sheepishness at the very idea with a cold confidence – 'Of course she calls me 'mamma' … what else would I be to her?' It was no knock against darling Sybil, but she wasn't there … and Mary was. Furthermore, Mary loved Sybbie more than anyone else did in the whole world – discounting Tom, of course. And after Caroline's death, George's exile and then disownment, Lady Mary found that Sybbie, her original baby, the first baby she ever held, the first baby she ever fell in love with … was all she had. In the years since that fateful and black day, they had been inseparable. And, indeed, is it so here marked that Sybil Afton Branson was and remained the only child that Lady Mary Crawley ever raised from baby to adulthood.

With the devoted worship of the very ground that bore her tread, had Sybbie idolized her glamourous and dynamic mamma. She wanted to be everything that Lady Mary Talbot had been so effortlessly in all situations. And so, in that moment of triumph, the moment of rebirth, in the siren's call of this new chapter in all their lives, Sybbie Branson was hooked forever on that high. She wanted to be an actress, wanted to share again, over and over, with her mamma, this joy, this unbelievable accomplishment. Someday she wanted to be in front of the microphone, her family about her. She wanted to let loose all the emotion and excitement the Mr. Moseley could dream up for her, and look up as Lady Mary did, and catch her eye as Sybbie had. She wanted to see that genuine smile on her face again, to share that private connection. It had always been the two of them against the world, and for that one golden moment, one unassailable freezing of time itself … there was nothing better in the universe.

The high had lasted all the next day and into the afternoon. There were smiles, random grins that had no explanation. It was a contentment of the likes they hadn't felt in so long. At tea there came an unofficial, no-host, congratulatory gathering of both family and those involved in the movie. There was a great chatter in the sharing of stories from what happened in Downton during production and what it was like in the South of France, what they discovered of many things of Granny Violet's past. The revival of spirit was infectious as they felt that they had somehow stumbled onto a new era, a rebirth, that they had yet to comprehend. But it was truly an undeniable feeling that change of some sort was on the horizon. Yet if they had only known … only known what it would be …

They'd not be celebrating what was to come.

Jack Barber was offering Sybbie a tour of their London Studio – with her mamma's chaperoning, of course. Since their first meeting, the director and producer had interacted so sweetly, so genuinely, with the young beauty. She was happy that such an important man from Hollywood – born here in England like her – had taken her dream so seriously. Since her announcement to everyone that she wanted to be an actress, Jack Barber didn't just humor her, but began giving pointers and tips on where she could start, even now as a child actress – if her parents so wished.

The girl was sure that he was only being nice to her to get in with her mamma, who he was clearly smitten with. But in this instance, she didn't mind. In the way that Lady Mary was looking at the man, a genuine vulnerability that she only ever showed to her and Daddy, there was something truly there between them. And it hadn't been missed in the young heiress's imagination that maybe, if Mr. Barber and her mamma got married, there was a chance that someday Sybbie and Mary could be in a movie together – the sky was the limit on that day, in that wonderful hour.

However, suddenly, they were all startled when the door to the small library of Downton Abbey was kicked open. With a violent and ostentatious slam, it struck the case, rattling the sundries and vases of the room. They all snapped around to catch a glance in shock and outrage at what had perpetrated such a violent action. And there he stood, in the doorway, absorbing all the negative attention with a cold and stone-faced amusement at their reaction. After a long moment, the figure made cautious body language in pure mockery as he lightly rapped on the library door frame with the back of his knuckles, giving a considerate knock of faux permission to enter. He waited till Donk's eyes were alight in wroth at either his entrance or … the very sight of him. He waited further till Lady Mary Talbot, quickly, turned away when he caught her eye as if to signal to her new colleagues that she, in fact, did not know him.

It was only then that he let himself inside without invitation.

The figure did not say a word to anyone, almost as if his boisterous announcement of himself simply never happened, finding some dark sense of humor in the active gaslighting of his captive audience. There was a casualness, an unmistakable arrogance to his bullet proof swagger as he strode into the small library. It was the attitude, the fortitude, of someone that knew that the only person in that library who didn't want him there more than the people inside was himself. Thus, rather than be intimidated or timid about walking into a place filled with hostility for the very sight of him, he chose instead to rush in boldly, fist in their face, and completely unapologetic in his confidence. Yet, one could not help but feel the anger, bordering a deep rage, that came off his being like waves of intense heat - a protective field that burned to cinder anything that contacted that defensive barrier. The confidence, the swagger, and the irreverent belligerence toward most of the people in that library was all powered by a distillation of pure resentment.

For most of the cast and producers of the "Gambler", Lady Maude Bagshaw, and Mrs. Lucy Branson, they had absolutely no idea who this intruder was and where he had come from. He was a child, slender, tanned of skin as if he had spent that last year in hot and arid places. He was fair of face, a truly handsome – almost beautiful – young boy that had a noticeably striking resemblance to Lady Grantham. This was helped immensely by both youth and Cora's sharing the same cerulean eyes, yet, unlike the Countess, his were hardened, angry, and so deeply haunted at even such a young age. His hair was a grown-out mop of effortlessly tussled waving curls of luxurious blonde locks whose raven roots were already starting to spread – by is eleventh birthday he would have Cora's black coloring to match the rest of the Levenson's unmistakable genetic markers.

There was an alien sense to him that was unmistakable in the contrast to the rest of the company in the library. They were all in sharp and stylish suits, dressed to impress. The women wore the latest, most cutting edge, of London and even Parisian fashion in their satin day dresses and well-tailored blouses and skirts. However, this youth – who might as well have wandered away during the windy passage of Odin's Hunt – was almost the very definition, in description and appearance, of rustic and rugged.

He wore simple cotton Henley shirt of cobalt that was untucked, its material comfortable after being worn in so completely. His trousers were black and mended in places as if they had been party through treks of hard travel and unforgiving environments. His simple brown shoes were scuffed, the leather worn and stained from countless adventures. And all of this covered with a double-breasted coat of a strange muddy brown suede like material that - unless they were mistaken - shifted hues to match the lighting of the room. Dark in the shadows, bright in the sunlight, the woven material made the wearer, at times, hard to see if you weren't looking for him. Upon his stylishly rugged jacket of peculiar camouflaging textile was some strange symbol or hieroglyph stitched expertly to the shoulder sleeve. It was some ranking, mark of accomplishment, no less great – perhaps greater – than the wrapping of "The Gambler" or what was found at the 'Villa of the White Dove'. But since the Hyborian language of Cimmerian had long been dead … only the youth and others of a completely different world than that of Downton Abbey knew the significance of courage and honor to one who earns it …

But that story does not come into this tale.

Neither yet does it describe the unmissable injuries that the kid bore that were painful to look at. The youth's exceedingly fair face was marred by a collection of markings that seemed consistent for one that engaged in combat within the prize fighter's ring. There were three slashing talon marks the ran diagonally across his face in broken lines, as if blades - as sharp as a razor - had grazed the quick reflexed youth. The one on his forehead was already healing, the gash across the bridge of his nose was breathing, and the final slash on his chin had to be surgically sutured closed - the black stitching visible on the rather deep wound. His right eye was blackened with green and yellowed bruising that stretched across his temple and to the side of his face. It looked to the uninformed as if the kid had eaten hard a haymaker from a full-grown silverback gorilla.

His left - and dominate - hand was wrapped thickly in bandages up the forearm down to the finger joints. At his side, under jacket, there was a blackening red spot staining the dark blue Henley from where the foe's sword had wounded him in a duel. Indeed, underneath shirt and jacket, one would find an upper body wrapped in sixty percent bandages. This had elicited a complaint from Lady Merton at Crawley House - who was redressing the boy's wounds as he sat perched upon their kitchen table. 'You know, mummies are generally dead for this stage of the process.' To which the boy responded with a wince of pain 'Really? Must have gotten the instructions backward.' as he crunched into an apple.

The entire room watch this youth as he slowly – painfully so – made his way around. In the meantime, he seemed to obviously study and measure up everyone in the room that he hadn't recognized while he passed. There was an offended and effetely snobbish 'hmph' from Myrna Dalgleish when she turned her head away at the youth that looked her up and down … then, gave a snort of disinterest with a shake of his head as if the famed actress was the height of ridiculous. He gave a familiar and familial pat to the Grantham's butler, Thomas Barrow, on the arm. But for some reason, the youth halted in front of Ms. Dalgleish's much taller and broader co-star, Guy Dexter. The swave and handsome leading man looked down and locked eyes with the youth who gave him a deep and piercing stare for a long time. For an instant - impossible as it may have been - the man believed that the youth knew something about the actor, some dark secret that he had been hiding his whole life.

Dexter immediately misliked the way the rugged young figure was staring at him and, in general, carried himself. Rarely, in their world – both in Hollywood and in the great houses of the Imperium – was someone allowed to just simply barge into a private home. But more so, the arrogance, the swagger - the way that he wore the collar of his jacket turned up in the back which gave the kid a rather roguish dash - rubbed them all the wrong way. It was clear, from his very appearance, his clothing, his style, that he did not belong here.

Any upper-class boy his age should be getting ready for Eton or Harrow. He should be wearing sweater vests, ties, and trouser shorts. The rugged youth's waving curls completely covered his ears - unkempt and tussled in a way and length that no son of aristocracy would be allowed to keep it. There should be a nanny or governess watching him, yet he was unaccompanied, fearless. This was clearly someone from the village, or elsewhere – though where that might be was anyone's guess – and not of Downton Abbey. This kid was obviously abusing Lord Grantham's hospitality - impertinent to an intolerable degree. And Mr. Dexter felt that it was his duty, as a Hollywood luminary with a platform, a leading figure of society, and a masculine idol in the house, to set an example.

'Are you lost, scrapper?' He asked with charming but timbered authority, just a hint of a suggested insult of his appearance and injuries.

Yet, the actor was perturbed by the almost mocking side grin that came over the youth at the attempted voice of authority being used and the veiled condemnation of this feral rustic from the unknown beyond Hadrian's Wall. And, in response, in sheer boldness – feeling that the actor had given him the license - the kid reached up and took from Guy Dexter's small plate his tea cake. There was the very cheek of the Devil himself in the large bite that the boy took of the Hollywood leading man's dessert right to his face. Then, savoring Mrs. Patmore's confection for a moment, he answered with a mouthful.

'Consistently.'

After revealing a husky accent that was not fully English anymore, the kid moved on, leaving Dexter both shocked and seething in a rather feeling of emasculated scorn.

Still chewing the movie star's stolen tea cake, the youth gave passing interactions of familiarity with the aristocratic family that shocked their guests. It started when he came up behind Lady Edith who had been talking quietly with Lady Rosamund – commenting with her on where exactly the youth had picked up his most recent injuries. Lady Painswick had been asking her niece if these things were a common occurrence with the boy, not being overly familiar with him nor his ways. However - perhaps annoyed of their obvious chatter about him as if he wasn't in the room - the youth gave a sudden and cheeky clap of an open hand across Lady Hexham's shapely satin covered bum that echoed audibly.

Edith - taken more by sudden surprise then any lasting sting - looked absolutely scandalized when she whipped about with open mouth. Yet, the youth only turned once to give a mischievous wink as he took a bite of the stolen cake. This only earned him a deeply reproachful maternal glare – despite the making of a smile that she was trying so hard not to let him have. Obviously, to everyone about them, this was something that was not new between them. The action done for no better purpose than to get a reaction and humble the always glamourous and at times – according to the kid – self-important Marchioness of Hexham. When he turned back, both he and Ms. Marigold Drewe – ward of the Hexham's – shared a playful smile that was made of the purest of love ever seen between two children. As he passed, the youth gave a stroke of worshipful affection to Ms. Marigold's shimmering golden locks of pure light as if her magical tresses of great beauty were a blessing in itself.

It was then, thoroughly confused by the entire situation, that Mrs. Lucy Branson was speechless when this unknown intruder upon their teatime stopped dutifully in front of both her and Tom. The woman - much like Edith – couldn't help but smile with a wrinkled nose of amusement at the charm of the youth in front of her, even despite the many glaring members of the family about her. She turned to Tom, who gave her a weary but endearing signal with his furrowed brow and a rock back and forth on his heels, giving a slight sigh – as if bracing himself for what was to come.

'Mrs. Branson …'

The boy greeted while holding his hand out to her. Despite her confusion, the woman was cordial and inviting, more intrigued than outraged as the rest of their family. She took the youth's hand, of which had a much-firmer grip than she was expecting as they shook.

'I'm sorry that I wasn't at your wedding, but I was … uh …' He trailed off – for the first time becoming self-aware of his many varied wounds and what he must have looked like to the beautiful former Lady's Maid. 'Well, honor required me to be elsewhere.' He cleared his throat, feeling that his words and battle damage was an adequate explanation … for now.

With a slight, almost giddy, chuckle at the rustic yet oddly articulate young prize fighter, Lucy turned to her husband for some explanation of whoever this was … and why she liked him so much. But the Irishmen only gave her a clear of his throat and a shake of his head, as if instructing her not to ask … just go with it. Yet, like her, like Edith, the Irishman had a visible affinity and a deeply felt endearing love for the odd and rugged lad with such a strangely charming air about him that went against the rest of the library.

'I have something here for you …' He reached into his inner coat pocket. 'A sort of belated wedding present.' He lifted his eyebrows in self-amusement, as if he marked the comment with a private irony that only he really understood about what he gave freely as a wedding present … considering where he might have gotten it from – or whom.

("Spirit Tracks: The Spirit Flute" – The Noble Demon)

From inside his inner breast pocket he produced a slim rectangular box. It was something that neither Lucy nor Tom had ever seen before. The wood was not varnished but white and seemingly petrified. But it certainly couldn't be, because, crafted upon it was designs of the most ornate beauty that was all most entirely from a lost world. Upon it was tangles of crafted ivy and intricately carved vine work that crawled and draped across the old – ancient – box as if real foliage had once grown up and over it before the greenery itself had been petrified into a milky white wood. From the many intricate and realistic designs of ivy and vines they parted in places to frame panels.

On the far left was a religious carving of a Norseman wielding a sword whose carved runes shimmered in the light of the Downton library, in the same panel was he in a desperate struggle with a towering bear with eyes made of small rubies. The second panel in the center left showed the same Norseman dying upon the ground next to the bear, a scattering of ruby dust signified their mingling blood, as both man and beast now shared emerald eyes. The center panel of the milk wood box depicted a woman with long braided pigtails that now stood in congress with the bear with green eyes, while, behind the bear, the Norseman appeared as an apparition - his eyes the same as the bear. In the center right panel showed the pigtailed woman of ancient Rus kneeling in prayer as the fierce green-eyed bear fought off other Norsemen that had spears and swords. And, finally, upon the far right, there showed wing helmed and pig tailed Valkyrie with sapphire eyes riding to Valhalla with the green-eyed Norsemen as below the Rus woman mourned next to a now slain bear about the Norseman he had killed in her defense.

'My word.'

Lady Bagshaw joined her daughter and son-in-law, her breath taken away by the ornate craftmanship at least a millennium old. The rest of the library was intrigued by what the reaction was all about. Yet, they remained stationary, as if not wanting to give the boy any attention nor credit despite it being obvious that he cared little for either - especially from them. Lucy ran her hand over the fossilized Slavic carvings of the Dark Ages, the tactile sensations of their characteristics familiarizing themselves with her palm, her fingers tracing the gems that seemed built into the box. Tom observed the item, seemingly taken aback, unnoticing of his wife's glance toward him for some explanation of … any of this.

'How did you come by such an item?' Lady Bagshaw asked.

She was deeply impressed, and even more touched. She had, of course, seen such things, or of their likeness, in her many years of Royal Obligation as a Lady-in-Waiting for Queen Mary. Buckingham and Windsor Palaces had many of such items. But there was nothing quite like the one in her daughter's hand, nor was it every day that the illegitimate heiress to her grandfather's extinct Barony was given such a thing of wonder and beauty.

'I took it as Weregeld from the House of Tepes for its master's kind welcome.' The youth responded with bitter sarcasm, motioning to his injuries of which was obviously given by this Lord of the House of Tepes.

After a moment, when he realized that Lucy and Tom believed he was talking about the box - as if it was in itself the wedding present - the prize fighter reached out and unclasped the bottom for Mrs. Branson. With furrowed brow she and Tom opened the ancient case together and looked inside to see a lining of crimson silk that was formed about –

'Oh, my God!'

Lucy Branson's surprised and mesmerized astonishment nearly broke the family's discipline as they all looked up at the shock on all three of Lady Bagshaw, Tom, and – especially – Lucy's faces when they saw what was inside. Both Sybbie and Marigold rushed over where they were joined by their aunts Edith and Rosamund, and Lady Grantham herself. They all momentarily gathered about Lucy to see what had stunned the new bride into near shock at the reveal. In turn, each woman and girl had a startle of wonder and amazement as it's gleam reflected on their faces.

Inside the ancient box was a large necklace of many braided chains of untarnished and shining silver that netted in layers like a collared choker. On each layer of opulent silver were cut ruby diamonds in the shape of teardrops framed in crystal that were evenly spaced about the neck. Each ruby shimmered and shined without light's reflection, glistering upon the countenance of the women, girls, and Tom. When exposed to the air, the piece of unrivaled craftsmanship of elegance and beauty gave a slight humming ring that was just audible. Like a siren's song, it allured and enchanted all that heard it, drawing their attention. There was nothing like it - not in the whole world. Lucy Smith, as the lady's maid, had fastened many a necklace, choker, and finery that shimmer and shined – presents bought by husbands, family heirlooms, and ancient treasures brought back from distant lands. But there was nothing that was the equal of this jewelry that couldn't have been forged by the hands of man.

'Where did you find this?' Tom asked, ensnared by the sudden beauty.

The boy crossed his arms – darkness flashing across his eyes. 'Off the parted neck of the wife of a Wallachian Count … she had a, uh, hard time grasping the concept of staying dead …' The youth shook his head. His eyes were distant in some reverie tinged with horror and violence in halls of tall stone of which no sun has shone. But when it passed, he glanced up to see staring eyes of a great many females in his life – including both his guardian and benefactor. Most where questioning, the girls were intrigued, and Tom frowned.

'Don't worry … he has others.' The prize fighter answered their unspoken queries as he took a bite of his cake.

'Necklaces?' Rosamund asked.

'Wives.' He replied with a mouthful.

' …'

'…'

'You asked.' The kid said with a shrug and accusation.

'We'll, uh … endeavor to avoid that in the future.' Tom cleared his throat.

Just then, Lucy came out of her stupor. 'I can't accept this.' The woman held the necklace back out to the young fighter.

She was a simple and humble daughter of a Batman - a crofter's son. As much as she wanted it, she felt that she had no right to such finery. All her property, money, and inheritance somehow felt as if she had gained it by trickery. For her to accept this, to wear this … piece of irreplaceable art, it was a pretention that she could never claim. To her it was enough that she found a good and honest man who loved her for who she was, to be a part of this family, to have any family. To receive a phone call, just for her, from Edith, her friend – an actual friend – to go out for lunch or drinks with her and Laura Edmonds. Lucy Branson felt that she had somehow tricked God himself into such good fortune, and now to receive this gift … what had she done to deserve it?

'Well, to be honest, I don't think I got the earrings at home to really pull it off.' The lad replied sarcastically. The jovial sardonic tone made the woman smile – her eyes glassy.

It was as if he could read her mind, knew what she was thinking. Yet, his empathy was not out of knowledge of how she felt, but of being on the opposite side. Life and luck had not been kind to him – not ever. And he wished only to help anyone who had found acceptance, so that they may never know what it is to lose one's home, family, and place where they thought they had belonged … like he had. There was a small smirk of sorrow on the young kid's face that uncovered just a flash of a deeper and more terrible pain.

'You keep that …' He gave a nod to the box. 'I've never went in for that 'Glacier Monkey' stuff, anyway.' He shrugged as he dropped a slanderous nickname for those of Norse and Germanic heritage.

There was a look of genuine gratitude and shock at a greater generosity of spirit in the giving of what was a true fortune so freely. Perhaps it was simply the innocence of a child, who yet knew very little of greed, despite so much hardship and tragedy in his short life. Or maybe the youth simply did not want a reminder of the darkness and peril of the close-set roads of Transylvania that led into the mountainous passages of Wallachia. Cloaked in mist, he could still see the blue flames upon labyrinthian paths of the haunted woods, their dancing illumination through the shifting shadows reflected the glowing slit eyes of the wolves that watched in the dark. The box bringing on visions of an ancient and foreboding castle within the snowcapped mountains whose silhouette is cast ominously from the backing of a lightning storm that was not the weather of the world. Whatever reason the youth had for giving away his 1/6th share of a successful rescue of Ms. Minna Murray from an old demon whose love for her had turned to obsession, it was done nobly and without thought of return or reimbursement.

With a sudden feeling of pure affection for the small youth in front of her, Lucy shut the lid and without warning leaned down and gave a chaste but deeply grateful peck to the youth's damaged temple – as if hoping it would heal it. 'Thank you …' she said with gratitude and a smile. Her kiss was accented by Tom Branson who placed a hand on the young kid's shoulder with a heaviness.

He was touched, truly, as he glanced at the youth that had no reason – none whatsoever – to show anyone in their family such kindness. And for a moment, from the unlooked-for generosity that was given without lent, Tom Branson was reminded of the boy's father. Though he had the likeness of his mother's kin – the very look of Sybil in masculine – it was undeniable that he had Matthew's heart, his charity that always came in the darkest of times. The man that put Tom on the right path when he felt that he had no clear road - lost and adrift without his beloved Sybil - lived ever on in the very instinct of the soul he helped create.

The youth cleared his throat – uncomfortable in sharing any private moments of emotions … especially in this place and with these people.

'In that case …' The boy announced. 'Mrs. Branson, it was a pleasure to meet you. And I wish you and Napper Tandy here …' Tom made a surprised grunt of annoyance when the youth suddenly gave him a gut check that made him hunch over slightly. 'All the happiness in the world.' He touched two fingers to his brow and gave salute with a roguish grin.

Lucy smiled in confusion as she watched Tom recover with a glare. The action had made her privy to a deeper familiar and familial relationship between her husband and the young kid. The gut check - much like the clap to Edith's bottom - was seemingly not new territory between them. And, indeed, the day should've been faster approaching when Tom Branson learned not to place his hands behind his back around the kid. Having both been a young boy himself and growing up in a house of young boys that were his brothers, one might have thought that Tom would remember not to leave himself open like that. Yet, still, every time – forgetting that not every part of Downton Abbey and the County Grantham was glamour and opulence – he stood unguarded, just asking for it.

'Lucy …' Tom held his stomach with a glowered glance down at the youth. "Might I bestow upon you the very regrettable acquaintance of the very embodiment of the dark voice in my head and that pain in me …'

'Backside?' the youth offered jovially, envying his own knuckles that did the man dirty.

'lower back.' He corrected with audible irritation.

'That clocks.' The kid concurred.

Lucy smirked watching the lightning back and forth. 'Not your backside?' She asked with a shake of her head.

'No, Daddy's right …' Sybbie interjected with a haughty little sigh. 'Bum pain goes away on its own … back pain is for life.' She commented with a philosophical air of snobbery.

In response for her chime in, the kid turned and assailed bright and beautiful Ms. Sybbie with an audible smack to the back of her head. Because … in all honesty, it was right there and asking for it. In response - forgetting all pretentions of wanting to be a grown up and serious Hollywood actress - Sybbie reeled back and punched the boy in the arm hard in a moral imperative of retaliation for the humiliation in front of 'important people' from Hollywood.

Before things got out of hand – as they always did between those two – Lady Grantham pulled Sybbie back into her arms in a hugging restraint before they went at one another, knowing all too well what they're like. In the girl's restraint, the youth gave a sheepish victorious grin of 'getting her good' - despite cradling an already injured shoulder.

'The poodle's got a mouth on her …' The youth shot back at Sybbie who stuck her tongue out at him while in Cora's arms. 'But, uh, she's not wrong …' He freely admitted. 'I am walking arthritis.' The shrug made Lucy give a breathless chortle of the whirlwind of wit about her.

Tom Branson didn't argue as he continued. "Meet our ranking Philosopher and Spiritual Guru, House of Grantham …' There was a stingingly jovial antagonism in Tom's voice that Lucy hadn't heard before that spoke to a completely different part of his personality that she had rarely seen. 'We leave all our more … fundamentally existential and ethical questions to him …'

'Mm … this is very true.' The lad concurred with a mouthful of Guy Dexter's cake

'Such as "What is normal behavior? Can It be achieved? And perhaps the most pressing and important question of our time: "Would it kill you to try?"' There was a thinly veiled lecture in the man's voice which had in it a rare levity for such a serious and worried man that his new wife rather enjoyed hearing. There was a long pause as the youth responded by chewing ponderously with a glare directed at a smug Tom.

'Mrs. Branson …' The kid responded with a playfully grudging frown. 'Might I complement on how brave you are …'

'Indeed?'

"Yes, that in these uncertain times that you've so bravely borne hitching your wagon to this man of clear intellect who so fearlessly - not only questions – but attacks what the rest of us takes for granted as the obvious.'

Letting out a little charmed snigger, caught between two duel glaring figures that were trying to hide smirks, it was Mrs. Lucy Branson that was won over.

Having lived a life as her mummy's ward, Lady's Maid, and Companion – all of which in Royal Obligation – Lucy knew quite a bit of young upper-class chaps that came up to stud in drawing and sitting rooms. And, despite his dress, style, and manner, Lucy knew the young man to be high born from his commanding presence and not a hint of restraint in impertinence. Yet, what separated him from others of his age, now and of the past, was a certain authenticity that so many aristocratic boys lacked. Having seen it herself, Lucy knew that most young boys were left for nanny and then sent to boarding school – spending only an hour a day with their parents till they're shipped off.

From that loneness, that drive to be good enough for their fathers and mothers, they attempted to grow up faster, seem more adult and worldly than they were. And all of it in order to be allowed to spend more time with their parents. If only they could seem more adult, perhaps they could trick their father into letting them stay a bit longer, join his confidence. However, in Lucy's experience, these boys with their fantasies of a family life that even the lowest of classes enjoyed, they always came off as disingenuous. So many noble born lads trying to sound worldly and debonair, classy and continental – using large words and languid arrogance they believed made them seem more sophisticated to their parents and young upper-class girls. But all it did was sound as it looked – young boys trying to talk like grown men without ever knowing what it was to be them … some of them never finding it out at all.

What Lucy admired and was quickly enchanted by about the youth, was the undeniable authenticity of the lad before her. Under no circumstance was he trying to be something he wasn't nor would ever be. In front of her was someone that did and said only what he believed to be right and would never let his principles nor instinct be gainsaid, neither by Lord Grantham nor even the King-Emperor himself. Unlike his peers of privilege, the youth had genuinely seen a good part of the world and met those who lived in it. Not just Earls, Marquesses, Barons, and Kings … but fishermen, miners, engineers, and toy makers. He spoke of grandeur and dreams with great architects and broke bread with the men that built these dreams into reality with their sweat, blood, and hands. The boy wasn't trying to sound grown-up, he simply talked to a king as he would a baker.

But most of all, she enjoyed his company, because, of the light and humor he dragged out of her husband.

'On that informative note …' Tom gave a reproachful pop to the youth's arm with the back of his hand, which earned him a smack back.

'Lucy, this is George Crawley.'

The library suddenly grew quiet.

'…'

When Lucy didn't respond, they both looked to a woman who was suddenly stunned. The boy searched the hazel green eyes of his aunt … step-aunt – was it possible to have a step-aunt? Then, he looked about and saw that the entire library was staring at him … all but Mary. He saw in the gaze of the guests, Jack Barber, Guy Dexter, Lady Bagshaw … the woman, the actress, whoever she was – 'Mistress Peroxide'. They all seemed taken aback at the dropping of a name that they had heard plenty of times for weeks - years in Lady Bagshaw and Lucy's case.

It wasn't that no one knew that George Crawley existed. It was hard to be ignorant of a boy that anyone for miles, from tenant farms, to small hamlets of the County Grantham, talked about. He was as much of a folk hero and lynch pin to the working- and middle-class people of the county as he was not talked about - a forbidden subject - in Downton Abbey. The stories of his adventures on the fringes and frontiers of the Imperium was already starting to circulate. It was also known that the boy's abode had been at Crawley House with his paternal grandmother Lady Merton and step-grandfather Lord Merton. That for reasons unspoken, George Crawley had been cast out of Downton Abbey, exiled by his own family, years prior. As to why, it was never discussed, and to breach that unspoken subject was to invite bitter anger and reopen a terribly gangrenous wound that had the potential to poison again all the joy and rebirth newly found in Downton Abbey.

But still, in a house which was bereft and purged of all his pictures and likeness - not even old toys in the nursery nor documentation of his existence - strangers had a mental image of what George Crawley should look like. But somehow, whenever people such as the talent of the "Gambler" or Lady Bagshaw and Lucy Branson meet him …

He always defied expectation.

'You're … George Crawley? George "The Comet" Crawley?'

Strangely, it was Jack Barber, the director and producer of "The Gambler", that seemed taken aback – positively flabbergasted - at the revelation.

'Well, I certainly hope so … cause I'm wearing his shorts.'

Despite the humored sarcasm, there remained a sudden darker shade in the youth's voice at the mention of the nickname "The Comet".

'Oh, so it is true, you've returned from your adventures, and still alive, I see.'

Lady Violet Crawley, Dowager Countess of Grantham – in the corner and wrapped in a shawl – spoke as if this was the first time that she had seen her great-grandson, having ignored his presence till it was clear that she couldn't rely on a play acted ignorance of who this 'little animal' was in front of their frightful guests. In the ailing old woman's crooning like voice of cut glass there was a deep and unmistakable detest that nearly bordered hatred. It was uncomfortably clear to everyone, in her thinly veiled rancor, that the Dowager Countess was not only the complete opposite of a fan of the young kid but bore terribly bitter feelings at his very appearance.

'Afraid so …' The youth moved away from Tom and Lucy and began toward the serving table without giving Violet a glance. There was something dismissive and antagonistic in the boy's voice which clearly reciprocated the old woman's sentiments of raw loathing that they shared for one another.

'Pity.'

The Dowager, clearly, cared not a wink to the suddenly fierce and unmistakably protective look of visible outrage from her comment that flashed across Lady Grantham's face in primordial maternal instinct. Nor was Lady Edith particularly happy about her granny's greeting of her boy. Instead, Lady Violet only made a tittering noise of humored apathy under breath, jerking her head from side to side slightly and sipping her tea. There was an aloof and unabashed righteousness in her attitude, ignoring the room about her as if she had nothing left to say of the subject.

Yet, to her parting shot, the boy with cake in hand turned toward the ailing old woman - there was bemused mirth in an audible exhale through his nostril as he chewed.

'Funny …' the youth said with a mouthful. 'I was gonna say the same thing about you, Crone.' He replied venomously. 'Thought they'd stuck your ancient corpse in the ground by the time I got back, had kegs all ordered for the party too …' He shook his head.

The Dowager did not rise to the black sentiment. 'Oh, really …?' she said with the fakest of interest. 'Yes, and afterward why don't you and your vulgars set my bones afire and dance around it while howling your coarse Gaelic and praying to your bead necklaces?' She said sarcastically.

'Mamma …' Lord Grantham tried to interject from where he stood beside her, catching the growing temper of his wife across the room who did not like where this was going. But the youth only swallowed the cake at her vague insult of his Catholic faith.

'Well …' The kid fixed her with a belligerently arrogant look. 'I don't know about all that …' There was darkness behind his faux easy-going rebuttal. 'But I always got a full bladder in your memory to help the grass grow when they finally put you under, Hag.' He offered.

'I think we've had enough …" Lord Hexham tried to break in – knowing having these two in the same room was a mistake.

But the Dowager – despite the tiniest of mirthless bemused smirks – held her hand out to shut up her grandson-in-law. 'Well if it's that much of an emergency, then, by all means, don't let me stop you … there's perfectly good knives on the serving table to cut my throat. Though, I do hear you always wear one of your own now. Ah, Gaelic, Sikh, tribal African – your savagery is such a fountain of variety these days, who can keep up?' She insulted sharply, never once a rise of temper in her pleasant voice of the finest of aged cut glass.

'Mam –'

'Hah!" The boy let out a mocking guffaw. 'You won't catch me wasting good steel on your reanimated cadaver.' He looked her up and down with the most judgmental glares of utter disgust. 'If I wanted to put you out of your misery, I'd get Thomas to spike your tea with Holy Water …' he jabbed his thumb over his shoulder at the butler in the background who was cringing inwardly at the most bitter and hateful exchange he had ever heard.

'Can you imagine all their faces when it hits your throat and you go up in Hell's own soot?'

Then, out of pure spite, the boy lifted a closed fist up to his nose and mouth. Making a hole through his closed hand, the youth – to accent his point – blew through it as if shooting a blow dart. The air in front of the Dowager, Lord Grantham, and Lord Hexham, was suddenly filled with a cloud of fine powdered dust that lingered in the air like a translucent cloud. They all watched it for a second as it lingered in front of them. However, after a beat, the oxygen of the room gave a chemical reaction to the hypnotizing powder …

There was a flash of a superficial fireball that exploded with a vacuumed puff right in front of them.

Both Lady Violet and Robert flinched backward suddenly as the momentary discharge dissipated almost immediately, leaving an incense like odor behind that stung the eyes slightly. The only person who did not flinch but had moved back in pre-knowledge was Bertie Pelham. Fore long had the Marquess of Hexham known of the youth's trickery and theatrics – perhaps even enjoying them – but he felt the startle of Lord Grantham and his Lady Mother by the kid's trademark sleight of hand was rather poorly bourn. Having admired Edith's young ward's forthrightness and valiantry in the past, he understood the sentiment, but could not help but feel that, however out of line Violet seemed, she was a dying old woman. And scaring her half to death – no pun intended – would not help matters in the slightest.

Still, he might have said something, and he knew his father-in-law was building to rancor when he recovered his wits as the incense passed. But both men's indignation and chastisement had nowhere to go as the youth decided that he had the last word – and laugh – of the confrontation, moving on. The Dowager Lady Grantham looked all about her both irritated and confused by the magician's trick that a young boy picked up on the streets of Hong Kong's "Wall Market". She made outraged noises of flustered indignation in her throat as she looked all about her still not sure what had happened, only knowing that she was extremely annoyed.

In the meanwhile, the boy – finally - reached the destination, the person, that he came for.

Lady Mary Talbot had just finished pouring herself a new cup of tea when she turned to find the youth standing in front of her expectantly. Yet, instead of looking down, the woman turned away and began fixing her tea – sugar, milk, stirring it all in. And all of it done in the making of an incredibly poignant point of her immaculate want of completely ignoring the child – her child - that was standing right in front of her. For a long and awkward pause, he stared daggers at the woman who, under pain of death, would not acknowledge the youth in the slightest. However, that changed, when suddenly, as she was stirring, a half-eaten cake dunked itself into her cup.

One could almost see the fire of anger, of indignation, in the woman's red tinted amber eyes as her gaze snapped downward at the youth who shoved the bitten side of his cake into her fresh cup of tea. Their eyes met in that instant, and they were nearly consumed in the dueling infernos of battling wills. The room got darker and more intense; a flash of unsettlement made everyone uncomfortable in this unspoken duel of wits that came unlooked for.

Mary Talbot was so stiff she nearly looked brittle as she watched the boy facetiously stir her tea with his double dipping cake, as if he were twisting a knife. When he was sure he got the 'vampire's' attention, he removed his cake from her cup and took a large and obnoxious bite of it. Audibly chewing it in her face, his eyes alight with not an anger … but a deep black rage of simply glancing her pale countenance. This belligerent and irreverent action, meant to disrespect her, twisted her supple belly tautly as her eyes widened. Knowing, seeing clearly, that he was completely under her skin, the boy gave a loud sniff, whipping his nose with the back of his hand as he chewed.

'What?'

He spoke with a cake filled sigh, waiting on her with a charged impertinence.

Mary glared darkly, barely keeping a civil disposition as she set her 'defiled' cup of tea back on the table in disgust - making show that him simply touching … anything, made it contaminated.

'You summoned me here …' He motioned around him to the library and the uncomfortable people watching when she did not answer. 'So, what do you want?' The way he spoke to the Lady Mary Talbot was with agitation and complete disrespect, treating her like a tiresome tenant, not someone of importance. His tone, his attitude, and the accusation of her being an unwanted and unasked for burden, stung the great lady to the very core.

Thus, she bit without thinking.

'The very idea …' Mary said with a frigid snobbishness. 'What on earth possessed you to think that I ever want to see you?'

She immediately squinted her eyes shut in such a terrible pain of deep self-loathing. For just a moment she wanted to apologize, to cry in her remorse – had it really come to this? Had she let it get this bad? But when she opened them, she was unsatisfied with the sudden spark of rage that was, slowly, growing into a hatred for even the very sound of her voice.

'Yeah, well, when it comes to you, let me get at the head of that line.' The boy sneered at the woman disdainfully. 'Not only am I a client, I'm the president.' The dismissal and wit of it caused the beauty to grind her teeth behind press ruby lips of a cold and emotionless expression.

There was a mutual distaste for one another's company between woman and child – mother and son. Though one could tell that between the two … only one was actually genuine in their words. With his honesty called into question, the kid reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a note that had the Downton header atop of it. With an abrasive smack and crumple of paper, the youth slapped the folded note into Mary's cleavage as if planting a notice on a door. The action renewed mutual hostilities as the mistress of the Grantham Estate snatched the paper out of the hand that pinned it to her chest.

As she read it, Georg grabbed up her abandoned cup of tea. Shoving the rest of the glazed blueberry cake in his mouth, he washed it down with Lady Mary's second serving from the same cup. Her gaze flicked up at the youth who suddenly scrunched his nose in disgust at the woman's preferred blend, catching her eye as if he had just found out that she had been consuming motor oil his entire life.

'I didn't write this.'

'You wha - Ugh … you're the worst.' The youth's response was interrupted by a sudden grossed out face as the aftertaste hit, blaming Mary for a tea that was meant to be sipped not knocked back all at once like a shot.

'The note, I didn't write it.'

'Didn't write it?'

It was the kid's turn to rudely snatch the note from Mary's grip, causing her to flinch in sudden surprise reflex when he flippantly tossed her the empty teacup and looked over the note in puzzlement.

'Honestly, does that look like my handwriting?' She asked with the added sting of an undercurrent of criticism after she audibly set the cup back on the saucer with a rattle of bemusement at the irreverent toss to her.

'Your handwriting? Hah!' the kid's mocking tone and exaggerated guffaw fought fire with fire, sending it right back at Mary. 'You kidding me? I'm still not convinced you even know how to read.' His insult of Mary's intelligence was with distraction as he began analyzing the note forensically – as in the manner of his training - ignoring the beautiful woman's reaction of a dark glare of pure daggers. But before she could respond in kind, a voice spoke up.

'I'm afraid I was the one who sent the note.'

Lady Mary and George broke their terse, tense, and barely civil confrontation to look over their shoulders – in a noticeable synchronicity of both identical manner and body language – toward the other side of the small library. There, standing up from where he sat on the sofa, Jack Barber stood up and began pacing toward the pair at the serving table. Mary looked absolutely shocked by the admission, taken completely unaware by both the bold action and Jack's knowledge of the youth.

As for George, he simply looked confused.

'Who's this herb?' the kid tossed a thumb over his shoulder at the director looking back at Lady Hexham with a frown – finding the man in grey suit and tussled dark hair … rather ridiculous.

Though, it was not Jack Barber, singularly, but most people in his trade that George always found rather absurd. It wasn't particularly that he had anything against what most men did honestly for a living. He respected and believed in the capitalistic imperative of innovation and, indeed, creation of all sorts of commerce that people were willing to pay for. However, he had also been one who respected self-knowledge and awareness. And in his travels, the youth had found people in the entertainment industry and show business to be terribly self-important.

They made moving pictures, played make believe and pretend for a living - it was hardly life and death stuff as far as the kid was concerned. But one would never know it by the way that lot behaved. They insisted on being praised and lavished, treated with respect, expecting staff – especially his staff – to wait on them hand and foot. It seems with the advent of cinema, the mass marketing of the artform, they had been exalted on high by the public. All but forgotten that only thirty years prior, and for centuries before from London to the Roman Imperium of the East … actors and actresses' main vocation was prostitution.

A tradition that he was sure hadn't gone anywhere just because they're now on celluloid.

'I'm Jack Barber.' He offered the kid his hand to shake, treating him more like an adult. But George only gave an unimpressed quirking an eyebrow at his offered hand.

'And I'm not buying.' The youth replied immediately with a mocking snort, turning away, making to leave.

'Not buying what, exactly?'

'Whatever it is you two are selling.' He waved him off, implicating Mary in the scheme with the director.

Jack Barber turned to the woman he had fallen so madly for. But what he found wasn't someone that was touched or enchanted by his caring, his want to help her with a deeply trying problem in her life. The look that Lady Mary Talbot gave the man that she had been slowly falling in love with as they worked together on his – their – movie was withering, waking to a state of awareness a rare dark rage within which was colder than the Artic. Only then did he realize the gravest mistake that anyone, ever, in the entire history and life of Lady Mary Talbot, could make. Without telling her, without understanding fully what it was, he had jumped into the darkest of deep ends of the inky black pool of an incredibly toxic and painful conflict between mother and son.

And, indeed, the youth that had so boldly entreated upon the tea of the very family who had cast him out of Downton Abbey two years now past … had not been exactly who Jack Barber was expecting. To be honest, he wasn't sure who he was expecting, but it surely wasn't who burst through that library door. And now that he saw him up close, saw the sparks of lightning between Mary and George that could catch a wildfire that burned Downton to the ground, Mr. Barber realized, rather quickly, that he was absolutely in over his head.

God only knows when last a man so in love had fucked up so completely as Jack Barber did that day.