The Long Way Back
By Tom Branson
Part 5
In these records I have set out to tell the whole story of the War we find ourselves in. Where there have been plenty of tales of dashing young soldiers beating the odds to carry the day and achieve victory less has been said of those that factor in as little more than background in such stories. But the events of their lives are just as important as the medal-adorned heroes that young women swoon for and men wish to shake hands with.
That isn't to say that there is no place for such tales. For in these dark times it is important to remember that the heroes of old also faced incredible odds and managed to come out of it all with gleaming armor and a shining sword so they might lead England to a brighter tomorrow. There are plenty who currently write these modern tales for everyone to read, in this paper and others, and if that is what you still seek after all this time then I won't stop you.
But what I hope to achieve with these articles is to tell the stories no one else is telling. To help the people understand the cost of the war, the bad of it… and the good. For there is good to be found in many of the soldiers I have encountered while staying here at Downton. Not all good… but good to be found.
My mother once told me that when each of us is born the Lord spoons out a bit of good and a bit of bad and pours both into our souls. We are born with sin, and though forgiven for Original Sin by the crucifixion that doesn't meant that we are pure. We are human… we sin and we save. It is our duty to make sure that when the total is made of all our actions upon this Earth it is the good that far outweighs the bad.
In Part 4 I set about showing this by detailing the stories of German soldiers. Taken from the brave lads recovering here at Downton these tales documented enemy soldiers who risked their lives to save our lads when injured, of kindness showed during moments of peace, and of course the Christmas Truce. And while there were a few who reacted with scorn and labeled me a traitor for typing up these accounts more of you understand why I sought to do this. Let it never be forgotten that Germany and Britain are brothers. The royal houses are intertwined, as they are with all the other great houses of Europe. Brothers fight. And when they fight sometimes good men find themselves at odds. But when this war is over and peace is finally made we must remember, as we offer a hand up to our defeated foe, that they were once friend and can be again.
With this new collection of tales I wish to show the little seen aspects of our army. The good and the bad. Let it be told true, without the gleam of patriotism. For it is only in doing so, seeing the bad, that we are able to see just how brightly the good shines through.
It will disturb my readers to know that not all soldiers remember what their duty is. That they fight for their own glory but rather than to protect England and its people. This much was proven true a few weeks ago…
~MC~MC~MC~
The Grantham Arms was busy at the moment, filled with far more laughter than it had been in ages.
Where before the War had dried up the outside business, meaning that only the villagers made use of it, the creation of the hospital had brought with it a new influx of travelers coming to and from Downton. Sybil and Matthew had been quite clear that they wanted to give families a chance to see their sons during their stay, even if only on the grassy grounds. Downton couldn't support hundreds of people coming through each day, passing under the watching eye of Robert's ancestors. But they could still allow for the soldiers that were strong enough to go outside and chat with their parents or their sweethearts or their children under the English sky. In fact according to Sybil such things actually helped to speed along recovery. It was the same reason why she'd suggested getting those soldiers that knew how to write to work with their less educated comrades to ensure that letters got passed to and from their homes. Knowing that there was someone who cared for you and wanted you to get better was a balm for the soul. And the writers were given a chance to get to know those around them while also feeling useful.
And if it weren't the families then it was the soliders themselves. While for the most part Matthew required all soldiers under Downton's care to remain on the grounds, for their safety as much as anything (for men were stubborn creatures who always seemed to believe they were better long before they actually were), a few were given the right to travel more freely. Some were the ones taken into service at the hospital; it would surprise many to learn that the sons of knights and lords and wealthy men actually volunteered to wash dishes or help with chores around the estate. While there was something to be said for spending the day dealing out cards or playing table tennis the tedium of it could grow quick enough and sometimes a task they would have before scorned quickly became the greatest gift. It also helped them not to feel useless; more than one man missing a leg had felt a sense of relief and purpose return to them as they helped organize files while a man horribly scarred by mustard gas forgot his wounds as he learned from a nurse how to stitch up torn garments.
Those that were able to move easily and comfortably were allowed greater access to the lands surrounding the Abbey and that meant the village as well. While there had been some living there who had quietly muttered under their breath that this was foolishness on the part of their lord, another sign that after the exile of his daughters he had completely lost grip on reality, the sudden influx of business from those soldiers able to make their way down to the village silenced them. For often they didn't merely go for their own pleasure but to help the men stuck at Downton. It was a common sight for a soldier to limp back up the hill with a hand wagon filled with treats from the bakery, packages from the post, and bags from the general store that he would soon pass out to those that were bedridden like he was Santa Claus.
As such it was quite normal for the Grantham Arms to fill up in those days with travelers coming to see their loved ones for a day or two along with soldiers stopping for something a bit different compared to the food normally served by the hospital staff. Rooms would be rented, meals taken there, and occasionally a game of cards or checkers would start up and entertain the crowd. It made the place feel more inviting and for Anna Bates that was all she'd ever wanted after John had first told her his dream of buying a hotel and starting a family.
"How are things today, Mr. Brighton?" she asked as she made her way around to the chair the white-haired man was sitting in near the fireplace.
Pulling the pipe from his mouth he stated, "Well enough, though Andy is still giving me problems."
"Still thinks his life is over?" Anna asked sympathetically.
The man rolled his eyes. "That boy of mine… he has a wife, two children, will inherit my business… and all he focuses on is his injury. It isn't even that much of one! He lost two fingers. They aren't even on his dominate hand! He didn't disgrace himself, he did his duty, but all he can focus on is staring at the nubs." He scoffed. "Keeps picking at the bandages too whenever I go up to see him… I swear I am going to cut off both his hands just to keep him from doing that."
Anna let out an amused sigh at that. "I'm sure it won't come to that. Everyone reacts to loss his different ways. He'll learn to get over it."
"He better," Brighton complained. "I shouldn't be leaving the shop as often as I do to visit him but…" his mood turned melancholy, his earlier bravado and complaining disappearing and revealing the true Mr. Brighton: a man worried about his son.
"Your visits do him good."
"Yes," the old man whispered. "Martha can't visit him… that's his wife by the way, I mentioned that right?"
"You did," Anna assured him. Mr. Brighton had visited the Grantham Arms four times, his visits lasting anywhere from a day to nearly a week, though that time had been his first visit when his son Andy had first come in with far worse injuries. He'd been caught in a nasty explosion and been in and out of it for the entire trip back to England; Sybil had quietly confessed to Anna that they'd feared he'd never regain his senses with the head injury. But he'd pulled through with only the loss of his pinky and ring finger to show the world.
"She can't come because its too much for the boys. They are good lads but energetic and they are learning so much at school… well, I won't bore you with all that."
"You've never bored me," she promised.
He reached up and took her hand for a moment, giving it a light squeeze. "You are either a patient soul or an amazing liar. I can't tell which." He shook his head. "Well, I'll let you check on everyone else. I can't use you as an excuse not to read my book. I'm sure it is a ripper." He reached over and grabbed a hardcover that was sitting on the table next to him.
Anna leaned over to see what he'd selected. "Oh yes… I do believe Col. Crawley found the history of tax law rather entertaining too… which is why he forgot to take it back with him the last time he visited." Mr. Brighton, realizing he'd been caught reading a random book, merely pursed his lips and made a valiant attempt to actually read the ponderous tome.
Chuckling to herself Anna continued to make the rounds about the main room of the hotel. She didn't have any actual tasks to perform, as it was expected of patrons to retrieve their own food and drink from the bar, but it did help to keep an eye on everything and make sure all their guests were happy.
"Agnes."
"Anna," the cobbler's wife said as she walked towards her, a wrapped package under her arm. "Here are John's shoes, fixed just like I promised."
"Thank you so much. I know how he can a difficult customer, the way he wears them out."
Agnes though waved her off. "He walks differently from us but that doesn't make it difficult." A cheer went up from the back and the villager made a slight face. "Seems things are getting a bit… energetic… this afternoon."
"Checkers tournament, apparently," Anna said. "I don't judge so long as no one else is disturbed."
"I can hardly see how people wouldn't be disturbed but such racket."
Anna though gave a slight shrug. "The lunch crowd has left and most of those that are still here honestly are looking for a bit of noise. From what I hear Downton can get rather quiet and that bothers some of the soldiers." She looked over at Mr. Lang, who did flinch when a cheer went up but it wasn't as bad as it had been months past. He had pressed her to not coddle him, that he needed to learn how to deal with society again and it would do no good if he just remained a 'fragile little egg'.
"Damn it all!" a soldier exclaimed in the throng of onlookers and Anna pursed her lips at that.
"Though there are limits," she said, turning from Agnes and walking over to where the players were setting up the board. "Gentlemen," she said politely but firmly.
One soldier sighed, running his fingers through his hair. He wasn't actually playing but rather had been watching the match as it had unfolded. "I'm sorry Mrs. Bates, that was me. Had a five on that match and this one-" he gave the man getting up from the table a thump on the shoulder, "-missed an easy win!"
"I've split the difference with you, I told you that."
"Still, I'm sorry about the language."
"Just don't let it happen again and that will be apology enough," she told him.
"Oh come on now... i thought hotels were supposed to be filled with song and laughter!" one soldier exclaimed from where he sat. He wasn't one of the regulars to come down and Anna knew at once he was going to be trouble. The soldiers that came down from the Abbey might get a little over-excited but they were good boys the lot of them. Perhaps it was because of Noah but she'd couldn't help but mother them and despite the fact that many were closer to her in age than she was to John they all were rather happy to accept the comfort she sent their way. Quick to apologize, quicker to help if she needed it, she'd never had to worry about any of them. More than one had helped her carry linens upstairs and even one time helped serve during the lunch rush when Imogen had gotten lost coming back from the baker's.
'This one though,' she thought as he lurched up from the table, nearly knocking the checkerboard over. Where the other men always did their best to be presentable, making sure every button was done up and their hats were at the ready to quickly doff, his jacket had been flung over a chair and the dress shirt underneath was half unbuttoned to let her see the white undershirt he was wearing. 'Matthew would have never let him out in such a state.' He was strict with the men, making it clear that if they left the grounds they did so as representatives of the army and would treat any venture off the grounds like they were heading for a military parade. The stumbling soldier though had been drinking though and decided that with Matthew no longer around to tell him no there was no reason why he shouldn't be 'comfortable'.
"There are many different types of fun, just like there are many different types of hotels," Anna informed him. "You'll find that your fun and your idea of what kind of hotel this is to be quite different than the standards we hold."
"Standards?" the soldier bemoaned, nearly tripping over his own feet. The game stopped and one of the regulars moved to steady him only for the man to grunt and shake off his supportive hand. "I'm good, I'm good!"
"Roger..." another soldier pleaded.
"Don't Roger me!" he snapped, pulling out a flask and taking a swig; whatever it was it was so strong that Anna could smell it even from two meters away. Matthew had made it clear to anyone that spirits were off limits, as they could interfere with medication and he wanted only Sybil to decide if a soldier could handle a small sip of wine. But this troublemaker had decided that was yet another rule he didn't need to follow. "Come on now! Why is everyone so quiet! Strike up the band!"
"There is no band here," Anna informed him grimly.
He laughed at that. "Should have figured... I've been to good hotels you know. The ones in France... oh, what the girls will do there if you show them the right bit of coin. They loved my accent, you know that?" He suddenly thrust himself forward and Anna had to leap back lest he topple into her. "Oh come on... don't you like my accent?"
"I have no interest no matter the accent," she said stiffly.
"We need to go," the soldier that had cursed early said, rising up. "I'm sorry Mrs. Bates-"
"Leave?" Roger declared though. "Leave? We just got here. I want some fun!" He gave Anna such a leer that she felt the urge to cover herself up even though she was fully dressed. "You look like you could be-"
Suddenly Roger was spun around before he was slammed into a pillar.
"She said you should leave," Mr. Lang said coldly, his long fingers wrapped around the drunk's throat. "I would suggest you do just that. These young men here… their good lads and I am sure they'd be willing to escort you back to the Abbey."
Roger struggled against his grip, managing to pry Lang's fingers back enough for him to gasp out, "I heard of you! You're… you're the coward!"
"No," Anna said coldly. "He's the man who fought and was discharged, just let you. The only difference is he has sought to make something out of himself while you haven't even bothered to try. Mr. Lang?" She pressed her own hand against his own and for a moment she knew that all she had to do was press in just the right way and Lang would kill the drunkard for her. That fact was… far heedier than she'd expected it ever to be for her.
Anna wasn't a violent woman. In fact Mary had told her many times she had far too of a tender heart. Even cold scornful words filled her with guilt even before they left her lips, let alone afterwards. One of the reasons she had chosen not to attempt to become a teacher, even though many had said she would be quite good at it, was the simple fact that she couldn't imagine giving an unruly student a rap on the knuckles. When it came to Noah she knew it would be John to give him a swat on the behind when he got into trouble while she would coo and want to hold him close and make it all better.
But in that moment?
'I feel drunk myself,' she thought to herself, a giddy feeling filling her belly as she stared at the lout before her and saw the fear flash through his eyes. 'Life and death dangling on the edge and I am the one that decides where it falls…'
And then the feeling was gone and she gently guided Mr. Lang's fingers away from the man's neck. Roger fell in a heap, his legs completely giving out from under him the moment that Lang was no longer supporting him.
"Might I make a small suggestion, sir?" she finally said once Roger had gotten to his feet, the other soldiers gathering him up; not so much to help but to keep him from doing anything even more stupid. "Use the time you are about to gain over the next few weeks to think on how you might become a better man." Mentally she added, 'Because there is simply no chance that Matthew will allow you to come down here again.'
"We'll get him back up there," one of the other soldiers said apologetically, two more grabbing Roger's arms and forcing him towards the door; Anna was very sure that one of them actually slapped their hand over his mouth, to keep him from saying anything more.
"Thank you, Lang," Anna said.
"Thank you," he said and Anna didn't need to ask why he returned his thanks with his own.
~MC~MC~MC~
That is the tragedy of the soldier, readers. Those that march to war soon forget why they did so. We are fighting this war to preserve our way of life but for some of the soldiers that return from the Continent they forget all about this, choosing to focus only on themselves rather than the people they were supposed to be fighting for. We train them, arm them, and send them off to battle in the hopes that they will defend the weakest of us but then become startled when they gain arrogance to believe that they are the only ones that truly matter, that they are above those they are sworn to protect. And thus the tragedy becomes complete, where they become just as horrid as their foes; rather than the blade in the heart they become the infection that produces a slow death.
For he who hunts monsters…
But just as much as war can make one cruel it can make him a hero as well. War, it seems, is like the smelter, removing the impurities from a man and revealing who he truly is. Some might suffer from this, become broken for a while, but they can still pull themselves together to become… better.
Great men are forged in fire.
But when one forges a sword, making the melt pure… there is also the slag. The impurities that are left behind.
~MC~MC~MC~
Sybil groaned as she pushed away from her desk, rolling her neck back and forth, hearing the grinding, cracking sounds as the bones shifting. It did no good, the ache remaining and leaving her grimacing in pain.
"That bad?" Jane asked her.
"Worse," Sybil grumbled in frustration, reaching behind her and pressing her hand against the back of her neck, the heel of her hand and her fingertips touching the sides of her throat before she began to kneed and squeeze the muscles there. "It feels like someone is taking one of Carson's corkscrews and driving it into my flesh, then twisting it until every muscle is near tearing-!" She pulled her hand away, holding her head completely still, taking several steadying breaths. The ache was there, a dull reminder of the pain, but at least the sharp agony had disappeared. "There. I think I-"
She twitched and lighting raced through her nerves once more.
"God damn piece of shite!" she screeched, rocketing to her feet. "Bloody fuck 'ell! That hurts worse than a lice ridden bitch sinkin' 'er teeth into ya'r-" She stopped, suddenly remembering that she was with someone else… a British mother who was staring at her employer not only cursing but in a heavy brogue that made each swear so more foul, if that was even possible. "…me man-" she stopped herself and started again, "the gentleman who is courting me is Irish." Jane didn't look convinced at all. "It rubs off."
"Right. Of course." Jane looked down at her notepad and Sybil could hear the laughter she wasn't actually let bubble up.
Sybil sat down at her desk once more, adjusting her chair and gathering up the forms she'd been going over, trying to hold them up in such a way that she might be able to read them without tilting her head down. She knew how utterly ridiculous she must look, sitting there with a straight back, arm held out as she tried to shift the papers back and forth so she could still read them without them bending or bowing. Utterly and completely ridiculous. That is what she must look like.
"Never should have taken this job," she murmured to herself.
"What did you say?" Jane asked, looking up from the notes she'd been rereading.
Sybil, seeing no use in lying to her, finally flopped the forms back onto her desk and sighed, slouching in her chair. "When granny told me I'd be running Downton I should have gotten up and left. No… not merely left. Run. I should have run." Mentally she was suddenly struck with the image of her fleeing down Oxford Street, eyes wide with panic, splashing through puddles and kicking up bits of discarded paper, while behind her granny pursued like she was a world class spriter, managing to chase her even while using her cane to keep herself steady.
"Just because of a bit of neck pain?" Jane asked her.
Sybil though rolled her eyes in frustration. "No, not just a 'bit of neck pain'." She grimaced the moment the words were out of her mouth "I'm sorry, that was harsh of me. It's just… this isn't what I wanted out of my life when I back into… when I got into nursing." Mentally she grimaced. 'You are getting sloppy, Sybil.'
Jane though, thankfully, didn't noticing her slip. "What did you want then? If I might ask."
"To make a difference." She held up her hand. "Please, don't tell me that I am making a difference. I understand that what I am doing is important. That in order for the hospital to run there must be people that work behind the scenes, ensuring that all is running smoothly, so that the sick and injured can be healed. I've known Matthew and Thomas and the General long enough to know that to be true. But that doesn't mean I have to like it." She sat back up, knowing that she should be sitting far more properly, as befitting not just a lady but a woman of her power and station. "I want to be out there, actually caring for the men, rather than hiding in this office being buried by paperwork."
That was a vision that kept upon her often ever since taking this new role of hers. The papers on her desk beginning to swell and grow, the piles becoming towers that swayed and wobbled, forcing her to try and tiptoe around mounds of forms that littered her office, which in her nightmares was the size of Downton's dining room, making it to the door and believing she was safe only for the turning of the knob to cause an avalanche of papers and documents to rush into the room, burying her as she struggled to kick and swim her way through all the parchment but failing, slowly sinking until only the tips of her fingers could be seen-
"I thought you did work like this before," Jane said, breaking Sybil from her thoughts. "That's I was told anyway."
"It was different when I represented the hospital," she explained. "I did some paperwork, of course. Went to some meetings to get extra funding. All required. But I was still out there, actually helping the soldiers. Changing bedpans, redoing dressings, checking stitches and scars… actually helping! The paperwork and the meetings and the dinner parties… those were just a minor part of my job. A small part of it. Now I am doing this and I don't get to actually interact with the soldiers and I know that this needs to be done-"
She stopped, shaking her head and laughing lightly.
"What is it?" Jane asked.
"I… I honestly don't know," Sybil admitted. "I just felt the urge to laugh because if I didn't then I was afraid I'd break down sobbing. Or pull out my hair."
"That would be a shame," her assistant stated. "It is lovely hair."
Sybil chuckled at that, mildly delighted to actually have a reason to be amused. She didn't know what had made her laugh, it had just come up, a bubbly sensation like freshly opened champagne, and she'd felt no urge to stop it. And now that it had been done she felt embarrassed, yes, but also thankful that she'd had such a release.
"Of course this is just me," she told Jane. "Mary and Edith… they can be commanders and actually enjoy it. Thrive on it. I think that is part of the reason why they feuded so. Mary wanted so very badly for Edith to be a good second, someone that would come when she called and then dart away when she was bored of her. But Edith was born to be the eldest child just as much as Mary was and wasn't in the mood to take orders. And thus they came to verbal blows. By the time I came around the two of them had worn each other down so much that my gentle tagging along was seen as a delight and a treasure and they accepted that for all it was, demanding nothing else.
"But my sisters, they are commanders. Mary wasn't taught to be a countess she was born to be one… which perhaps is why she has turned to so many projects now that Downton has been taken from her." Sybil bobbed her head back and forth. "Or should I say that she has tossed it aside, deluding herself into believing she no longer craves it? And Edith… oh, I wish I could show you her at work at the paper; it would be so much easier than trying to put it all into words. She is just so in her element when she is there, barking orders when her fiancée, Michael, isn't about, all the reporters leaping to their feet when she gives a command and hustling to see it done. It rather makes me think of some storm goddess sanding in the middle of the ocean, her legs becoming the sea itself, calling forth rain and winds."
"I think you sell yourself short, Sybil," Jane said, pausing for a moment at her given name; it had taken a month to get the woman to stop calling her 'Matron Crawley', and good on that as it made Sybil feel all her years from bot her lives had been pressed onto her shoulders and then doubled. "You are quite good at what you do here-"
Sybil cut her off. "Thank you but I wasn't looking for compliments. Nor was this a matter of 'woe is me, I am terrible at this position'. More that… I can command but I prefer not to."
"I don't see you as a follower, if I might be blunt," Jane stated.
"I can if it is something I am passionate about, and that is the rub. I am not passionate about paperwork I am passionate about what generates it. Tom and I… we truly began to come together over our shared interest in politics. But we were never interested in being leaders of men. We wanted to make a difference, aye, but not by standing before a battalion and telling them to climb this hill or that. No, we are too… independent for that. We want to rush in and fight in the trenches ourselves."
Her mind went back to her time in Dublin, during her first life. Shortly before she'd learned that she was with child, Tom had been approached by a high ranking member of some political party (she honestly couldn't remember which one as the Irish parties all seemed to run together like pudding stirred in a pot) asking him to consider running for office. Town council at first but the man had said that Mayor later on, and then moving up the ranks. Around that same time she had been asked to head a group run by the church; when she'd explained she wasn't Catholic she had been startled to learn that such a thing was taken as a mark in her favor, as it showed that the Catholics in the area were willing to work with others. It was a great honor, as was the one to Tom.
They'd turned them down flat.
Tom because he couldn't stand the idea of being trapped in the red tape that was political life and Sybil because she feared that she wouldn't be able to speak her mind and do what she wanted if she had to set herself up as a role model for others.
'We're fighters, with bayonet in hand charging the lines. We aren't built to lead… we are built for single combat.'
"Still," Sybil finally admitted, "there is no one else that can do the job but me. Not if I want things to be run the way I want them to be."
"Then what do you want to do?" Jane asked.
Sybil considered that before standing up once more. "I want to take a tour of the beds and visit the patients."
"And if a bedpan needs to be changed?" Jane asked with just the ghost of a teasing tone.
"Well… I show that I can roll up my sleeves with the best of them!"
The two of them went down stairs, giving polite hellos to the staff they passed, and soon Sybil found herself back in her element. She didn't actually change any bedpans or check the wrappings, as she understood that she did have to maintain a certain professionalism for her station, but she did greet the soldiers and ask them how things were and see how the nurses were doing. Most were meeting her standard and the ones that didn't got assistance rather than a scolding.
"No, not like that at all," she said as one nurse, a strawberry blond girl that reminded her a bit of Gwen, worked on wrapping a soldier's chest. "That is much too tight."
"But they told us it needs to be tight, so it doesn't come undone."
"Not with broken ribs," Sybil told her. "You need to wrap them if there are other injuries but its better to let the person breathe. Otherwise you are pressing the rib… into…" she trailed off as she caught sight of one of the maids walking by the door, giggling as a dark haired man with a small limp mustache wrapped an arm around her middle, his fingers drifting far too low for Sybil's like. "Try again and if you aren't sure as for Margret to help." Without a further word of goodbye Sybil hurried out of the wing and out the door, twisting her head one direction and then the next until she spotted the soldier and the maid disappearing into a room.
"Sybil, what-" Jane began only for her to hold up a hand, silencing her assistant. She carefully tiptoed through the hallway, her shoes not making a sound; she'd spent years sneaking about Downton in restrictive footwear it was easy to get about silently in her current attire.
Peeking around the corner she saw that the maid was the one O'Brien had warned her about. Ethel, the servant who dreamed of better things. Normally Sybil would have applauded such attitudes but rather than actually work to better herself Ethel seemed to believe that she deserved wealth and power and they should be handed to without her actually doing a thing. Anna hadn't thought much of her either, from her limited interactions with her, and it was rare to meet someone that Anna disliked.
The soldier and the maid were pressed far too close together, her back pushed against his front, his arms wrapped around her and from the way she was wiggling Ethel clearly knew the affect she was having on the man. It utterly scandalous and outside the rules and norms that had been set down for the hospital and not something she'd allow.
"I was unaware Mrs. Hughes needed this room cleaned," Sybil said, causing Ethel to jump. The soldier, with a lazy turn of his head, merely smiled at her and all at once Sybil wanted to find a candlestick and bash his teeth in. "Nor that anyone was allowed in here without permission."
"We were-" Ethel began.
"Leaving. Now." The maid swallowed and hurried along but when the soldier moved to follow her Sybil snapped her arm out, blocking him exit. "What is your name?"
"Charles," he said with all the speed and charm of ooze. "Charles Bryant. Major."
"Major Bryant, you have been brought here to recover. Not to seduce the help."
"That is how I recover," he said with a smile. "A man has needs."
"A weak man," Sybil shot back.
He scoffed and actually had the nerve to reach out and take a few longs of her hair that had fallen loose of the bun she'd put them in and finger them. "Then I am very weak."
He expected her to be like any dainty English girl and gasp. Maybe titter and flutter her lashes as his 'charming' ways.
Too bad he was dealing with an Irish Radical's wife.
His world exploded into pain as her knee collided with his genitals, dropping him to his knees as he clutched at his abused groin. Sybil growled and lashed out, kicking him in the stomach before kneeling down to consider his writhing form.
"Mayor Bryant, you suffer under the delusion that because of your uniform you can do whatever you wish and the rest of us must accept that. But you don't have power here. I do."
"You… I'll see you arrested you-"
"My father owns this manor and is oh so desperate to make things right for me. My brother-in-law is your commander so long as you stay here and saw me as family before he even began courting my sister. A dear friend who gave my sister away at her wedding is the General. Notice I didn't say 'a General'. The General. Allen Lothrop… ah, you have heard of him. My sister runs a newspaper that can ruin your family in an instant and employs the man who will be my husband." She grabbed his face and forced him to look at her. "Go. Run to your father and whine. You won't be here when he arrives. I know how to bury bodies deep." 'Just ask Kamal Pamuk,' she mentally whispered. Sybil shoved his head away and stood up, Jane staring at her with shocked features before schooling herself and nodding. "Remember that loving touch the next time you decide to get close to a maid."
"This… this isn't over," Major Bryant groaned through his pain. "You're nothing! You hear me! Nothing!"
Sybil merely rolled her eyes and left.
~MC~MC~MC~
War does this. Makes great men greater and frauds reveal their true colors. The pure silver, the impure slag. Such is the nature of the War, the great forge.
But metal isn't forged on its own. It requires a blacksmith to work it over, to bring the flames to the proper temperature, to strike with the hammer just so. When we send young men off to war we place them in a forge… and thus it is clear that WE are the blacksmiths. We are the ones that determine what they become. In all aspects of their lives, from the moment they sign up to the years that will stretch on, when the battles on the Somme are only remembered in dust tomes and the nightmares of those that fought there, we will guide these boys that became men in the mud and blood of a far off land that they nearly didn't return from.
It is why we must continue to care for the men that go out and fight in this War. Support them when they choose to be brave and do what breaks our heart for them to do. Offer them hope and reminders of home while they are out on those cold and lonely battlefields, so they might remember why they are fighting. Provide them all they need so they might make it back to England, strong and whole. And for those that do not… be it wounds of the body or wounds of the mind, work to heal them so they might be made whole again.
That is what we just remember. The War is not just the soldiers. It isn't the men in the muck and the grime. It is all of us. From the children currently playing on swings to the mothers and sisters keeping the lights burning, to the old men who remember what their own wars were like who can give to these soldiers what they wish they themselves had received returning home.
We want to protect our way of life? The only way it survives is if all pitch in… and make it one worthy of protecting.
~MC~MC~MC~
Author's Notes: And we're back.
Not much to say other than to remind you that reviews encourage me to write.
Now, our plot bunny.
It takes place Season 1, roughly around the time that Sir Anthony first appears and Mary makes the mistake of showing interest in him, purely to screw with Edith, and thus accidently repels Matthew away. The change comes the next day, where Mary goes to see Matthew at the worst possible time. There is an issue at work involving a client that is absolutely horrible risking the loss of the case and, in turn, making Matthew look like a fool. He is still stinging from her acts the night before, and we also find out that a childhood friend of Matthew's has been in an accident. So he's in a poor mood and not interested in Mary coming around and trying to do their normal song and dance. As such he rips into her… and she in turn rips into him. It is a NASTY fight. One of the absolute worst one could ever read about. Just the two of them letting all the pus that has festered in the wound that is their relationship come bursting out.
The next morning Mary awakens, rather confused and frankly hungover. She idly remembers not returning to Downton but she can't quite remember what she did or how she got back home.
Anna comes in to help her dress and mentions that she has a big day before her, many meetings. Mary is of course confused… what meetings? Anna herself is confused but explains: first Mary needs to meet with Murray to discuss some of the finances. Then there is a talk with a perspective family wishing to purchase farm land, then there is plans for renovations… at this point Mary stops Anna and demands some straight answers. Eventually she gets it out of her: Mary is the heir.
Mary, deciding to play along after first thinking this is all very odd, goes down and finds out that everyone accepts this. She is the heir. There is no rule that she can't take over Downton. It's her's. The title, the Abbey, the wealth, all of it. It is a dream come true!
Except… she notices other odd things. Edith is utterly silent. Even when Mary baits her she doesn't say a word until finally Mary demands she speak… to the horror of everyone. See… Edith is a mute. Always has been. She was born mute. And it is rather cruel of Mary to pick on her like that. And then there is Sybil, who is quiet (she can talk), demure, and acts exactly like a proper young lady should. In fact she seems almost… frightened. Like a child in a woman's body. Needing to be led along by all, agreeing to whatever anyone says. Papa is the same though like Sybil he accepts whatever Mary says with little argument, letting her run Downton while he enjoys a large mess of pastimes, from fishing to painting to playing the piano. And mama… she is a completely different person. British through and through, laughing off the idea she is an "American".
But the final shocker is dinner that night when the Dowager brings a guest… Lord Matthew Crawley, Earl of Brookhaven. A Matthew that was raised like Mary, who understands how their world works, who doesn't try and fill their heads with liberal thoughts. His mother and father died when he was a child and Violet actually took to raising him herself, so he is a proper English gentlemen who runs his estate as society expects. Yet all of the traits Mary liked in Matthew are there… in a word he is PERFECT! So she gets him alone, goes to kiss him…
…and he rebuffs her.
He would NEVER see her like that! They are cousins… distant cousins, yes, but cousins. He views her like a sister and it turns his stomach to think of her like that!
And as Mary stands there, shocked… a maid that has been constantly around throughout the day walks up to her and asks how she is enjoying things.
The full story of the night before is given: Mary made her way to a rather seedy pub and got drunk… and ran into a fae. One of the Fairy Folk. And as she drunkenly told her all her problems… Mary began to make wishes. That she was the heir. That Sybil wouldn't be so rebelous and just be agreeable. Edith shut her mouth and never say another word. That Papa would just listen to her and find something else to occupy his time. That mama wasn't so American. And Matthew… that he could be rich. With a title! Keep his good traits but be rid of what she hated. Except… she also said one last thing before blacking out:
"Honestly, I wish he never loved me. That would make hating him so much easier."
Wish granted.
Welcome to a world where you got everything you ever wanted, Mary Crawley… I hope you enjoy it.
And thus Mary must try to either live in this altered world… or find a way to destroy it and return to her world, her reality.
