AUTHOR'S NOTE: After some reflections, Sundays are probably better for new chapters than Tuesdays, aren't they? Also, I am horrible at sticking to a schedule when I have a new portion of a story ready to share and I have waited months with this one. I hope you will enjoy it!

Matthew's next leave brings him to London and Downton in early October 1917. It is even more surreal experience than usual. He cannot reconcile that he is here, while Mary and Sybil are not only absent but remaining there.

He is of course dealing with an avalanche of concerned inquiries about the girls as soon as he and Lavinia enter the small library of Downton Abbey, the rest of the ground floor occupied by recovering officers.

"Mary and Sybil wrote about a gas attack in town they are staying it. Mary actually sent a telegram to say they are well, before we read about it in the papers. But are they truly well? Have you seen them?" asks Cora anxiously.

"They are well," he hastens to reassure her. "I did see them both the day after. Sybil was not affected at all; the gas didn't reach the hospital and she was on shift that night. Mary got a bit of it and had to rest for few days, but a doctor saw her and assured us there shouldn't be any permanent damage."

He takes a deep breath.

"She was so brave, you know. She inhaled some of the gas, since she didn't have her mask with her, but she still evacuated her friends and neighbours first, took them to the hospital, and then spent the whole day driving the ambulance and bringing other gas victims from the front and other affected areas. She was amazing, a true hero. She deserves a medal for that."

He notices Robert straightening proudly, Violet smiling slightly in approval and Cora's glistening eyes and is glad that Mary's bravery has been reported to her family. She deserves the recognition.

"Of course she was brave, she is a Crawley," states the Dowager firmly. "We might be stubborn, but we are no cowards. Her Great Aunt Roberta was loading the guns at Lucknow, you know."

"My girl," says Cora tearfully. "My both brave, darling girls. I so wish they were home safe, but I am desperately proud of them. I must write to them both to tell them again."

Robert gets up and paces, clearly overcome by a strong emotion.

"I thought it was just defiance and childish rebellion," he says agitatedly. "And maybe it was, when they decided to go. But I see they are more than doing their duty there. Unlike their father who stays safely at home."

"Oh Robert, it was not your decision to stay. You did everything you could to be assigned to the frontlines, you cannot feel bad about it," says Cora immediately. "And I cannot imagine you gone as well, it's enough that I fear daily for the girls and Matthew."

"And yet I feel like a useless coward," says Robert bitterly. Then he seems to remember Lavinia and Isobel's presence and wipes his face tiredly. "Forgive me, I am just sometimes overcome by it all. I never expected to face the reality of my daughters going to war."

"There is nothing to forgive," says Isobel firmly. "We all here understand how difficult it is to deal with such worry day after day."

Matthew lowers his head. He does not like the reminder that Mother, Lavinia and other family members have to live in constant fear for his very life. He is resigned to the very real possibility of his own death, but he does not like to dwell on their resulting grief.

Lavinia breaks the silence, speaking timidly but clearly.

"I do not think I ever could be so brave as to go to the front. I truly admire Mary and Sybil."

"You are doing your part, my dear. Fundraising is extremely important for the war effort," says Isobel firmly and Matthew nods in agreement.

"We cannot all go to France," he says gently. "We have different parts to play, but it cannot be said some are more important than other."

He looks around, noticing belatedly that one member of the family was absent.

"Where is Edith, by the way?"

Robert sighs.

"Driving a tractor on one of the farms, if you can believe it."

"A tractor?" Matthew asks in astonishment. Robert rolls his eyes.

"Yes. All the farmhands who knew how to do it volunteered or were drafted by now, so she took it upon herself."

They are interrupted by Carson, looking uncharacteristically agitated.

"A telegram, my Lord. From the War Office."

Cora gasps. Matthew feels himself going pale and he knows he isn't the only one. He is safely here, so a telegram from the War Office could very well mean...

Robert goes to Carlson and practically snatches the yellow envelope, tearing it in haste. His shoulders sag in relief.

"It's nothing about the girls," he assures the room to a collective sigh of relief. "Just orders regarding training of the reserves I am supposed to oversee."

Matthew sags against the back of his armchair himself. The relief of momentary but overwhelming fear makes him feel as if strings holding him up have been suddenly severed.

He barely notices his mother and Lavinia observing him keenly.

xxx

He stays up with Mother long after Lavinia went to bed. They aren't talking much, but Matthew takes great comfort just from sitting with her in companionable silence and he likes to think it is the same for her.

"Are you spending a lot of time with Mary and Sybil?" asks Isobel suddenly, drawing him out of his thoughts.

"I wouldn't say a lot," he answers, confused where the question came from. "I do like to visit them on short leave; I'd rather spend a weekend with them than in Paris. And I see them occasionally on the weeks when my unit is in the barracks, but of course then it's just few hours at most. And more often than not Mary or Sybil are on duty when I'm free, so it's not like we spend all my short leaves together."

"I see," says Isobel thoughtfully. "And how do you get on?"

"Perfectly well," answers Matthew, still surprised by the topic of the conversation. "Sybil is a delight, as always, and still as opinionated. She reminds me of you quite often."

He smiles fondly at his mother, who gives him a distracted smile in return.

"And Mary?"

"I am beyond lucky to have her to talk to," answers Matthew earnestly. "I hate that she is there, Mother. I would pack her and send her back home in a minute if only I could. But it feels so good to be able to talk to someone who understands."

Isobel nods slowly, as if he has confirmed something she has been considering. He suddenly worries that he said too much and hastens to repair the damage.

"I am glad that we can be friends now, whatever happened between us before the war."

"And she is a good friend to you?" asks Isobel evenly.

"The best of friends," answers Matthew immediately.

"And does she have some admirer there? I'm not sure if Cousin Cora is more anxious that she finds herself tied to somebody inappropriate or that she finds nobody at all."

Matthew grimaces at the thought of seeing Mary tied to anybody. She should find someone, of course she should, he wants to see her happy, as happy as he is with Lavinia, but...

"She is not lacking in admirers," he answers curtly. "There are not so many ladies at the front, especially so beautiful ones, and definitely enough of lonely young men. But I do not know about any special attachment."

He has to swallow the bile the image of Mary with somebody else brought him. He reminds himself again that she doesn't love him. That he is engaged to Lavinia, that he loves her, and that they are going to get married after the war. Whatever he thought he shared with Mary is long past and was never real anyway. He knows that Mary must at some point find somebody and marry. He is determined to be happy for her when she does. But none of those facts make him love her any less and while he would never admit it to anybody else, even Mother, he can be honest with himself.

Even if it kills him to do so.

"I see," says Isobel only and returns to staring at the fire pensively. They don't speak much more that night.

xxx

He is lying in his own soft bed, in a complete silence only possible in the countryside. It took him time to get used to that silence after moving here from Manchester where there were always noises and traffic, even in the dead of night. Now the contrast is exponentially starker. In France he can never get away from the ground shattering noise of the guns; even in the barracks of the rest camp he is close enough to the front that he hears them every night. The silence is disconcerting him, making it impossible to sleep. Or maybe it's not the silence – although it really is weird to him now and nearly unbearable – but his own rolling thoughts.

Seeing Lavinia this time felt... just so different than before. Ever since he met her back in 1915 during his first leave which he spent in London to stay the hell away from Mary and Downton, she has been his ray of sunshine. He has just always felt so good with her around. It wasn't even her beauty which made him notice her although he is certainly not blind to it. It was the pure joy she both carries in herself and has always been able to inspire in him. It was such a relief to finally feel something good after the devastating heartbreak of ending things with Mary followed swiftly by the horrors of France. So after they spent two of his leaves together and exchanged dozens of letters, he proposed to her on the third one.

When he summed up all the hours, he realised they spent eight days in total in each other's company before he did it. But until he saw Mary again at that blasted concert at Downton, he was sincerely convinced that he was over her and in love with Lavinia.

Seeing Mary there, after over two years... looking so impossibly lovely... and looking at him in a way which made his heart nearly jump out of his chest in foolish hope that she felt something for him, as delusional as it was... He knew then that he was utterly mistaken about one part of that conviction. He was not over Mary. He was nowhere close to being over her.

But, as he reminded himself sternly over the course of the evening - he still has no idea how he survived that night - as much as he now realises that he still loves Mary, it doesn't change the awful truth that she doesn't love him . He is determined not to be the kind of man to pester a woman with unwanted affections. Mary might have been unwilling to say the words, for whatever reason, but her behaviour made it perfectly clear that she never loved him enough, not like he loved her – not like he still loves her and cannot seem to stop. The sensible thing is to accept it and move on. His traitorous heart might be stubbornly clinging to his love for her, but he has Lavinia now. He loves Lavinia. Maybe differently than he loves Mary... maybe with more fondness than passion... but he can imagine spending a happy life with her. Literature taught him that a grand passion is more likely than not to end in great misery; so it is probably all for good. He suspects that he will probably always love Mary, but he has accepted that they are not meant to be and just wishes to see her happy.

Such thoughts and feelings have been serving him well for the last year, including his three months long gig in England. He has been happy with his renewed friendship with Mary and with the time he got to spend with Lavinia. Every moment with his sweet fiancée has been convincing him more and more that he chose well. They turned out to be so compatible and comfortable with each other. It wouldn't be the life he once dreamed of, but it would be a good one, a happy one. If he only gets through the war in one piece, of course.

And then he ran into Mary in the middle of a battlefield.

He cannot put it into words how it changed everything, but it did. The basic facts remain the same: Mary doesn't love him and never has, Lavinia does, so very much, and he himself somehow loves them both, although in very different ways. Except... except now he cannot put his feelings for them in neat little boxes labelled his past and his future anymore. He lost his ability to focus on Lavinia when his brain is so full of worry about Mary. He is aware that he shouldn't indulge in all those conversations in the dingy kitchen of Mary's billet, that each of them is breaking down the solid walls he has built to protect his heart from further heartbreak, but he is too greedy for every minute to put a stop to them. He realises that the more his connection to Mary deepens, the more distant he grows towards Lavinia, and the guilt is choking him right now – but, as his brain just reminded him, he is unable to stop. The very thought of not going to see Mary as soon as he has the chance terrifies him. He shouldn't do that, he really shouldn't, it's not only dishonourable in his position but it also cannot end at all well for him, but it seems no amount of reasoning and attempts at common sense is working at making him act sensibly. It's like Mary is a fire and he a moth, perfectly willing to get burnt as long as he might get close to her for a moment, unable to resist. He cannot foresee it ending in anything other than a disaster and yet he stays on this path. He imagines himself as a hero of a Greek tragedy, set on the course brought by unavoidable fate, and laughs quietly at his own ridiculousness. He thinks Mary would appreciate the joke if he ever got mad enough to confess such thoughts to her.

As he finally succumbs to sleep, he tells himself sternly to get a grip. In the morning he will have breakfast with Mother and Lavinia, and then take an early train with her to go to London, where he is going to have lunch with Reggie and her before he catches the afternoon train to Southampton. He is going to act normal and get his crazy thoughts and feelings firmly under control again.

Somehow.

xxx

Breakfast is a sombre affair. Mother tries to talk cheerfully but Matthew sees how much it costs her to act so and his heart clenches at the knowledge they share that it might very well be the last time they ever see each other. He hates the thought of Mother left alone and mourning him even more than he fears dying. He tells himself that she would be eventually alright, that she would keep herself busy and her life full with worthy causes to support, but he knows how much his death would inevitably break her when he is her only child. He has never wished more for brothers or sisters.

Sooner than he expected he and Lavinia are boarding the train. He is dreading going back, as always, but for the first time he also finds himself looking forward to it. Not the trenches and the mud and the fighting, of course, but he yearns to see Mary and assure himself that she is alright. His imagination is much too active in presenting him with scenario after scenario in which she could have been harmed in his absence.

Lavinia's voice tears him away from his thoughts.

"Will you convey my greetings to Mary and Sybil when you see them?"

"Of course," answers Matthew. "Although I don't know how soon it will be. We will probably be sent to the trenches immediately after our return."

"It is lucky you are stationed so close to them though."

"It is," admits Matthew easily. "It was a complete shock when I and Mary ran into each other on the battlefield though. I was not allowed to tell anyone where exactly I am and nobody wrote to me with the news they volunteered to serve in France."

"I can just imagine," she is quiet for a moment. "Would you like me to volunteer as well?"

Matthew turns towards her in shock.

"No! Why on earth would you do that?"

"Mary and Sybil are an inspiration," she answers, observing him closely.

"You aren't them."

She looks at him intently.

"Am I less capable than them? Less brave?"

Matthew shakes his head angrily.

"Of course not. I can imagine you would be capable of anything you set your mind upon and I never thought you lacking in courage."

"Then what's different between me and them?"

Matthew takes a deep breath, his brain scrambling for an answer. What is different?

"It's not bravery or capability which is the most important there," he says slowly. "It's resilience. It's impossible to not be affected by the horrors you witness and live through there, but everybody deals with it differently, some more successfully than others. Sybil is able to withstand anything in the name of her cause, she is so like Mother in this way. When she cares about something, no sacrifice is too great."

"And Mary?"

"Mary is different," he hesitates, unsure how to put into words his instinctive understanding of Mary, coming from both observation of her under fire and their talks in her shabby kitchen and overgrown garden. "She is not passionate about a cause. She went to war out of her devotion to her sister. But she is a pragmatist and has an enviable ability to compartmentalize and focus on her duty. She endures what she must to do what must be done."

"And you don't think I could be like either of them?" challenges Lavinia.

Matthew looks at her delicate face and forcibly stops himself from shuddering at a prospect of seeing her in the middle of the hell he is returning to.

"I believe you could find your own strength if you had to," he says gently. "But darling, I don't want you to. You don't know... You cannot know how absolutely terrible it is there. It is soul destroying. I don't want you anywhere near the front. If I had any say, I would not have either Mary or Sybil there at all, but nobody asked my opinion about that, least of all them. If my opinion is of any importance to you, then I am begging you to not to do that. Don't go there, Lavinia, I couldn't stand worrying about you as well."

Lavinia relents with a sigh.

"I am not really planning to," she admits. "I meant it when I said I don't think I would be brave enough to do it yesterday."

"Then why make me think you do?" asks Matthew in a mix of relief and annoyance. Lavinia colours slightly.

"Your admiration for Mary's courage made me a bit jealous," she admits bashfully. She cuts off the immediate protest which Matthew opens his mouth to express. "I know you love me, it's not that. It's just that I would like to deserve such admiration from you as well."

Matthew stays silent for a long time. His conscience points out mercilessly that while he does love Lavinia, it isn't anywhere near the love he feels for Mary. She has more reasons to be jealous than she could ever realise.

"You do have my admiration, Lavinia," he says finally. "You are the kindest, strongest, sweetest person I've ever known. You never caused a moment of sorrow in your life and I cannot say that for anyone else I know. You don't have to run heedlessly into danger to make me admire you."

She looks at him thoughtfully.

"Thank you for that, although I think you think me better than I really am. But I have a feeling that you are... more distant recently. It's like there is a wall between us, one which I cannot cross. I guess this is the real reason I was imagining volunteering in France. I want to be able to be close to you. Not strictly geographically, but for you to be able to confide in me, to be open with me. Because I see that the longer the war goes on, the further it takes you from me."

Matthew is struck by her insightfulness.

She is perfectly right. He has been distancing himself from her subconsciously and it's not even just due to the maelstrom which are his confused feelings for Mary. He wants to protect her from horrors lurking in his mind. He is pretending to be honourable, gentlemanlike, caring, normal – even when he feels anything but, or maybe even especially then. So he pretends to be himself, goes through the motions in his letters and during his leaves, but he has built a wall separating himself from her. For her protection, he has been telling himself.

He doesn't need to pretend with Mary. Not anymore. She knows enough, has witnessed enough, has lived through enough that they understand the darkness in each other without words. They can talk freely about the war and often do, but even more often there is no need for them to do so.

The only thing he is keeping from Mary is his love for her. Although sometimes he suspects he is doing it very poorly.

But what is he supposed to do about any of that? Mary does not love him. He is engaged to Lavinia and can hardly abandon her because she is pure and untouched by the war while he feels himself irrevocably changed. He has to strive to be better, to make an effort in connecting with her without bringing his demons to the surface. He has to ensure she will be happy with him, as she deserves.

He just has no idea how .

"It's hard," he says finally. "I really can't talk about it to you. Not because of any fault of your own, but because nobody who was not there can understand. Not even Robert, although he fought in a war. But it wasn't this war. He thinks he can understand, but he really cannot."

"But now Mary can? You can talk to her?" asks Lavinia pensively.

"Yes," blurts out Matthew, taken by surprise with the question, and then immediately backtracks. "But it's not the point. It's you I intend to marry, so I promise, I will search for a way to be more open with you. You just need to give me time to figure it out. Maybe the war needs to end first."

Lavinia nods distractedly but seems lost in thought.