A/N: Laura Linney was right. Downton Abbey: worth the wait! For the record, I do not own or profit from the show Downton Abbey, any of its stories or characters. The title of this piece is from a line of the poem Bright Star, by John Keats:

Awake for ever in a sweet unrest

When the first letter arrives, she is startled and disoriented. She holds it out to her father, silently imploring him to make sense of it for her. How is this possible? Explain this to me. Her father brings her outside into the sunlight and walks with her across the grounds, leading her with a hand resting at the base of her neck. "He was a fine young man," he says, and her mind struggles against the concepts of death and honor he tries to explain. "You must prepare yourself, Sybil darling. I'm afraid there will be many more letters like this." She is dry eyed and mute, and spends the rest of the day in a daze.

When the second letter arrives, she begins trailing behind her parents and Edith, drifting between each of them like a dry leaf caught in a breeze; sitting quietly with her mother over needlework until Edith returns from a walk and Sybil hurriedly follows her upstairs as if caught up in her draft. A gust of wind at the front door announces her father and she floats down to greet him, and instead of leaving him in his usual solitude she pulls a book from the shelf of his library and sits in a chair to read near his desk as he works. She feels greedy for them, and reluctant to let them out of her sight. When the third letter brings five new names, Sybil breaks. Unable to hide her tears, she disregards the equally sympathetic and horrified expression on Carson's face and hurries to her mother's room. Nearly upsetting the breakfast tray, Cora pulls Sybil into the crook of her arm and lets her have a good cry. After she calms, Sybil writes a letter begging Mary to come home from London.

The telegram informing them of Mary's return arrives only shortly before Mary's train; she must have left London practically the same hour she received Sybil's message. Sybil happily volunteers to meet Mary at the station with Branson. She tries to convince Edith to come along, but to no avail. In the car, Sybil dwells on the chasm that has opened between Edith and Mary that she cannot bridge. Neither of them will confide in her what the cause is. Sybil never had Edith's knack for sniffing out secrets, and although she suspects that if she openly confronted her sisters they would not be able to hide, she has never worked up the nerve. Whatever it is, it must be bad, and she never feels quite ready to face it. It may be cowardly of her, but there are some things she would rather not know, and some words she would rather leave unsaid.

The long country road stretches before them, and the sun glares uncomfortably onto her face. She props her elbow on the window and leans her head in her hand, closing her eyes. The rhythmic hum of the engine and the gentle shaking of the car grow faint as she lets her mind slip away, floating between memories of happier days in quieter times. The next moment a gloved hand gently shakes her shoulder and she gasps with a start.

"It's only me, m'lady," Branson is leaning into the car, "we've arrived."

"Golly, have I slept the whole way," she asks, even though her bleary eyes and chapped lips answer the question before Branson does. Her mind feels foggy, and she reaches out a hand before stepping down from the car. Branson grips her fingers in his own and a steadying arm hovers behind her shoulders. She stands and straightens, shaking her head and blinking to bring the world back into focus.

"Are you alright, m'lady?" Branson's voice is soft and laced with concern.

"Quite alright, thank you."

"Only, you seem rather cast down lately."

For some unaccountable reason, a latent anger inside of her suddenly rises up and chooses Branson as its target.

"Well, I'm sorry to be such dull company, but I didn't realize I was required to keep you entertained," she snaps in imitation of Mary's best imperious tone, and strides off towards the platform with her shoes striking loudly against the ground. Branson follows her half a pace behind.

"Forgive me, m'lady. I said too much."

"Have you? That's hardly stopped you before."

"Maybe not, but you're upset and I'm sorry for it."

"Why should you be?" She demands, and in the back of her mind a terrified voice begs him not to answer. She stops near the edge of the platform and turns to face him, her chin raised as high as she can manage without straining her neck. He looks down at her, the contours of his mouth and jaw set into lines of frustration. She finds it increasingly difficult to meet his eyes. Don't look at me that way. You'll get called up and I can't bear it. She tries to distance herself from him, turning quickly and leaning out over the edge of the platform to see farther down the track. Branson's hand jumps out and catches her elbow, pulling her back a pace before releasing his grip.

"Careful, m'lady," he warns. Sybil opens her mouth to scold him for treating her like a child, but something in his posture reminds her of the day at the count. Just as suddenly as it flared, the anger inside of her is extinguished. She takes a few steps back and looks at her shoes for a moment before speaking again.

"I'd like to apologize, Branson. You didn't deserve that. I don't know what came over me."

"Don't mind it, m'lady," he replies, hand still hovering at waist height as if he's expecting her to make a lunge for the edge of the platform.

"It's just," she begins, but she doesn't know what it is, and simply stands there tongue tied and awkward until the sudden blare of a train whistle makes her jump.

"Oh, she's here," she says with breathless excitement as the train pulls into the platform in a cloud of steam and noise. "Mary will make things right," she continues so softly he can barely hear her. Branson forces an unconvincing smile, and studies her profile as she watches the doors of the train opening.

Mary does make things better, but it becomes clear that all is not right. She dotes on Sybil, but hardly spares a word for Edith and can barely meet her father's eyes. She paces and prowls around Downton like a restless animal wearying of a cage. One evening Sybil sits in her usual place on the edge of the bed watching Mary at her mirror putting on the finishing touches before dinner. To Sybil's eyes there has been a slight change in Mary's appearance. The shimmering brightness that attracts the attention of every eye when she enters a room is altered; instead of sparkling like a jewel she now glints like polished steel. She is still as beautiful as ever, if not more so. Sybil smiles in admiration and wonders vaguely if she could shape her own eyebrows in a graceful arch.

"You look happy, Sybil darling. What are you thinking of?"

"Nothing important. What are you thinking of?"

"Nothing at all," Mary replies in a heavy tone that Sybil interprets as "Matthew." Sybil studies the carpet for a few moments before speaking again.

"You are not happy here. You want to leave Downton and return to London." Mary looks surprised at this turn of the conversation, but gives a resigned sigh that says there's no use in lying to you.

"Yes, but don't think I want to leave you."

"I don't think that, but I wish you could be happier at home."

"I have wished that for a long time." Her heart overflowing with sympathy and sadness, Sybil rises and approaches her sister. Standing at her side she regards their reflection in the mirror intently, trying to observe every detail and commit this picture to memory. We won't always be this way. Even this is ephemeral. Mary reaches over and adjusts Sybil's necklace, then briefly runs the back of her finger down her cheek. "It can be borne," she says, their eyes meeting in the mirror. "It might not seem that way now, but you will find your way to bear it, I know."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite certain."

"Well, then." They share a closed lip smile, stand a little taller, and go down to dinner.

Mary returns to London and the letters continue to arrive, and for a while Sybil is able to bear it. She develops a routine of walking in the gardens when the bad news comes. It helps to be near things that are beautiful and alive and growing. She becomes adept at turning distress into peace, and sorrow into serenity. She does well this way for months until one morning she reads a letter with a name that already left a mark on her.

She couldn't control her laugh and when it rang out in the sudden silence, he furrowed his brow and shook his head at her in mock disapproval, his eyes gleaming with mischievous pleasure as she covered her mouth in embarrassment. He needled and teased until she agreed to dance with him, and as he swept her across the floor in his arms, he listened to her opinions (the dreaded opinions Granny continuously insisted she keep to herself), with interest instead of discomfort. When he kissed her hand, she blushed a little and found herself wondering if she was about to fall in love. Nothing had come of it, but then again, there hadn't been time. Something might have come of it.

She feels ill and rushes away from the table in need of calming solitude, but finds she has no strength left to fight the despair. She turns to the gardens, but peace is elusive. The dead crowd around her, she thinks of handsome faces that smiled at her now cold and white, of arms that held her in a dance now stiff and rotting. Tears still gathering in her eyes, she turns and walks back to the house. She can't carry on like this. She has to do something. She thinks of asking Branson to drive her somewhere, anywhere, as far as they can go – maybe if they drive far enough they can escape this war and despair and death. Tempting, she admits. Impossible, she knows. Cowardly, she chides. No, she can't run from this. But she has to do something.

...

It is an open secret that Lady Sybil is spending her time downstairs. All the servants suddenly find they have some business in the kitchen. They filter through, surreptitiously watching what she does and how she does it. Most give her a wide berth, either out of wariness of her or of the odd smells usually emanating from whatever she is cooking. Mrs. Hughes will check on her with approving nods and encouraging smiles, but maintains a distance to keep up the pretense of secrecy. Mrs. Patmore carries on reasonably well, but struggles to keep her temper and language in check around her odd student. To everyone's surprise, Daisy is the only one who has no discomfort with their guest. She flits around Lady Sybil like a helpful little bird, smiling and chattering happily. When William asks why she can talk to Lady Sybil but can't be within Lady Mary's range of vision without trembling, she gives a little shrug. "She's nice, Lady Sybil."

"Oh, invited you to tea, I suppose" drawls the voice of O'Brian

"She is always smiling and being kind when she don't need to be," Daisy pipes up again with growing courage, "and she helped Gwen, didn't she?"

"That's right, Daisy," chimes Anna, "I'm sure Lady Sybil is glad of your help."

Daisy beams so brightly under Anna's praise that even O'Brian softens a little.

The next morning, O'Brian pauses at Lady Sybil's open door to see the girl seated at her mirror attempting to tie her own hair into a chignon. A scattering of pins caught in loose strands of dark hair littering the table and floor attest to previous failed endeavors. As she watches, Lady Sybil slides a pin into the mass of hair being held in place with her other hand, winces in pain, and then tentatively releases her hold. For a moment the chignon stays in place, but at the slightest movement of her neck the twist unravels and hair spills down her back along with the soft clattering falling pins. Lady Sybil sighs loudly, and O'Brian thinks she hears her mutter "you joke" to the mirror's reflection before knocking on the open door to catch her attention.

"Good morning, O'Brian," says Lady Sybil with perfect politeness, but with a hint of coolness in her tone. O'Brian has caught those grey eyes watching her over the years, and sometimes she has the uneasy feeling that Lady Sybil can guess what she is thinking.

"Good morning, m'lady," O'Brian replies, and then, hesitantly, "do you…would you like me to show you how it's done?"

"Why, yes," says Lady Sybil with mingled caution and surprise, "I would like that. Thank you, O'Brian."

She stands behind the young lady at the mirror and runs her fingers through the long, dark hair, teasing out the remaining pins. You don't know what you're getting into, you little pet. She glances in the mirror and, sure enough, those grey eyes are observing her so intently O'Brian feels a chill run up her spine. Why do you look at me like that? What do you know of me?

"Why are you doing this? I rather thought you didn't approve."

It takes O'Brian a moment to realize Lady Sybil had actually spoken the words and she didn't just imagine them.

"Just want to help, m'lady." I have something to atone for.

"Yes, well…that I understand. Thank you, O'Brian."

Maybe you do understand, unnatural child.

.

"Good morning, Mr. Branson."

"Good morning, Mrs. Hughes."

"Have you had your breakfast?"

"Not yet, ma'am."

"I'm afraid you'll have to help yourself, Daisy and Mrs. Patmore have their hands full again today."

"I'm sure I can manage, Mrs. Hughes."

He steps through to the kitchen which has the usual look of organized chaos of Mrs. Patmore's work, now with the addition of a corner of undeniable chaos where Sybil stands. There is a dusting of flour up her arms and what appears to be egg splattered on her apron, he even sees an angry welt on her wrist as if she has had a painfully close encounter with the stove top. She is too absorbed in her task to notice him, and he navigates around the kitchen as unobtrusively as he can. It feels strange having her down here, and almost unfair. It's not as if he could wander upstairs and take his lunch at the table with the Crawley family if the fancy struck. But he knows she is not doing this out of a sudden fancy, and he can't help but admire her.

"There, I've done it! Actually, this is rather fun. Shall I do another?" Branson pauses, the familiar thrill rushing through him at the sound of her voice (as well as the equally familiar check: she's too far above you), and turns to see Sybil setting aside empty eggshells.

"Yes, m'lady," Daisy encourages, "see if you can do the next with one hand instead of two." When Sybil turns her back to fetch another egg, Daisy's hand darts into the bowl and emerges with a small piece of eggshell clutched in her fingers that she swiftly hides in her apron pocket. Branson sees Mrs. Patmore turn her eyes upward in supplication, as if begging the Almighty to have mercy on her kitchen. "Hold it like this, m'lady, now crack it on the side of the bowl instead of the edge – that's right, now pull it apart with your fingers – that's right!"

"Ah! I did it! Thank you, Daisy!" The little kitchen maid rises up on her toes as if she is about to sprout wings and fly up to the ceiling. Branson stares and smiles in spite of himself. Sybil leans over the bowl to inspect her handiwork. "Oh, dear," she murmurs, "I've left some pieces of shell in there." Daisy, still on her toes, wobbles uncertainly. Branson doesn't know what Daisy expected her to do, but Sybil only reaches into the bowl and pulls out the offending pieces. She wipes her fingers on her apron, and gives Daisy another smile. "Good thing we caught that. Oh dear, I hope there aren't any more pieces I've missed."

"Oh, no, there aren't I'm sure!" Daisy replies nervously.

"You're sure? But, how?"

"I mean…I'm not sure. It wouldn't hurt to check." Sybil couldn't know, but Branson and Mrs. Patmore recognize the tone of guilty fear in Daisy's voice. Mrs. Patmore hands over a fork with a threatening look at Daisy, and Branson ducks out the door with a silent chuckle. Still grinning, he sits at the table and looks up to see Mrs. Hughes regarding him with a keen stare and unmistakable warning in her eyes. Careful, my lad. The mental check comes automatically: she's too far above you. It doesn't help. He eats his breakfast alone, wondering how many reasons he can find to wander into the kitchen today without showing his hand.

.

As she pulls the cake from the oven, Sybil nearly goes giddy with the rush of heady triumph. I made this, she silently proclaims. This is my work. I created something. Something small and insignificant, but something. She places it on the table with a little flourish and a sing-song "ta-da!" which promptly turns to a burst of laughter. Absorbed with Daisy and Mrs. Patmore over the cake, Sybil does not recognize how many people share in her moment of joy. She does not see her mother watching from a distance with tears of pride and love for her little woman sparkling in her eyes. She does not see Carson let his severe countenance slip for a moment into tenderness at the sound of her laugh. She does not see Branson, just a few steps away, feigning a casual interest and repeating to himself for the tenth time that day: she's too far above you.

...

The journey from Downton to York is eternal, and yet somehow over in an instant. Sybil is a storm of thoughts and emotions; excitement and determination battling it out with doubt and trepidation. One moment she feels the urge to ask Branson if the hospital is much farther, the next she struggles to keep from shouting that she needs to go home and he should turn the car around right now. In the end, it is the streak of Crawley stubbornness that saves her. She said she would do this, everyone is waiting to see how she will fare, and the thought of returning home and admitting failure becomes too horrifying to accept as an option. Eventually, she sees that the only way out of the situation she has put herself in is to go through with it. She will manage away from home, she will complete the course, and she will become a nurse. This resolution carries her through the rest of the journey. She does not waver as they approach York, and is still braced with determination as the hospital looms before them and Branson pulls the car over and kills the engine. She steps down from the car and the small physical effort sets her heart beating excessively fast. Branson takes her luggage and somehow her feet carry her into the courtyard of the hospital. She hears rather than sees Branson follow her, the sounds of his footsteps are familiar and comforting.

When she sees them, the maimed soldiers quietly struggling with their exercises, she feels her stomach drop because now this isn't an idea or a plan, this is something real and painful. She suddenly feels very young, very spoiled, and very naïve. She hesitates, even Branson pauses, and a small voice in her head plaintively moans that she wants to go home. She knows it is too late for that. It only takes a moment for her to find her feet again and carry on towards the open doors of the hospital. Before she reaches the entrance, she stops under an empty arch and turns to Branson. She had planned to take a private moment to say goodbye and thank him for…well, something, but saying goodbye to Branson feels terribly final. She stares at his shoes for a moment, thinking that she'd rather not let him go just yet. When she brings herself to meet his eyes, she is puzzled by his expression. It is somehow grim determination and recklessness wrapped up in one. He has always been a bit of a contradiction. She realizes that he is hesitating, leaning over the edge of some precipice, and then she knows. She does not understand how, but she knows what he is about to say. Of all the things she has been preparing herself to face, this is not one of them.

As he removes his cap and begins to speak the words she does not want to hear, she tries to stop him. Please don't do this to yourself. Don't do this to us. Don't make me hurt you, she wants to tell him, but only succeeds in uncomfortably murmuring his name to no effect. There is no stopping him, and as he talks of hopes and plans and devotion and happiness his words seep into her, and there is a terrible clenching in her chest. Doesn't he understand how frightened she is? What does he expect her to say? How can he bear to say these things out loud, all these things she puts so much effort into not thinking about? The expression on his face is plain as day: I know you could love me as I love you. His words leave her speechless and wavering, but only for a moment. She tries to let him down politely and he bristles. She tries to laugh and he reproaches her. He does not make it easy, in fact she finds it impossible to say no. She stands there in painful silence. She can't bear to see his face (you won't love me), and stares at the ground with hands clasped like the demure young lady she was raised to be. I am doing the right thing, she tries to comfort herself. A sudden declaration from a chauffeur, no matter how earnest, cannot overthrow a lifetime of rules and Granny and Grantham honor in a moment. This is the right thing, she repeats, pretending to feel less miserable than she really is.

"Right," he says, and she begins to think the worst is over. "I won't be there when you return."

"No, don't do that!" Her words tumble out in a rush because the thought of returning home without him sends a terrifying pain shooting through her chest. She doesn't know what he must think of her, but doesn't want him to leave Downton any more than she wants to betray him to her father. She tries to comfort him with her voice, and beseeches him with her eyes to please forgive her. He does not, or perhaps he cannot yet forgive her. Face full of anger, eyes full of pain, he gives a taut nod and turns. As he walks away, Sybil thanks God he does not turn back to see the tears spilling quickly down her cheeks. "Everything will look better in the morning," she whispers, and dries her eyes.

...

Branson is almost surprised when the sun rises the next day, but it does, and again on the day after that, and the day after that. Even though there's more to do than ever before, Downton feels dull and lifeless. Everything is without luster or definition until he thinks of her, missing her so strongly it is like a sharp pain pulling him out of a reverie and putting everything back in miserable focus. He thinks of leaving more than once, but that would put an end to it all, and he isn't ready to give up just yet. He wishes Mr. Bates was still around. He knows he should feel bad about it, and he does, but he is desperately thankful Anna is still at Downton, wonderfully sane, sensible, sweet tempered Anna. It's almost funny the way they were both thrown over on the same day. He always liked her, understood what Mr. Bates saw in her, and would be more shocked and angry at Mr. Bates' treatment of her if he wasn't so distracted by his own wounds. As it is, Branson and Anna strike up a quiet camaraderie. Perhaps drawn to each other by their mutual unhappiness, they begin sitting at meals together, trading sections of newspaper, and eventually offering an open ear or simple words of understanding on the days it seems too much to bear. He tries to be discreet and vague about the girl who rejected him, but Anna is nobody's fool, and he wonders if she knows. He supposes she could betray him, but he doesn't think she will. Gently, each manages to ease the other out of misery. The days begin to run together in a dull haze of normalcy and acceptance. Anna says it is enough, but he doesn't believe her.

...

As Branson drives to collect Lady Sybil from York, he tries to imagine how he will feel; he expects to be angry or betrayed or heartbroken. Instead, he finds he is just relieved to see her again. She is standing by the door with her luggage and a small group of girls in uniform. When she sees him approaching, she turns to say something, and then embraces them one by one. A few brush their hands across their cheeks, but all are smiling. He smiles, too. He parks the car as the nurses wave goodbye one last time before disappearing into the hospital, leaving Sybil alone. He approaches and her eyes go very wide for a few moments. Before he can say or do anything she picks of one of her cases. She reaches for the second one, but Branson beats her to it, nearly knocking his skull against hers in the process. He breathes a nervous apology, she laughs awkwardly. They place the cases in the car in silence, and she opens the door to the back seat before he has a chance to open it for her. He smirks as he climbs into the front.

"Are you surprised to see me, m'lady?"

"I suppose not. I am relieved, actually, that you didn't hand in your notice." Her voice is cautious, but honest.

"Well, that's something at least," he says.

If she heard him, she pretends she did not, but when he meets her eyes in the mirror and ventures a grin she smiles at him, a little smile, but without embarrassment or guile. It's a start, at least.

.

The first time he comes to collect her for dinner, it does not go well. He steps into the hospital and only starts to wonder where to find her when she nearly crashes into him.

"Look out," she yelps, and swerves abruptly to avoid him.

"M'lady," he begins, but she cuts him off.

"Can't stop now, must change my uniform." In the moment she pauses, Branson sees that the front of her apron is covered in vomit. He stands in stunned silence until Mrs. Crawley recognizes him and ushers him towards the back.

"Is Lady Sybil ill?" He asks quietly.

"Oh no, that wasn't her sick I'm afraid," she answers. He suppresses a shudder, remembering the image of a girl with egg down her apron, as bright and lovely then as she is drawn and strained now.

"So she is well?" He presses on, knowing Mrs. Crawley is probably the only one of the family he would dare speak to in this way. "The staff are asking after her, especially Mrs. Patmore. Everyone is a bit worried." It's not a complete lie, but he knows he is pushing things.

"You may tell them not to worry because Nurse Crawley is doing very well indeed. It is a difficult adjustment for anyone, but she is a great help, and I have every confidence in her." She smiles proudly, and Branson nods and mouths "thank you" in return. When Sybil returns in a new uniform, looking and smelling like she's been scrubbed, he tells her of Lady Grantham's request for her presence at dinner.

"I can't possibly go," is her sharp reply, accompanied by a very put upon scoff.

He hates standing in this hospital, he hates that he hardly ever sees her, and he hates when she speaks to him as if he is beneath her. He really can't stop himself from snapping back.

"Is that the message you would like me to deliver to her ladyship? I'm sure she'll be pleased to hear it, especially that little huff at the end." Sybil goes very still, and for half a moment he thinks she might slap him. Instead, she takes a step forward and steadily holds his gaze.

"I can't go home yet, Branson. Do you understand? Not yet, I need time." Her voice is calm, but her tone is pointed, almost pleading. He tries to understand, and with a slight bow, he leaves her be.

...

He moves slowly through the crowd of wounded soldiers and harried nurses, feeling alarmingly conspicuous with his bright uniform and wicker basket. He spots her across the room and carefully makes his way towards her. She looks pale and pure, like she doesn't belong amongst these men and their filth and pain. And yet, she seems suited for it. She is quiet calm and grace, the other nurses listen to her voice with respect, and the wounded men yield to her touch with relief. She is preoccupied, but she talks to him easily, openly, like she used to. He's missed that so badly. He's missed her so badly. He follows her and watches her, drinking in every movement and word. She confides in him, and he knows she is starting to let him back into her life, maybe even making him part of this new life she is creating for herself.

"I can never go back," she says, and he thinks it might be time to try again.