They have only been married for a month when her monthly courses fail to come. Sarah tries to tell herself that she is entering the autumn of her life, and it is only natural that her body should give up and start settling into the idea of old age. She knows, though, well before the second month passes without blood. Her body is as regular as a clock, has been for forty-three years, and only one thing could put a stop to one's monthlies so quickly.

Andrew goes white with shock when she gives him the news, but holds her tightly none-the-less and begins making plans for a nursery in their small flat. He doubts himself, she knows that, but when the third month passes without incident he begins to take to the idea. He treats her like she is made of glass, all gentle hands and softer words, often touching her middle with a faint smile. The thought of a baby gives him something bright to cling to, a talisman against the grief that the war has brought. Fatherhood doesn't stop the night terrors, but it gives him strength enough to smile more, to laugh, and it is easier for him to go to sleep if Sarah distracts him with possible names.

Sarah isn't sure of how she feels. Not happy, she cannot let herself feel that just yet, not when she wonders if God is preparing an elaborate punishment for her. An eye for an eye, isn't that what the Bible says? She waits on a bed of nails, on a sea of shattered glass, and begins stitching little shirts together to keep Andrew from guessing.

She tries not to think of the child at all, and gives it no name or gender when she can't avoid it. She does not smooth her hands over her stomach in wonder when her body begins to grow with the child, though she lets Andrew do so. He is so bloody happy that it makes her heart ache, and she almost hopes that nothing goes wrong, if only for his sake.

When she bathes, she makes sure to know where the soap is at all times, and Andrew is always there to steady her when she steps out.

One night midway through her sixth month, she feels a stirring within, a rearrangement of cramped limbs, a shifting of her entire world. Little feet tap, here, then there, and Sarah knows the baby is alive.

She thinks, So it'll be me, then.

And she finds that altogether more satisfactory. The babe is blameless, after all, and shouldn't serve as a tithe for its mother's crimes. Sarah shakes Andrew awake despite the risks, and presses his hand to the curve of her belly. She kisses him when he begins weeping.

In her seventh month, Thomas comes to visit, and as soon as he steps out of their house in the evening the bastard scurries off to the telegraph office to wire her entire family with the news.

Thomas will most certainly not be acting as godfather, no matter how funny her husband finds it when her remaining brothers descend in force.

In the eighth month both Sarah and Andrew go quiet. His nightmares change, and he cries for her, for the child. They don't need to put words to it; Sarah is forty four, has never had a child before. The doctors are all busy with the soldiers and they are far from a proper hospital. It is nineteen seventeen, and though it's by no means the Dark Ages, things can still go wrong.

The ninth month comes, and they wait.

-0-

It doesn't hurt, not as much as Sarah expects it to. There is no blinding agony, no sensations of tearing or burning, and there is very little blood. She doesn't scream once, though in truth she likely wouldn't have even if her limbs were being torn off. Her name might be Sarah Lang now, but she is a bloody O'Brien to her core.

Mostly, she is bored and anxious, and occasionally irritated when the fresh-faced young nurse tries to be encouraging.

"Steady on, Mrs. Lang! Nearly there now!"

It probably would be better if the girl would stop speaking when she's peering between Sarah's legs, but Sarah doesn't want to waste her energy on snapping at the chit; she's got better things to be doing, after all.

Really, it is not the nightmare she's been led to believe. There is pain, yes, sharp bolts of it wrenching at the muscles of her back and belly, but it isn't terrible. The nurse happily points out that Sarah has the hips for it, many times. So Sarah paces and endures and soon it's time to push, and things move quickly after that. By nightfall it is nearly done, and with a last push Sarah is safely delivered of a daughter, who lets loose a furious howl that shakes the dust from the rafters.

"Oh ho! Quite the hearty lass, aren't you!" the idiot nurse chuckles, quickly cutting the cord and bundling the child. Sarah sits up and holds out her arms, scarcely daring to breathe until her daughter is in her grasp.

"Hullo, my little banshee." she whispers, and she is not ashamed of the tears gathering in her eyes. The baby whimpers and squirms and stares into her mother's face as if bewildered by the situation. She is small and dark-haired and full of life, and that Sarah did not expect either. Her daughter's heart beats, her daughter breathes easily, and she loves her so much that it terrifies her.

"My pretty babe."

I am sorry, so very sorry for bringing you into this world, this war.

"Your da will be pleased," Sarah murmurs, though she's fairly sure the child can't understand a word. "He hoped you might be a girl."

Girls cannot go to war, he'd said. Girls are spared of dying for nothing.

Sarah had wanted to say, Wars cannot take them, but everything else can.

Her daughter nestles against her breast, hungry mouth seeking, and Sarah kisses her ruddy little forehead. The nurse bustles over, handing her a damp cloth to clean the child and prattling on and on about God only knows what. Eventually the bint decides that mother and child have had enough time to get used to each other and she throws open the door. Andrew steps through, tense as a piano wire, and Sarah thinks he's had a harder time of it than she has; he is pale and haggard, and looks as though he has spent the last few hours tying himself into knots. He stares at her and he stares at the bundle she holds and the poor man almost collapses in relief; Sarah settles back among the pillows and smiles encouragingly at him, beckoning him over.

"You got your girl." She says, and Andrew smiles a true, joyful smile that lights his gray eyes and shows her the man who existed before the war. He sits beside her on their bed, tentatively brushing their child's cheek with his rough fingers.

"A girl," he murmurs. "A bonnie baby girl."

"An', naturally, you've got your heart set on that soppy name you picked out?" Sarah asks, leaning against his shoulder and letting him kiss her temple.

"Yes; little Sophie Lang. Unless you-?"

"No, love. I wouldn't take that from you."

Sophie has one hand tangled in a curl of her mother's hair, the other wrapped around her father's thumb, and she blinks sleepily at them in the way that children do to ingratiate themselves. Sarah can pinpoint the exact moment when Andrew falls in love with her.

"She looks like you." Andrew says, tracing the bridge of Sophie's nose and stroking the downy dark hair.

"I don't see how you can tell."

"Give her time- her eyes will certainly look like yours."

He kisses her again, properly this time, and gives her an inquiring look. She settles their daughter in his arms, making sure her fragile head is supported and tucking the swaddling more securely around the vulnerable body. Andrew cradles her like she's the most precious thing in Creation, and Sarah believes that she is. The sight of him smiling down at their child is enough to make her realize she wouldn't trade this, not for anything, and she will never regret following him out of Downton Abbey.

Many hours later, after the nurse has been seen home and clock has long since struck midnight, Sarah and Andrew lie curled together in bed, barely awake, with Sophie tucked between them. They watch as she dreams, certain that she'll vanish if they close their eyes even for a moment.

"Poor thing." Sarah whispers. "To be born in the middle of war, with a murderess for a mother."

"And a lunatic for a father."

They stare at each other in darkness of their bedroom, Andrew almost defiant. They know the scars the other carries, and they offer no judgment, only acceptance. Yet still Sarah feels the tightness in her throat, and her eyes burn.

"It isn't fair, that she and I made it through fine, not after…"

"It isn't fair. And Sarah, I am damn glad it isn't."

He cups his hand over her cheek, wipes errant tears away with his thumb and rests his forehead against hers. Once she might have hated herself for crying like this, and hated him for thinking that his words made everything all right.

But they do, just this once, and eventually she lets herself sleep.

THIS IDEA WAS ORIGINALLY CORAH BASED.

WHAT HAPPENED

SARAH+NON-CORA= BLASPHEMY

BLASPHEMY

Seriously, though, it feels weird shipping Sarah with someone who is not Cora (or Rosamund, but that's more of a 'frenemies-with-benefits' sort of deal). I have no idea where this came from; about the only explanation I could come up with is the fact that I hated seeing Lang so goddamn miserable, and Sarah seemed like she helped him, emotionally.

ANYWAY: I both love and hate this, and I apologize for it, but I will still be a greedy little crithoor and ask for constructive criticism. I don't own these characters, because if I did Downton Abbey would have to be retitled It's Team O'Brien's World and You Plebeians Are Only Living in it Because The High Queen Bitch and Her Heir Need People to Harass.

PS: Thomas immediately appoints himself as Sophie's uncle to piss O'Brien off, and is the best worst influence ever. The End.