Author's Note: I apologize for this, but the need was too great. This story is set on the night of Mrs. Tom Branson/Lady Sybil's death, Season 3, episode 4 U.S. numbering, episode 5 U.K. number.

Disclaimer: I'm not even a custodian, my dears, let alone an owner. These characters and their settings are the work of others. I hope I do not offend with my homage.

"Anna," Alfred asked, "What's up in the tower?"

"The big tower?"

Alfred nodded.

"Nothing," she said. "It used to be used as a maid's dormitory, but it's been vacant for years, because—why are you asking about the tower tonight of all nights?"

"Mr. Branson asked me," Alfred explained, "when we were putting him to bed. I told him I didn't know, but that I didn't think anyone ever went up there."

Anna nodded and went about her business, but when she came wide awake in the middle of the night, she knew she would have to check.

The head housemaid put on a robe over her nightgown, and went first to check Lady Sybil's room. Lady Sybil was there, laid out peacefully on the bed, alone. Miss O'Brien must have finally coaxed her ladyship to bed. Mr. Branson was not there. Anna hated to leave Lady Sybil unattended, but Anna was a practical girl and her concern had to be for the living. She crept next to the night nursery. The baby slept peacefully, attended by an equally sleeping junior maid, who had qualified for the post of emergency nursemaid by dint of the possession of a large number of younger siblings. No Mr. Branson in the nursery.

With some trepidation, Anna continued her round by going to the room they had made up for the newly widowed Mr. Branson. She listened at the closed door. Total silence greeted her stretched ears, but she knew she had to check. Anna eased the door open. The room was empty. Mr. Branson had been here though; the bedclothes were rumpled.

The tower it was, then.

Anna crossed the huge house as silently as possible and began to ascend the tower stairs. As she neared the top floor, she could hear it: if the tower had had a reputation for being haunted, the eerie wailing drifting down from above would have justified it, but Anna knew it was no ghost making the unearthly sound. This was a living man, whose dead woman lay below.

At the top of the stairs there was a door: Anna opened it. She had found her quarry. Mr. Branson, barefoot in a short-sleeved Henley and blue and white striped pajama bottoms, sat on the dusty floor of the long abandoned and grimly Spartan maid's bedroom. His head was down on his raised knees, his arms wrapped tightly around them, pressing them up to his chest. One finger bore a slender metal ring, from which a short string of green beads ran into his clenched palm. He rocked very slightly back and forth, emitting a wordless wailing that slid up and down the most melancholy minor scale she had ever heard.

Mr. Branson raised his head from his knees to looked up at her and asked, "A ghrá, cén fáth go raibh tú saoire dom?" He drew in a ragged breath, and let it out in another wail of strangely chromatic despair. The blue eyes filled with tears that overflowed onto cheeks that were already streaked with them. Looking at him, Anna felt again the agony of Mr. Bates' death sentence, worse here in that Lady Sybil would not be reprieved. She wondered if Mr. Branson even recognized her.

"Mr. Branson?" she asked.

He blinked. His voice, when he spoke again, was that of a very tiny child, bewildered by bereavement. "Anna, why did she leave me?"

Anna's own eyes overflowed then, and she sank to her knees next to him, and rubbed one tense arm. "She didn't want to, Mr. Branson."

His tears flowed freely. He took another breath. "A ghrá, cén fáth go raibh tú saoire dom?" came out this time as a whisper, then a deep breath in, a sobbing gasp out, ending with another spasm that tore out of him in a renewed heartrending wail, "A ghrá, cén fáth go raibh tú saoire dom?"

Anna thought he would be ill if this continued. "Please come back downstairs, Mr. Branson," she begged. Her comforting hand continued to rub his arm. He was still looking at her, but his arms still gripped his drawn up knees, as though this posture were the only one he could maintain without coming apart.

He sobbed a moment, but was clearly trying to pull himself together enough to speak. "Anna," he finally gasped. "Please—Anna, I need to grieve… please, let me—" the sentence ended in a wail that sounded like it had been pulled involuntarily from the core of his being. He breathed heavily, gazing at her hopelessly, begging without further ability to even string his plea together.

Suddenly, Anna understood. Once he went downstairs, he would have to stifle this grief and contain it, no matter how desperately he needed to let it out. He would be sick if he didn't continue. And the Crawleys would be unable to bear this kind of grieving, let alone understand it.

Mr. Branson dragged in another breath. "I promise I'll come downstairs before daylight, Anna." The streaming eyes entreated her understanding.

Anna nodded. "Should I leave you?" she asked, uncertainly.

Mr. Branson nodded.

Anna rose to leave, and Mr. Branson lowered his head back down onto his knees. As Anna closed the door behind her, the wailing recommenced, a spine tingling glissade of sound, ending, "A ghrá, cén fáth go raibh tú saoire dom?"

In the morning, Anna rose and began to check on her charges. She entered Lady Sybil's room to find the widower fully dressed sitting vigil by the body.

Mr. Branson's eyes met hers. While his eyes were still filled with misery as well as a totally despairing sorrow, they were dry. He looked at her silently for a long moment, then finally said, "Thank you."