Shellshocked

1924

Ten years had passed since the Great War began. Eight since Thomas Barrow was discharged from the front lines, due to a wound in his hand. The time of the War was still a blur to him. Walking the trenches, soot and gunpowder filling his nose and throat, tending to the wounded. Sharing tea with Matthew Crawley as the sounds of gunfire erupted from beyond their trenches, where they waited like sitting ducks. The decision to get himself wounded; the bullet protruding his hand; being sent back home to where he worked with Dr. Clarkson and Lady Sybil with the wounded. Edward being distressed, then killing himself.

Barrow tried not to think about the War. He went about his days as everyone else did, pretending that it had never happened. Pretending that the shortage of food, the poverty, the masses of wounded, the death of William - that none of it happened. It was easier to ignore the black cloud of suffering that had covered the world for so long, and to accept the sunlight that followed it.

He found it easier to pretend it didn't happen. To cover his hand with a glove or a wrap. To blink away the horrors that haunted his dreams, and haul himself out of bed to begin his days work. For four years, Barrow upheld a strong barrier in his mind, blocking out the memories that came from the war. Ignoring the fear that had plagued him for so long. The terror from living in the trenches, thinking every day might be his last. He was safe now, at Downton.

It wasn't until that horrid day in 1920 that Barrow felt the wall begin to crumble. He remembered the joy that followed the news of the birth of Lady Sybil's daughter. He had wondered that night, as he lay in bed, if her daughter would carry the same kind soul as her mother. The joy had quickly been stamped out, as screeching from the other side of the castle had woken him, and the other servants. He remembered standing in the servant's hall, watching Carson's mouth move as he told them about Sybil's fate. He didn't hear the words, but he knew. He felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach, slicing his insides until the blood spilled out. How could she be dead?

Barrow had never thought of anyone as his friend. Not even O'Brien, who he often found himself scheming with when the long says grew boring. She wasn't a friend, just an acquaintance to pass the time. Lady Sybil, however, was the closest thing he'd ever had to a friend. Everyone at Downton looked at him as if he was a dead rat that crossed their path, scowling at him and only ever offering a forced greeting before moving on. Sybil, however, had always been kind. Her greetings were genuine, and she always thanked him when he offered her a plate at supper, even though it wasn't necessary.

She'd been the only one to believe in Edward when he was in the hospital, blinded by gas. She and Barrow had worked side by side to help him, and fought to keep him at the hospital when Dr. Clarkson ordered him away. She had been the one to comfort him when they had found Edward's body. Barrow never understood why she was so kind to him. He was vile. Foul, in Carson's words. He didn't deserve kindness.

Sybil's death had hurt him far more than he let show. His only friend in his life, was gone. He had never had the opportunity to thank her for her kindness. He thought that he would have years left with her.

That was when it started.

Maybe he had allowed himself to feel too much emotion when she died. That was how the feelings broke through. For his entire life, he forced his emotions into a lockbox deep inside. He showed only a stone face and a monotone voice on the outside. It was the only way to keep himself from feeling the hurt. Her death, however, had shattered the box, breaking it open and letting the hurt spill out.

He started having nightmares. He was trapped in the trenches, soot filling his lungs and mouth until he couldn't breath. Dirt clogged under his fingernails, and blood and sweat clotted his hair. Gunfire echoed in his ears, and men fell around him, bullets pelting their bodies until the light in their eyes died away. He always woke out of breath, drenched in sweat, eyes stinging.

For years, nightmares plagued his nights. He developed dark circles under his eyes, and a glazed expression. He spent so many nights laying awake, afraid of the torment that filled his dreams. He would lay until dawn, when his eyelids grew so heavy that he finally succumbed to sleep, only to wake minutes later, his heart beating so fast he thought it might burst and gunfire echoing in his head.

But it got worse. His nightmares had begun to invade his waking world.

He knew what this was. He had read about shellshock in the books he piled on the desk in his room, the only escape from Downton he had. He had flipped through pages upon pages, stories of men who returned from war, haunted by what they had seen. He had never imagined himself as one of those men.

It began mildly. He would find his thoughts drifting towards the trenches, and would remember the dirt that choked him, and the endless pelting of bullets. It didn't happen as he had read in those books on his desk. He saw it happening in the corners of his eyes, just out of sight. He could see Lady Mary standing in front of him, but only he would notice the screams of men from the edges of his vision. Only he would hear the bullets and the sounds of dirt showering down into the trenches.

More than once, Lord Grantham or even the Dowager would notice how his eyes would glaze over, and he would jump at their acknowledgement of him. He would quickly assure them that he was fine. Just tired, he would say. Carson wasn't happy.

Baxter seemed to notice. She would watch him at the servant's supper, frowning worriedly as he would stare at nothing, seeming to hear what no one else could hear. She noticed how he would jump at the slightest noise, and would shake for hours afterwards. Once she asked him what was wrong, and received a retort so sharp that it left her stinging as if he had struck her. Barrow wondered why she was so worried about him. He didn't deserve her kindness.

Barrow had to admit to himself that it was getting worse one night, as he served the Crawley's during a dinner. He stood against the wall, waiting for Alfred or Jimmy to bring the next course, barely listening to the mundane chatter from the table of Lords and Ladies. He was staring off into space, his eyes glazed and mouth drawn into a tight line. He had stopped noticing Carson's disapproving scowl, and let his attention be drawn to the edges of his vision.

He heard gunfire, unending and berating his eardrums. The old wound in his hand began to ache, as it always did when he found himself back in the trenches. He could feel the dirt in his hair, staining his skin, and coating his clothes - even though he stood in a clean livery in the dining room. He winced at the cling of a fork on a plate, and he saw a man staring down at him. He watched as a bullet pierced the man's skull, and he fell on Barrow, blood seeping into his clothes. Barrow felt his heartbeat speed up, and his hands began to shake. He could hear the blood roaring in his hears, almost loud enough to drown out the faint murmurings from the Crawleys and the endless gunfire. He took a shaky breath, feeling his throat and lungs fill with soil.

"Have you heard about the tensions rising in Germany?"

Tom Branson's words cut through Barrow's vision, and he was blinking, finding himself in the dining room. His gaze flicked towards the table, and he saw Lord Grantham shaking his head, dotting the sides of his mouth with a white napkin.

"We might have demanded too much from them after the War." Lord Grantham said.

Lady Mary and Lady Grantham exchanged a glance, and Lady Edith blinked worriedly.

"There seems to be a gang of men in Munich, stirring up trouble. Led by some radicalist… Rudolph Mitler, I think his name was?" Tom went on, stabbing a piece of chicken on his plate with his fork.

"Whoever he is," Lord Grantham began, "The police will put an end to his trouble making. Lord knows we don't need another World War."

The rest of the conversation was drowned out by the thoughts racing in Barrow's mind. The breath caught in his throat, and his heart seemed to stop. Another War?

No. No. No… He thought, his breath coming out in rapid gasps. Luckily, he was standing far enough away that no one heard. Not even Carson. They can't send me back. I can't go back there. It wouldn't be right. They can't send me back. I've already served. They can't send me back. They wouldn't, would they?

His heart was racing so rapidly that he barely noticed when the family stood from the table and left the dining room, heading towards the drawing room for the after dinner gathering. Barrow pushed past Alfred and Jimmy, who arrived to pick up the plates and silverware. The footmen exclaimed in surprise as Barrow shoved past them roughly, placing one hand on the wall as he staggered down the hallway towards the servant's hall.

They can't send me back. I can't. I can't. Please, God, don't let them send me back.

"Mr. Barrow?" Anna's voice cut through his thoughts. She stood at the bottom of the stairs, and he almost crashed into her as he reached the bottom stem. He stared at her, his eyes wild and breath coming out in rapid gasps. "Are you alright, Mr. Barrow?"

Her voice seemed genuinely worried, but Barrow knew better than that. She was probably looking for something to go back to Bates with, so they could laugh about him behind his back.

"I'm fine. Stay out of my business." He snapped, pushing past her to the dining room.

"Don't worry, Anna." Mrs. Hughes' voice sounded behind him, "Thomas would find fault with the wind."

The walls of the servant's hall seemed to close in on him, and he whipped around, eager to be out of there. The looming darkness and dust in the air sent him back to the trenches. He needed to be somewhere, anywhere else.

He stumbled up the stairs, pushing past several hallboys on their way down with dirty dishes. As he reached the attics, where the servants had their rooms, he allowed himself to stop. He leaned against the wall, pressing his forehead to the plaster.

His heart was beating so fast, he had to take several deep breaths to feel it begin to slow down. His mind was still whirling, and he couldn't get the feeling of dirt off of his skin. He could still hear the gunfire. "They won't send me back. They can't." He whispered to himself, feeling his voice crack with the effort to calm himself down. "They won't send me back."

"Who?"

Barrow whipped around, coming face to face with Baxter. Her worried gaze rested on him, her eyes flicking to the beads of sweat on his hairline, examining the way his skin had turned stark white. "Are you alright, Mr. Barrow?" She asked.

"Mind your own business, Baxter." He tried to sound commanding, but his voice shook and he still glanced around wildly, as if he expected war to break out in the corridor.

"You're not alright, Mr. Barrow." Baxter whispered, reaching out to put her hand on her shoulder, "You're ill."

"Get off me!" He yelled, slapping her hand away and storming down the corridor to the men's dormitory. He knew she couldn't follow him there. He wouldn't let her waste her kindness on him. She would probably laugh at him, anyway.

Once he reached his bedroom, he shut the door behind him and swiftly locked it. The familiarity of his room seemed to calm him, and he began to feel the fear melt away. The gunshots faded from his mind and he no longer felt the dirt on his skin, but the soft fabric of his livery.

Sweating and out of breath, Barrow sank onto the edge of his bed, where he rested his head in his hands, and wept.

Barrow clenched his eyes shut, feeling his helmet brush against his forehead as he tilted his head downwards. He felt dirt under his hands, filling his fingernails as he dug them into the wall of the trench. He heard someone speak behind him, and turned to see a fellow medic staring at him with wide eyes.

"Corporal, we need more hands for the-" The man's voice was cut off as the sound of a gunshot pierced the air, and Barrow saw a hole in his forehead. The man's eyes rolled back into his head, and he slumped forward, landing in Barrow's lap.

Breath catching in his throat and the beginnings of a wail of anguish rising in his chest, Barrow tried to push the dead man off of his lap. He felt warm liquid cover his hands, and saw sticky blood on his fingertips. Barrow shoved the man off of him, gazing down at his hands in horror. The smell of blood and gunpowder filled his nose, and his lungs heaved with the effort of breathing in the rancid air.

Dirt showered down onto his helmet as a soldier jumped into the trench, bleeding from a bullet wound in the arm. Barrow struggled to stand so he could help the man, but watched in horror as the man fell backwards, revealing a deep wound in his stomach. The man's entrails spilled from the wound, landing in the dirt. Barrow felt his stomach churn, and vomited onto the ground.

The gunfire seemed to get louder and louder, until Barrow was sure that the enemy was upon them. He threw himself down beside the dead man, covering his head with his hands and pressing his face into the dirt. Screams seemed to fill his ears, and a wave of blood thundered through the tunnels, until Barrow thought he would drown in the hot liquid.

Barrow's eyes flew open, his breath ragged and a wail of anguish coming from his throat. He sat upwards in bed, feeling his heart pound against his chest, sweat pouring from his head. The screaming and sounds of gunfire were gone, but he could still picture the blood on his hands and feel the terror that seemed to engulf him.

The air in his room was thick and hot, and Barrow found that he needed to get out. He pulled himself out of bed, shaking violently and panting as he tried to catch his breath. He crossed the room in three steps, flicking the lock open, and stepping into the hallway. The air was still thick, but not was hot as his room. He shakily padded down the hallway, using the wall for support.

One week had passed since the incident at the Crawley's dinner. He had expected Baxter to rat on him to Carson, but the butler had never uttered a word. Perhaps Baxter had learned to mind her own business after all.

Barrow slowly made his way down the stairs, relishing in the cold air of the servant's hall. He noticed that a window had been left open, allowing the chilly night air to waft through the corridor. A weak light filtered from the servant's dining room, and he curiously padded towards it. Muffled voices sounded from inside, and Barrow scowled when he realized who the voices belonged to.

As he arrived in the archway, his eyes fell on Anna and John Bates, who sat together at the table, laughing together. Barrow realized he must look horrid, covered in sweat and eyes bloodshot, but he trudged inside anyway.

Instantly, Bates looked up, narrowing his eyes when he recognized Barrow. Anna followed his gaze, turning to see the disheveled man who entered the room.

"Hello, Mr. Barrow." She greeted him rather reluctantly, "Why are you up so late?"

"I could ask you the same thing." Barrow retorted, slipping into a chair at the end of the table, as far away from the Bates's as he could get.

"The family got home late from their trip to London." Bates explained, "We waited up for them. Not that we need to explain ourselves to the likes of you."

Barrow scowled in response, and lit a cigarette, relishing in the calming power of the nicotine.

"You look dreadful." Bates continued, a hint of a smile on his lips, "Not having nightmares, are you?"

"So what if I am?" Barrow snapped, taking a long drag from his cigarette.

"I had nightmares as a child." Bates replied, and Anna giggled. Barrow felt anger rise in his chest at the implication that he acted as a child. "My mother always brought be a glass of warm milk to soothe me."

"Did poor Mrs. Bates always have to dote on her son and his scary dreams?" Barrow sneered, letting the smoke from the cigarette chase away the feeling of soot from his lungs.

Bates' eyes narrowed, and Anna spoke before he could retort. "That's not very kind, Mr. Barrow."

"Especially since it seems a bit hypocritical." Bates pressed, ignoring his wife's silencing look, "Do you wish you had someone to help with your scary dreams?"

Barrow sighed, suddenly feeling very tired. A strange emotion washed over him, causing him to feel as though he didn't have enough energy to snap back at his old enemy. "I'm afraid that a glass of milk wouldn't help with these dreams, Mr. Bates." Barrow replied. He stomped out his cigarette, and stood from the table. Nodding to the husband and wife, he left the room, muttering a quiet 'goodnight' before disappearing up the stairs.

"That wasn't kind of you, Mr. Bates." Anna scolded her husband.

"Anna, when will you start calling me John? We're married for God's sake."

"It doesn't seem professional. Not here, anyway." Anna replied, her voice turning serious, "What do you think Thomas meant?"

"About what?"

"He seemed strange." Anna went on, "Frightened, almost. What do you think a man like Thomas Barrow has nightmares about?"

John Bates shook his head with an exasperated sigh. "God knows."

"I do feel sorry for him, sometimes." Anna whispered, "He seems… different."

"How?"

"He doesn't seem like himself anymore. He never would have let you have the last laugh in an argument before. For the past few weeks, it's almost like he's in a different world. He's startled by the smallest noise, and he seems paler than usual. He stares at nothing. It's almost like he can hear something the rest of us can't."

"Thomas has always been a strange one." John replied, "He's a tortured soul, if I know it. Don't worry about the likes of him. You know he wouldn't worry about you."

"I suppose not." Anna agreed.

John sat with his wife for some time after that, talking about nothing in particular. However, Anna's words seemed to echo in his mind. He had an inkling as to what was bothering Thomas. As much as he didn't like the man, often thinking of him as a stain in the fabric of Downton, he didn't wish misfortune on the under butler.

Especially not the horrors of shellshock.

The next day, Barrow found himself in a state of stupor. He drifted through the halls, performing his tasks with mild interest. He offered only brief words in return to greetings and a reprimand from Carson for zoning out during the Crawley's breakfast.

By the servant's supper, Barrow felt as though he were in a dream. The nightmare from the night before still haunted him. They were direct memories from being in the trenches so many years before. He did everything he could to not look at his hands, afraid he might see the blood from his fallen comrade. As he walked past the kitchens on his way to serve luncheon earlier that day, the smell of smoke had almost pushed him off the edge.

He wasn't sure how much longer he could push on.

Now, he sat at the end of the dinner table, staring straight ahead, ignoring the chatter around him. He tried not to focus on the sounds of gunfire in the back of his mind; he tried not to let his eyes drift to the corners of his vision, where blood and dirt swirled. He let his eyes glaze over, focusing on the paint that was beginning to peel off the wall.

He tried to think of something, anything, to distract him from the horrors that lingered at the back of his mind. He started relaying the events of the day, trying to remember every word the Crawley's had said over breakfast, the gossip from the kitchens, Carson's scolding, the banter over luncheon. He strained so hard to distract himself, he wasn't aware of the two pairs of eyes watching him from the opposite ends of the table.

Baxter sat near the other end, beside Moseley, who was telling her about some revolution or other. Her brow was furrowed and she watched him with a worried look in her eyes, her lips moving slightly as if she wanted to say something, but couldn't find the strength to do it.

She was worried about him, and she couldn't help but feel a stab of pity as she watched him. She knew he wasn't anyone's favorite person, and many of the servants would do anything to avoid him. He had never made friends well, but she had always tried to be kind to him. She wondered what was bothering him to the point where he had to shut himself off, staring at nothing and speaking to no one.

Moseley seemed to noticed, and nudged her with his elbow. "Don't waste your time on that one." He murmured.

Baxter turned to look at him, her eyes reflecting her concern for the under butler, "I know you don't like him, Moseley, but I can't help but care for him. I've known him since I was a boy."

"I can't imagine Thomas as a boy." Moseley scoffed, "He was probably born a grumpy, spiteful weasel."

"Don't be unkind." Baxter replied, turning back to look at Barrow, whose mouth was moving as if he were reciting something silently. "Something's bothering him."

Moseley shrugged and returned to his meal, spooning soup into his mouth. Across the table from Baxter and Moseley, the Bates's sat together. John and Anna had noticed their exchange, though the other servants were absorbed in their own conversations.

"He had a nightmare last night." Anna said, catching the attention of the two across the table from her.

"Did he?" Moseley asked, looking disinterested.

"He's had nightmares for as long as I've known him." Baxter replied, "But I've never seen him this affected. Something else must be wrong."

"Perhaps he's ill?" Anna asked, "I've noticed he's been looking pale. His hands shake when he's holding things, and he seems tired."

"I don't know why you both bother with him," Moseley pressed, "He wouldn't appreciate it if he won the lottery. Mr. Barrow is destined to be nasty until the end."

"You don't know anything about him," Baxter snapped, startling all three of them as it was so out of character for her to be short tempered. A few servants around them cast curious glances at them, and Baxter lowered her voice as she went on, "No one deserves to be unhappy. Even Mr. Barrow."

From the kitchens, a loud clang echoed down the corridor as a heavy iron pan was dropped. They heard Mrs. Patmore scolding Daisy, and the girl apologizing profusely in return.

The servants had all jumped at the noise, startled by it momentarily. However, the brief silence was interrupted by a low moan from the end of the table. They all turned to look at Mr. Barrow, who held his face in his hands, pressing his palms against his eyes and gritting his teeth.

"Mr. Barrow, are you alright?" Carson asked, furrowing his brow with a look of annoyance that was mostly reserved for the under butler.

Barrow gasped, the sound of the pan ringing in his ears. He saw flashes of blood, dying men, gunfire, pain, and fear behind his eyes. He dug his palms into his eyes, trying to stamp out the images. He could hear screams of anguish, blood flowing from wounds, and a searing fear that boiled in his stomach. He knew he was still sitting at the dining table, but he felt the soil and grit in his lungs and throat, suffocating him. He saw the never ending walls of the trenches, and the death and pain that surrounded him.

"Mr. Barrow?" Mrs. Hughes cut in when Barrow didn't respond, looking more concerned than annoyed.

"Headache." Barrow managed to force from his lips. He stood from the table, shaking as he stood and almost falling. He caught himself by slapping his hand on the table, his eyes wide and bloodshot.

Immediately, Jimmy, who sat next to him, jumped to his feet and tried to steady Barrow. He placed his hands on Barrow's shoulders, asking if he was okay.

Barrow flinched at the contact and shoved past Jimmy, ignoring Carson's agitated questions and Jimmy's concerned voice. He leaned against the wall as he stumbled out of the dining room, staggering up the stairs as he headed towards the attic.

"I'll check on him." Baxter volunteered immediately, standing up and excusing herself from the table. She followed him quickly, leaving the rest of the servants looking confused.

"Do you think Mr. Barrow is ill?" Alfred asked, looking more worried that it was contagious than concern for the under butler.

"If he is, he should know better than to attend dinner." Carson muttered.

John Bates had remained silent during the episode, watching with sharp eyes. Anna turned to him, wondering why he hadn't spoken a word. Usually he would find something to comment on about Barrow's rude behaviour, but instead he looked concerned.

"Whatever is wrong with him, it's no concern to us." Moseley said, "Mr. Barrow always finds something to be upset about."

"Do you not see it?" Bates asked suddenly, his voice slightly louder than usual. The servants looked startled, and even Carson gazed at him in surprise.

"See what?" Jimmy asked, looking confused.

"I saw it enough after my time in the war." John went on, "I never experience it myself, but I had many friends who fought that suffered from it. I'm glad that God never burdened me with the pain that comes from shellshock."

The servant's hall was silent for several moments. Alfred broke the silence, his eyes narrowed in confusion, "Shellshock?"

"It comes from being in the war - especially the trenches." Bates explained, "It… changes people."

"But the War ended many years ago, Mr. Bates." Jimmy protested. "Surely Mr. Barrow would have shown signs of it before."

"Sometimes it takes years to develop." Bates replied somberly. "Mr. Barrow isn't my favorite person, but I wouldn't wish shellshock on even him."

"That's enough." Carson broke in, "I won't be having any more of this. Mr. Barrow's business is his own."

The servants obeyed, but an uneasy atmosphere hung over them. Anna and John exchanged a glance, and even Moseley looked concerned.

Upstairs, Baxter padded down the corridor towards the men's dormitories. She knew women weren't allowed in the men's quarters, but she didn't care. She reached Barrow's door, and heard the muffled sounds of sobs from inside. She lightly tapped on the door, calling softly out for him.

Silence followed, and after a moment, the door opened slowly. Barrow looked at her with bloodshot eyes, his face streaked with tears and a look of anguish on his features. Baxter pushed into the room, not waiting to be invited, and pushed the door closed behind her. Barrow didn't seem to care, crossing the room and sitting on the edge of his bed. He let his head fall into his hands, his black hair hanging over his fingertips.

"Thomas." She whispered, coming to stand beside his bed.

Barrow shook his head. "Leave me alone."

"No."

Barrow didn't respond, but choked out a sob. He slid from the side of his bed to the floor, where he brought his knees to his chest. Baxter knelt down beside him, gazing at him with a look of concern. "Thomas, you have to let me help you."

Barrow let his hands fall from his face, and looked at her with an expression of distress. "Why?" He croaked. "I don't deserve your kindness. I deserve to suffer."

Baxter put her hand on his shoulder, and for once he didn't flinch. "Everyone deserves kindness." She murmured.

Barrow shook his head. "I don't. Everyone looks at me as if I'm a piece of rubbish that soiled their path."

Baxter opened her mouth to speak, but Barrow went on, "I can't stop seeing it."

"Seeing what?" She asked.

He looked at her, eyes red and lip quivering, "The trenches. The blood. I can't stop hearing the gunshots, or the screaming. I see my comrades dying in front of me. I feel the dirt in my lungs. I can't make it go away. I can't sleep." He stopped to swallow a sob, and continued, "It started as nightmares, but now it happens when I'm awake. I hear the gunshots constantly. I can smell the gunpowder. I feel like I'm drowning."

Baxter looked at him, feeling pity twist her heart. She ran a hand through his hair, not knowing what to say to comfort him.

"It started when Lady Sybil died."

Baxter stopped, resting her hand on the back of his head. She had never met Lady Sybil, the youngest of the Crawley daughters, who had died in childbirth four years before. She had heard stories of the kind girl, how she helped a servant become a secretary, how she worked as a nurse during the war. Everyone had loved Sybil, and were devastated when she died. She knew Barrow was fond of her, and that they had grown close during the war, but he had never spoken directly to her about Sybil.

"I'm sorry." Was all she could think to say.

"She was my only friend." Barrow went on. "Not many people in my life have been kind to me. She was one of the few."

Baxter gazed at him as he lowered his head, wiping his tears on the back of his hand. "I'm your friend, Thomas." She whispered, "Even if you don't want me to be."

Barrow didn't respond and instead sobbed into his hand, shaking as the cries racked his body. Baxter rubbed her hand on his back, and he leaned towards her, seeking comfort. Baxter was sure that Barrow hadn't been this open with anyone in many, many years, but she said nothing.

"Now I know what you meant in the hallway. When you said that "they" couldn't send you back." She murmured. She felt him stiffen, but continued, "You don't need to be frightened, Thomas. There is no war, not anymore. We're safe at Downton, and you won't ever have to go back."

Barrow stayed silent, but continued sobbing, finally allowing his emotions to flow freely. Baxter continued to rub his back, using her other hand to run her fingers through his hair. Her heart broke for him, and she knew that he most likely wouldn't thank her for her concern. However, she knew that he needed someone to be there for him. He needed someone to be kind to him, just as Lady Sybil had been.

They sat on his floor, Baxter slightly rocking back and forth as she soothed the crying man. She heard the steady tap of rain on the windows, which gradually turned into a downpour. Even though Barrow had never truly been her friend, she cared for him, and gently held onto him as he wept.