This is essentially a take on what will be the Christmas special, which means that as of December 25 (or even now what with all the spoilers coming out) this entire fic will be officially AU. My goal is to have it finished by the time the special airs (but we shall see), tie up all the loose plot threads, and generally just let the DA folks have a break from all the angst with a bit of fun and Christmas cheer.

This fic will eventually include every character and every pairing. It also shouldn't be taken too seriously. Except for the serious parts. And maybe not even then.

Many unending thanks to the indefatigable AriadneO for the encouragement and Beta!

Day One: Invitations

Family breakfast was the usual affair – as usual as any meal could be when said family was unspeakably and glaringly minus one. Edith felt the loss most keenly during this hour, the seating arrangements strategically designed to have Papa at the head, Mary and Mama on either side, and Edith hanging off to one end like a broken fingernail, a vacant chair as her only cross-table companion. Such was her life, she mused idly at the sideboard, considered only fit enough to entertain an expensively carved piece of mahogany.

She scooped up another serving of egg, the clink of spoon on plate contrasting sharply against the soft rustling of the paper as her father turned a page. "And have you sent out all the invitations for Christmas?" she heard him ask of her mother from the table.

Edith returned to her seat in time to hear the reply. "Yesterday morning. I'm expecting quite a full house this season!" Mama said, wide-eyed, her smile balancing precariously on that fine line between happiness and horror.

Mary's features could only hope to strive to such nuance, quipping with unmistakable disdain, "I should hope so, for all our sakes. We'll need as many barriers as we can, preferably human, to keep ourselves from rubbing too closely with certain undesirable and unmentionable relatives."

Papa mumbled something in incoherent agreement, Mama clucked something in faint disapproval, and when Edith felt her turn had come to offer an opinion either way, she found she could hardly muster the will to care, for Sybil plus Branson made two extra for breakfast – and Edith would still be left to sit by herself. Instead she said nothing, and was unsurprised that no one seemed to notice the absence of her voice.

Just beyond in the village proper, an old man lay prostrate, desolate with grief at the prospect of his first Christmas completely and utterly alone, on an unmade bed in an unkempt house.

Mary. William.

Wife and son long buried into the earth. Father and husband left to linger on its surface, more a walking specter of grief than a living, breathing body. But there in his hand rested a beacon of hope: a small note inscribed with neat and tidy letters, clearly not written by the author's own uneducated hand.

Dear Mr. Mason,

I know I haven't spoken much to you since Miss Swire's funeral, and I am sorry for it. I was hoping if you have the time you could spare a visit to Downton the day after tomorrow, for there's much I'd like to share with you.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Daisy Mason

On the outskirts of Yorkshire, a baby boy cried and his mother smiled. She too had a parcel of hope delivered that morning:

Ethel-

As you might be alone this Christmas, I've arranged to have a space for you in the servants' quarters for a few days. The house will be full and we'll all be busy, but Lady Grantham felt it not right that you should be alone for the holidays.

-Elsie Hughes

More than several dozen acres over, Sir Anthony Strallan – widower, landlord, and once would-be-suitor to Lady Edith Crawley – knifed through a cream colored envelope with all the gusto of a rheumatoid partridge. The Crest of the Crawleys assaulted his vision and aroused his senses. He had seen neither hide nor hair of any member of that household since before the war, and despite the painful circumstances which had divided him from their society, the idea of spending Christmas in a house full of people – of gaiety, of laughter, and most of all, of companionship – sent a vigorous surge through retired limbs that had long forgotten the feeling of vivacity.

He inhaled deeply. The empty library smelled of musty books and hours of solitude. It had been over four years since his heart had borne the bitter pierce of rejection, and he felt that time had finally served its universal purpose in healing the wound. Grabbing pen and paper from within the desk drawer, he wasted no more time in scribbling a note to be sent directly to the Countess of Grantham that he would be delighted to share in the Crawley family's Christmas Holiday.

Miles away a man sat brooding, though in all outward appearances merely reading mildly. Those familiar with his moods knew better; his mother certainly did.

"Matthew," she tentatively tried. He flicked a page, silent.

"Matthew," she insisted again, forcing herself bodily into his den of seclusion. He closed the book and set it aside, keeping his eyes fixed on the uncovered window.

"Matthew," she clipped, growing exasperated. "I've had a letter from Cora. She'd like us both at Downton for Christmas. I've already sent a note saying we'd be more than happy to accept her invitation." Her son's dramatics had been an unwelcome visitor in their Manchester home since they'd left the country estate, and Isobel was more than ready for a change of scenery.

Bloodless eyes ascended to land on the matronly face. "How could you, Mother! And without even consulting me!" he charged. "You must send another note, telling her I cannot come. I don't think I could bear it; the thought alone is enough to deject me."

"Really, Matthew, I know it was painful, but that was nearly eight months ago. It might be time to think about moving on. I understand that –"

"No!" the objection wrenched from his throat. "I don't think you understand at all!" he wailed, the voice of a thousand laments. "'I am the cat who walks by himself, and–"

"' – and all places are alike to me'. Yes, yes, we've all heard it before!" Isobel tut-tutted in annoyance, but her countenance softened when she added, "I know what it is to lose someone, Matthew, and what I've learned is that you cannot hide from the world forever. We shall go to Downton this Christmas, we shall be pleasant company for our cousins, and we shall learn to be happy again!"

Even yet farther, in an English metropolis – London – that great city of history, theatre, and fashion (even if only of the borrowed kind), several occupants looked up from their morning tea when their butlers announced a letter had arrived.

"Of course my brother and his wife want me at Downton for Christmas!" At times Lady Rosamund Painswick felt herself too clever for her own good. "It has nothing to do with my company; they only want a full house to keep the awkwardness at bay when Sybil bears down on the family with that low-born husband in tow!" A creaking of ancient walls was the only commendation of her discernment, and for a moment Lady Rosamund wondered just who exactly she was trying to convince in the all but empty house.

Behind her the butler coughed, apologized, carried on with his silent duties, and sent wordless assurance to Lady Rosamund that her speeches were not in vain. "Well if I must go, then I am determined to bring dear Hepworth along. Cora won't mind another body – certainly not this Christmas – and I simply cannot do without his presence this season," she decided at last, setting down the lavish card while another invitee examined theirs.

"Christmas at Downton? What say you, father?"

Viscount Brankson said naught in reply, but merely shook his head in polite, yet firm dissent. Evelyn parried with his own measured pause, lobbing off an intent stare for good measure.

"Well I think it a fine idea," Evelyn finally broke the silence. "Mother's been gone for nearly six years, and it would be pleasant to enjoy Christmas in the country once again."

The Viscount sighed, resigned to his fate in the face of such mild persuasion, irritated that his son had inherited his mother's overwhelming force of will.

Across a fairly short yet turbulent sea, a husband attempted to stand his ground.

"I am not going to Downton for Christmas!" he cried, the sheet of crumpled paper in his hand only a blur amidst its frantic waving.

"I don't see why not," his wife replied impassively.

"Why not? Why not?" Sybil let her mind wander to more important matters than the innumerable protestations that streamed out of her husband's mouth. Betwixt her quiet ponderings over heart valve regurgitation and arteriovenous malformation, she faintly comprehended the list of petty and inconsequential rebuttals such as "how awkward it will be" and "Carson would as soon pour the soup on my head as serve it in my bowl" and "I have absolutely nothing to wear to dinner".

"Well neither do I – at least not any more," she chimed forth, her attention snapping back at the mere allusion to clothing. "We'll simply have to borrow some, that's all there is too it." She gave a moment for Branson to collect his jaw from the floor at the notion before continuing. "I don't even know why you keep arguing when you know I'll just have my own way in the end," she teased, gliding an errant finger down his cheek, the timbre of her voice hovering dangerously close to the edge of huskiness.

Branson wanted to stand firm, tried to summon the savage willpower of his mighty ancestors to fight the face (and hands and voice) of temptation, but to no avail. For in the deepest, utterly terrified depths of his heart, he knew that she was right.

And an ocean away, traveling back over land and sea, back to where it had all begun, to where the wheels had first been set in motion – to a large estate in the far reaches of Yorkshire.

And up in the tower, in an unused and normally unoccupied room, and overlooking the vastness wrought by generations of antiquated hierarchy, two figures stood vigil, surveying it all by the window.

"Such a tangled mess it all is."

"Unfortunately so, my lady."

"Fate has been abominably useless in turning the tides of luck for this family. It's high time I took matters into my own hands."

"You mean you haven't already?"

She chuckled. "You've known me far too long, Carson. Mark my words: everything shall be settled by Christmas."

"With all due respect, my lady, that's also what they said about the war."

"Perhaps," she conceded. Then, with a sharp rap of her cane against the sill, "But that's only because they had unwisely chosen not to put the Dowager Countess of Grantham in charge!"