Without A Compass

By: piperholmes

A/N: Written for, you guessed it EAST Alliance! This has been my personal headcanon for a long time and it's nice to have a reason to write it. There is a great deal of S/T because I needed to set the scene. I have a rather extensive AU I've created in my head and this is just a glimpse into it. But I thought it would just fit so nicely for today. Long Live the AU! And, as usual, this is not beta'd and I almost guarantee there are a errors and typos. I haven't had a great deal of time to write so I had to just type and dash! Hope you are able to enjoy it any way.

Christmas 1928, Dublin

"Four boys, finally asleep," Sybil declared, flopping down onto the bed and mumbling into the pillow, "Took forever to get them calm and quiet."

Tom laughed, quickly tossing his new book aside, a Christmas present from Matthew, and snuggled up next to her. "They've got their mother's fighting spirit."

Sybil scoffed. "More like their father's stubbornness."

Tom grinned, pressing a kiss to her neck, his long fingers working the sleeve of her nightgown down her shoulder as his lips followed the trail of newly revealed skin.

Sybil moaned, rolling over to look at him fully. "We can't tonight my love," she admitted. "My monthly's returned."

Tom nodded, with Sybil weening their one year old Finn it was to be expected. He happily settled to have her pressed against him, pillowed against his chest, running his fingers through her thick, dark hair. They quietly and lazily discussed the day, spending the holiday in Ireland this year to be with his family, laughing as they recalled the way eight year old Robbie and six year old Michael had whooped with delight upon opening their wooden swords, and how their three year old Jack, their quiet, sweet tempered Jack, had been livid when Michael declared him too little to play with them.

"Sybil?"

"Hmm?"

Tom twirled a curl of hair around his pointer finger, still, after nearly 10 years of marriage, in awe of the soft texture, thinking carefully, trying to word his question. "I know we talked about Finn being the last, but...I don't suppose you'd be willing to try once more...for a girl?"

His question hung in the quiet, and once the words were out he became awashed with doubts; five children, finances, careers, Sybil's health. It suddenly seemed ridiculous.

"Nevermind, I-"

Sybil sat up abruptly, turning her blue eyes to him, a soft smile on her lips as she resituated herself, fully on top of him, now face to face.

"Five children?" she asked carefully, one eyebrow raised.

Tom detected a hint of amusement in her voice, grateful she wasn't outright angry with him at his suggestion.

"And it could be a boy again, you know," she pointed out.

Tom sighed. "And I would be very happy," he answered,"But it was a silly a thought Sybil, pay me no mind. I always get this way around the holidays."

"I know," she whispered. This time of year always brought out a special level of sentimentality in her husband. Their first year in Ireland together, so far from her home, huddled together in their tiny flat that first Christmas morning, only just having discovered their little family was about to grown, it had forever impressed on Tom the necessity for strength in their home. Both their families were struggling with their marriage, their countries were at war with each other, life wearing and tearing against them, but it was a commitment to each other that pulled them through; it was their family.

"Finn is just sleeping throught the night," she continued. "And do you really want more nappies to change?"

Tom rolled his eyes. "Ok, it was a stupid question. I already said forget about it."

She blinked at him, her own fingers now moving to gently stroke his cheek. "You'll be 40 soon."

"In three years!" he cried a bit indignantly, frowning at her small chuckle.

"You're having a bit of a go at me aren't you?" he asked, her lips breaking into a grin.

"Maybe," she laughed, playing with the springy hair poking through the opening of his vest. Suddenly her face grew serious. "I'm not saying yes, but I'm not saying no either. Let's just wait, we'll talk about it a bit more in the new year, yeah?"

Tom nodded, but he his lips smirked at her.

"Why are you smiling?" she asked, here eyes narrowing.

"Because that means yes," Tom grinned, now not bothering to hide his glee.

"It does not!" she huffed back, swatting at his chest. "It means maybe."

But Tom knew. He knew if the answer was no she would just say it. That was how she handled the boys, him too really. No meant no, but maybe meant yes.

She rolled over again, landing next to him on the bed, her head on his shoulder, both staring up at their bedroom ceiling.

"It'll be another boy you know," she finally answered, pretending she didn't know how his eyes light up at the thought of another baby.

"Maybe," Tom conceded, "But either way it'll be a Branson, and that means-"

"It will be loved and adored," Sybil interjected.

January 1930, Dublin

He knew something was wrong.

He'd been through this four times already. There had never been this mad dash about the hospital, the heads down, eyes diverted, hushed tones and pitying glances type of tension in the air.

Tom paced, fear beginning to play terrible tricks on his mind, winding its long tenticles deep into his soul as he waited...and waited...and waited. This was surely the last baby for them. Sybil had been incredibly sick the entire pregnancy. He'd never seen her so drained of energy, so pale so often. It had been a hard year for her. The last month had been the worst. They were suppose to travel to Downton for Christmas, even in her late months of pregnancy Sybil had never had much issue with traveling, but this year it hadn't been possible.

Edith and Mary had both made the journey to Dublin for the New Year, hoping to help their sister through the trying last few weeks of pregnancy.

"I can't take this," Tom muttered, his hands listlessly fiddling with his hat.

His sister-in-law Edith glanced up at him from her chair. "It won't be long now," she tried to assure. "Why don't you call home, check in with Mary? See how she's surviving with your brood?"

He gave her a small smile, appreciating her attempts to distract him. His response was cut off as the doctor appeared.

"If you'll come with me Mr. Branson," he grumbled, no smile, no calming words, just a command.

Tom felt his heart race, his breath coming fast.

"Please," he begged quietly, falling into step with the aged man. "Just tell me, is she alright? The baby? Please."

"Mrs. Branson has requested to be the one to give you the details, and considering her medical background I was willing to comply."

That was all the answer he got, but it was enough to have him nearly trip over his own feet as relief barreled through him.

She was alive.

Just before the entered the door the doctor stopped him, his large meaty hand reaching out to touch Tom's shoulder. "I will tell you it was a hard delivery. Mrs. Branson is going to need time to recover. Don't stay long."

Tom nodded, now desperate to see his wife.

He quietly pushed through the door seeing a row of curtained off beds; new mothers, new babies, new fathers, safely ensconced behind them. A nurse appeared in front of him, a pleasant young woman with a round open face, she seemed to hesitated but it may have been a his imagination.

"This way Mr. Branson."

Dutifully he followed, anticipation fluttering in his stomach. He realized he hadn't asked if it was a boy or girl.

He gave the nurse a grateful nod when they stopped in front of one of the soft white barricades, and stepped behind it.

Sybil was sitting up, her face glowing, an exhausted radiant smile on her swollen face. Her eyes glassy and so filled with love as she gazed at the tiny bundle in her arms. As a man whose career depended on his understand and employ of linguistics, it was the power of this moment, the first moment he'd met each new child as he lay cradled in his mother's arms, that left him without words.

"A girl," his wife whispered, her own voice tired and aching, overcome with emotion as she breathed out the two words that instantly melted his heart.

Tom felt tears push for release, as he carefully sat next to his wife, his eyes taking his little girl.

His daughter.

"She's so beautiful."

Sybil's smile grew, a tear escaping down her cheek. "She is Tom. She's perfect."

Tom heard more than love in her voice. He heard conviction, he heard desperation, even, perhaps a challenge.

"I was getting really worried," he confessed, using a hand to tuck a still damp strand of hair behind her ear. "The doctor said-"

"Tom," Sybil interrupted. "I have to tell you. It's her legs and feet...they...they're twisted."

Tom felt his heart stop, unclear of her meaning, but understanding the pain in her voice. He watched in silence as his wife slowly unwrapped the newborn, falling even more in love as he got a better look at her face, her little hands, delicate fingers and red skin.

He gasped, unable to control the reaction, when he saw her tiny legs turned slightly and the unnatural bend of her unbelievably small feet.

His heart smashed into a million pieces, wrenching shards flying around in his chest.

"She's a Branson," Sybil chocked, tears coming in earnest, a protective, fierce mother.

Tom could feel her shaking beside him, and realized she was desperate for him to speak, to love, to support.

"Oh my darling," he spoke, his own tears refusing to be withheld, forcing the words around the lump in his throat and the pain in his heart as he thought of this new little life with so much pain ahead of her. "Of course she is. Of course she is love. And she's loved and adored."

He sealed his promise with a kiss to his wife's brow, wrapping her in his arms, mindful of the fragile little one in her arms. With the love a devoted father he pressed his finger against the palm of his new little daughter, delighting as she wrapped her little hand around him, capturing him to her forever.

August 1933, Downton Abbey

"Sybbie, slow down," Tom scolded, panicked at the way his little girl threw her crutches about, knowing one wrong placement and she would tumble to the ground. She'd only recently begun walking, her last surgery bringing mild success.

The heavy braces on her legs didn't seem to deter her, finally being able to walk, or as close a facsimile as she'd ever gotten, with her brothers had given her renewed energy and excitement.

"Wouldn't it have been a better idea to take the car?" Lord Grantham asked again, wincing as his youngest grandchild wobbled precariously.

Sybil sighed. "No Papa. It's good for her to get the exercise. We can't coddle her all the time. She has to learn to move on her own."

The Earl's third daughter reached her husband's hand, holding it tight, knowing his sensitivity to any perceived slight on his child.

"She's doing marvelously Papa," Edith pointed out, her own arm linked with her husbands.

"Indeed," Sir Anthony agreed, jovially. "She's doing jolly well. She'll out run the boys soon."

Tom groaned.

November 1933, Dublin

"They want to cut out part of her bone?" Tom asked, incredulous.

Sybil frowned. "I know. I don't like it either."

She shifted the heavy weight of her sleeping three-year old, worn out from her last round of doctor visits.

"I'll take her," Tom offered, opening his arms for her.

Sybil went to argue, but she saw the look on his face, the need in his eyes. She recognized it, knew it intimately. It was the same love and fear she felt drive her to kiss her little one and hold her close. Carefully she passed her off, watching as Tom reverently cradled the child to him.

"I think...Edith sent me a letter, telling me about a doctor at The Hospital for Sick Children, Great Ormond Street, in London," she dug in her handbag for a moment, pulling out a folded piece of paper. "A doctor...Dr. Denis Browne. It seems he specializes in treating children. I think it would be a good idea to take her to see him."

"Take her to London?"

"Yes."

"Alright."

May 1937, Dublin

"Jack, Finn" Sybil called, stepping into the school's Head Master's office.

The two boys looked up, their eyes bright compared to the dirt marring their faces, bits of dried blood forming around Jack's lip and a dark bruise already taking shape on Finn's cheek.

"What on earth has happened?" she demanded, kneeling down to face her children, examining them, taking in their hurt.

"Your children were caught fighting in the school yard Mrs. Branson," the portly Head Master boomed.

Sybil's eyebrows lowered, surprise evident. The boys were known to wrestle or tussle at home but not a school. "You were fighting each other?"

"No," Mr. Glenn answered for them. "They were fighting two other boys and a girl."

"Jack! Finn!" Sybil scolded, shocked by the news.

"They deserved it Mama," Jack grumbled.

Mr. Glenn raised a bushy black eyebrow.

"They was calling Sybbie names," Finn cried. "Making fun of her."

Sybil felt her shoulders fall, her indignation leaving. This wasn't the first time something like this had come up; Robbie and Michael having gotten into similar scrapes, for similar reasons.

The last few years, and several trips to London, had meant wonderful progress for their little girl and they all believed that within the year she should be free of the braces, but she would always walk with a noticeable limp and that meant many more years of cruel teasing.

Ignoring Mr. Glenn's blustering, Sybil wrapped her boys into a tight hug.

"Let's go home boys."

February 1945, Downton Abbey

"But Da! You're not being fair!" Fifteen year old Sybbie cried.

"Really Uncle Tom," Rebecca Strallan interjected, "I'd be with her the whole time, and it's just a bit of fun and music and dancing."

"Rebecca," her father said firmly, as firmly as his soft manner could afford, "Uncle Tom doesn't need you interfering."

The twenty year old woman shrugged. "Excuse me for wanting to help Sybbie have a little fun for once."

"Rebecca!" Edith cried.

"It's alright Edith," Sybil sighed, used to these fights. "He is being overprotective."

Tom glared at his wife over the dinner table. "I don't think it's ridiculous to not want to send my daughter to London to a dance hall with a bunch of military boys milling about. It's not safe."

"The war is practically over," Sybbie insisted. "Everyone says so. It's not like London is going to be bombed again. And my brothers are all military boys, so they can't all be bad."

Sybil winced, her hands clenching around her fork and knife, as the reminder that her babies were far from her and in very dangerous situations. With Michael in hospital in London, they had agreed to come to Downton to be close to him, but that still left Robbie and Finn in France, and Jack, sweet, quiet Jack, missing in action. Seeing his wife's pain only fuel his ire.

"The answer is no, and that's final," he declared.

"But Da, Michael is feeling better and said he might even go with us," Sybbie tried once more, more like her parents than either would prefer.

"No!" Tom said, practically slamming his hand down. "You're only fifteen and you don't know what those places are like, and you can't even dan-"

Tom stopped himself but it was too late.

Hurt slashed across his daughter's face. "I knew it," she nearly whispered. "You won't let me go because of my legs. You think I'm a baby who can't do anything because of my stupid limp!" Her voice rose in level.

"No, that's not it," Tom tried, but Sybbie refused to listen.

"I'm not a baby. I can do things. I don't need everyone fighting my battles for me," she cried angrily, hot tears springing to her eyes. She pushed back from the table, and to her embarrassment stumbled on her way to the door, catching herself just before she fell. She refused to look at her family as she finally walked out.

Sybil looked at her husband, knowing the heartache that had lived with him for the last 15 years. "Tom-"

"I know," he grumbled, feeling the eyes of the entire family on him. "But what am I suppose to do? I don't want her hurt. What if people laugh at her, or try and take advantage of her? She's already been through so much. What if she falls? What if...there are so many things that can go wrong. I can't, it hurts too much to think of her alone or afraid."

"I'll go talk to her." Sybil stood, meaning to follow her daughter, but was surprised when Edith stood.

"Can I speak to her?"

Sybil nodded, knowing their was a special bond between aunt and niece, a bond that had formed the night the little child was born.

Falling back into her chair, Sybil felt her mother's hand rub her shoulder as Edith left the room.

"Edith will talk with her," Cora comforted.

"Might...might I say something?" Anthony asked the room, though it was clear he was addressing Tom.

The Irishman nodded.

"When I returned from the war, with this useless arm, I thought my days of having a fulfilling life were over," he hesitated, and Tom sense a bit of embarrassment from his brother-in-law at such a confession. "But Edith showed me how wrong I was. Even with this busted arm I still had so much I could do, and so much life left to live."

Tom wanted to argue, wanted to insist this was a different scenario, but the tender sincerity of the man across the table calmed his defensiveness, entreating him to listen.

"I think what our Sybbie needs is to know you believe in her," he offered a smile. "Because we all know how much you love and adore her Tom. But you perhaps need to see her for the life she can live, not the one she's already lived. Don't make her afraid to live. Trust me when I say that is a desperate place to find oneself."

Tom's eyes lowered as he considered those words. Without a word he stood, stepping over to his worried wife and kissed her on the top of the head. "I'll make this right," he promised before following where is daughter and sister-in-law had gone moments earlier.

Sybbie lay stretched on her bed, her face buried in her pillow, as she sobbed out her frustrations.

"Go away," she called out to whomever was knocking on her door.

"It's Auntie Edith," the muffled voice responded. "Please, may I come in."

Sybbie wiped hard at her eyes, sniffling as she turned the nob to let her aunt in.

As soon as Edith entered, the young girl buried her face into her aunt's chest. "I hate him," she declared again, and again. "I hate him."

"Oh my dear," Edith cooed, guiding the pair to again sit on the bed. "Don't say that. It's not true. You adore your father."

"No I don't," she stubbornly answered. "Why would I adore someone who thinks I'm worthless? He doesn't believe in me."

Edith pulled Sybbie up to look at her. "You're father has never for one moment thought you worthless."

Sybbie was brought short by the sharpness of her beloved aunt's tone. "He has been spent everyday of your life wildly in love with you, cherishing you, holding you when you were in pain, fighting doctors, wiping your tears even as he quietly cried his own. He wants to protect you."

The youngest Branson huffed. "I don't need hm protecting me everyday."

"I know that," Edith answered calmly. "And I'll help you so that he will know that too. But right now you need to be patient. Your mother and father have spent many years fulfilling the roles of protector. And they are very scared and worried right now about your brothers and the thought of something happening to you is too much to bear. Perhaps we can be little more forgiving and not so hard on them."

Sybbie nodded, guilt a powerful motivator. "I didn't mean it...when I said I hate him."

Edith smiled. "I know dear. And I'm not saying he's right. I know what it's like to feel like your family doesn't believe in you. It took me a long time to realize it was more important to believe in myself. When you find that confidence then you can help show your Papa that you are capable of more, and it is easier to see that people believe in you more than you're willing to give them credit."

A gentle knock sounded, both women knowing who was on the other side.

With a final hug to her niece Edith stood, opening the door, and surprising both Branson's when she stepped through it and shut it behind her, keeping Tom from entering.

"I'm going to say something that is probably going to upset you, but I'd like you to hear me out."

"Ok," Tom answered slowly.

"I know you're scared for her and concerned for her, but you are acting like my father."

Tom scoffed, opening his mouth to argue when his sister-in-law cut him off.

"You don't have to be an Earl to want to control a situation. My father thought he was doing what was right, to protect me, to treat me like a child for far longer than I should have allowed. He could never see the strides I'd made or the accomplishments I'd achieved. He always just saw me as 'Poor Edith.' He couldn't see the changes that were happening, refused to embrace them, as you know better than any of us. You're a far better father than the one I ever had, but don't hide behind your love for Sybbie, you can't keep her a little girl forever, continue being a better father."

Tom smirked, causing Edith to shake her head. One good thing about a former chauffeur, radical Irish brother-in-law, was that he had an unusal sense of propriety at times, proving rather amusing.

"Whatever are you smirking?" she inquired.

"Your husband had already convinced me," he answered simply.

"Well, good, he's a smart man," she smiled.

"Agreed. And you're a smart woman, m'lady," he added with a wink. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a daughter to apologies to and try and make amends."

Edith nodded, a small smile on her lips, grateful again for the family they'd all fought to create.

Thanks for reading!

Happy EAST Alliance Day!