A/N: Well, this is it. I'd like to thank those of you who have taken the time to review, or support me on tumblr as I went through this. Major props to DaniiShep and Dibdab4 for the conversations about who would be alive when, which was traumatic, and my eternal thanks to brenna-louise for betaing. And for the amazing artwork she produced for this final chapter. It's on my tumblr – go check it out.

You are getting two for one in this chapter. Partly because I didn't think the small scenes could make whole chapters on their own, but also because I think it's better to get all this sorrow over and done with as soon as possible.

Silver (1950)

Spring in the village of Downton was always glorious, and as Elsie Carson walked steadily through it towards the churchyard, she took in the bright daffodils, primroses and bluebells, and heard the shrill call of the baby birds as they waited impatiently in their nests to be fed.

The sun was bright and there was barely a cloud in the sky, which had certainly not been the case on the same day twenty five years ago. Then, the light in Charles's eyes as they had married had more than made up for the delinquency of the weather.

She moved slowly, not because her age demanded it, but rather due to the fact she was mentally retracing the events of the day so many years before. She had awoken in the half light, the outlines of her special outfit looming out of the darkness, Beryl (wonderful, dear, sorely missed Beryl who had quietly slipped away nine months ago) had brought her a cup of tea whilst Anna and Phyllis had arrived in great state and insisted on dressing her as if she had been the lady of the house.

She had been driven down these streets (insisting even with the honour of it in sitting up front), the lanes and people going about their business taking on a new colour and significance, and then drawn up to the church, the other women all hurrying up the path to join the congregation as she waited a moment longer and said a prayer of thanks.

Pausing by the gate now, she rested a gloved hand on the post and looked up at the building. There, the last chapter of her life had begun. She swung open the gate and walked steadily up the path, but she did not go all the way to the church, veering off to the left instead, crossing the grass until she found what she sought.

A rounded headstone, slightly weather-beaten, with the simple inscription: Here lies Mr Charles Carson, b. 17 May 1856, d. 14th November 1945

'Hello Charles. Happy anniversary.'

She stood in contemplation of the headstone, communing silently with her husband and directing her love towards the earth beneath her feet. The wind picked up slightly and she pulled the sides of her coat together, shivering a little. The fact it did not have any buttons had not been an issue twenty five years ago, and the removal of the fur collar which had been imperative when the coat had become hers, rather than a loan, felt like a foolish decision now. She was grateful for the bulky scarf she had wound around her neck, a gift from William after he had left the air force at the end of the war.

What had possessed her to pull on this particular coat as she had prepared to leave the house she still wasn't quite sure, except that she felt like indulging memories. It was more than honouring the day, wearing it honoured the people who had helped her too.

She had stood there for more than ten minutes before a warm Irish brogue cut through the quiet morning.

'Irises must be quite hard to come by at this time of year.'

She started out of her reverie and flashed a smile in Tom's direction before returning her gaze to the grave, leaning down to place the deep blue flowers she had been holding at the foot of the headstone. Straightening up, she felt Tom come and stand next to her. He did not put his arm about her, or touch her in any way except to briefly press the corner of his shoulder against hers.

'I'm very lucky to know some excellent gardeners. Mr Brock always made a point of sending me flowers to match the anniversary year, and when he retired, he made sure Mr Pegg continued.'

'That's a fine gesture,' mused Tom, glancing Elsie's way and smiling as their eyes met. 'I'd wager the colour isn't just chance either.'

'Ah!' Elsie's eyes twinkled, although she did not smile. 'I've taught you well. Blue Irises denote faith and hope. Rather apt, I think.'

Nodding in agreement, Tom turned back to the grave, dipping his head to contemplate the earth. 'Hello Mr Carson. Your wife is very wise and looking lovely today, although I'm sure you're well aware of it.'

Elsie gave a short huff of amusement and nudged Tom's shoulder. 'Flatterer. I'm 88, you can hardly call me lovely.'

Tom turned to her, putting his hands in his pockets as he looked at her in mock scrutiny. 'Well, it's true enough that your hair is completely white now, and there are more lines about your eyes, but in essentials you are exactly the same wonderful woman who sat before me and helped me bear the pain of suddenly being without my wife.'

Elsie did not utter a word of thanks, nor say the praise was unnecessary, and that she had done what she could to lessen his grief. She understood much better now how precious was the support of friends who understood, and so she just tilted her head in acknowledgement at the compliments and raised her eyebrow at the grave. Wonderful woman? You'd say that was Celtic excess I suppose!

Tom glanced at the sky, the clouds having shut out the sun and now starting to turn an ominous grey.

'I think it might be time to leave.'

'I suppose so, but I've got some other people to see first.'

Elsie caressed the curve of her husband's grave once more and then moved off, deeper into the graveyard, Tom following close behind. She weaved around the stones, giving a nod of recognition towards many of them, including Mr Molesley senior, Mr Travis and Dr Clarkson, who had died not long after Charles, before coming to a stop in front of one grave in particular.

It read Here lies Mr Albert Mason. B. 20th May 1864, D. 10th October 1940. Also, his wife Mrs Beryl Mason. B. 10th February 1864, D. 12th August 1949. Gone for a trip up the Nile.

'I've never understood the relevance of that last line,' chuckled Tom. 'It's not a quotation as far as I can tell.'

'In a way it is.' Elsie said, dabbing away the tears which had sprung up. 'You'll remember that Beryl's way of … ordering her staff about was acerbic to the point of waspish at times. This was apparently part of one of the barbs she directed towards Daisy, although none of us could remember the precise timing when Daisy was reminiscing a year or so ago. It tickled Beryl though, and she suggested it as a suitable epitaph.'

Tom laughed in appreciation then cast a glance up at the sky again, as the wind whipped about them. 'We should find some shelter. I think Isobel would be willing to give us a cup of tea.'

'Just one more.' Elsie said, putting a hand on Tom's arm and directing him towards the other side of the graveyard. 'Then I'll be a good old woman and do whatever you wish.'

'I wasn't trying to order …' Tom started to protest, before he was cut short by an amused chuckle.

'I know. Sometimes I forget I'm 88. In many ways I don't feel any older than the day I married Mr Carson. I'm almost the age he was when he died, but I feel no closer to the grave, although I'll admit the emotion of today has tired me more than I expected.'

They had reached her destination as she finished speaking and Tom found himself gazing at a very familiar tomb, Sybil Cora Branson engraved upon its side. He did not utter a word, but placed his hand over the one Elsie gripped his arm with, and squeezed it appreciatively.

'She would be so proud of your achievements you know. And your daughter's.'

'I know. I had a call from Sybbie just yesterday. She says she falls in love with Edinburgh even more each month.'

'Ah, well that's her Celtic heritage for you,' laughed Elsie, her eyes sparkling, 'The hospital is lucky to have her. As is Jamie.'

'That he is,' agreed Tom quietly, a pensive look clouding his face.

Elsie heard the change in his tone and turned to look at him. 'She'll be fine when the baby comes. Tom? She will.'

'I know. But you can't stop a father worrying.'

'No,' Elsie agreed softly.

'I had a call from Mary yesterday too,' Tom said brightly.

'Oh yes? How was her trip across the Atlantic?'

'Uneventful, apparently. She was in ever such a panic though.'

'Why? Were there more engagement functions than she had planned for?'

Mary and Henry had gone to America in order to announce the engagement of George to Fiona Rothschild, whom he had briefly met during the war and romanced over the last year. Much merriment had been had imagining what the late Dowager would have said had she known there was to be yet another American Countess of Grantham.

'Oh, nothing she couldn't handle,' Tom replied, grinning. 'No, she was in a panic over you.'

'Me? Whatever for?'

'Well, perhaps I should say your anniversary. She thought she'd forgotten it, and when I assured her this was not the case, she dictated this letter to you.'

Tom reached into his jacket pocket and produced an envelope which he began to hand over. As he did so, however, there was a great rumble of thunder and raindrops started to fall. Sharing a grin, the two turned from Sybil's grave and dashed towards Crawley House.

The front door was open when they reached it, Isobel standing in the frame and gesturing for them to hurry.

'I saw you wandering around the graveyard from the upstairs window,' she called brightly. 'Get in out of the wet!'

The pair crossed the threshold laughing and Isobel enveloped Elsie in a hug. 'Happy anniversary' she whispered in her ear.

'Thank you.' Drawing back, Elsie studied the tired face of her friend. 'How's Dickie?'

'Fading,' Isobel answered, the look on her face conveying all the details Elsie knew too well. 'But he'll be glad I saw you today. What's that?' She nodded to the envelope Elsie held.

'I've no idea, except for the fact Tom says it's a message from your daughter-in-law. Tom won't tell me a thing about it.'

'Well, let's have some tea, and then we can unravel the mystery!' Isobel said merrily, moving into the sitting room.

'Are you sure?' Elsie looked back into the hall, 'I don't want to take you away from ….'

'The nurse is with him for now.' Isobel interrupted. 'She'll fetch me if I'm …. If …. Let us have this moment, Elsie. Please?'

Elsie nodded in complete understanding of what it was Isobel needed at that moment and moved to sit on a sofa, the others sitting on the one opposite.

Once tea had been served and Elsie's coat hung up so that the rain did not cause permanent damage, Tom explained a little more about the phone call he had received.

'She was quite moved as she explained her request to me, and we went through at least three drafts before she was happy with how the note sounded.'

'Well!' exclaimed Elsie, looking at the envelope in bafflement. 'I suppose I'd better put myself out of my misery.'

Slitting the envelope, she pulled out a sheet of paper and began to read it in silence, a hundred emotions flitting across her face as Isobel and Tom watched her.

Dear Mrs Carson,

You will remember that a few days before Mr Carson died he asked you to leave his side for a few minutes, so he could speak to me alone. You did not outwardly begrudge me this, and I expect you thought he was using the time to bid me a proper farewell.

In fact, his first words as you left the room were to murmur 'I thank whatever gods may be for her unconquerable soul' and then asked me to take something from a drawer in the wardrobe. He instructed me to give you the package on your twenty fifth anniversary. I do not know what is in it, but I hope it brings you joy.

He did bid farewell after that. Told me how proud he was that I had made a success of running Downton and found new happiness after Matthew died.

You returned to the room not long after with some medicine or other, and that look – the one I mentioned to you when we were debating your retirement – suffused his face. You brought him so much love and comfort in those final days, and I know he did the same for you, because his look of deep affection was reflected in your eyes. You loved each other so much and I feel so honoured to have witnessed it.

I hope the day is as happy as it can be.

Mary

Elsie silently handed the letter to Isobel and turned to Tom, her eyes wide in expectation.

'I had a devil of a job finding it – Mrs Molseley and I turned half the house upside down. I only hope this is what she meant.' He drew out a rectangular package carefully wrapped in cloth, tied with string, and a brown label inscribed with her name attached.

Fairly certain she knew what she held in her hands, she slipped off the string and pulled back the cloth. Sure enough, a silver picture frame, quite plain, although there was some tiny detailing around the edge, was revealed. The very one she had presented to him all those years ago, albeit slightly tarnished now. A piece of paper covered the middle of the frame.

'You old booby.' She chuckled to herself quietly. She had often wondered what had happened to it, although she had never mentioned its absence from the collection of other frames in the sitting room. She had assumed he had put it away, but she'd not found it when she had gone through his things after his death. Had it really lived at the bottom of their wardrobe all these years?

The piece of paper fell forward into her lap and she was astounded to find that she was not looking at the formal depiction of Alice Neal. Not, now that she thought about it, that she had ever really expected otherwise, or thought about it overmuch. If he had kept the picture she would not have been hurt, it was as much a part of him as all the rest. But he hadn't, or at least, not with the frame.

There was a picture however, and she gave a cry of surprise. 'Oh! Charles …' She looked up to see the warm and concerned smiles Isobel and Tom wore. Passing them the frame she explained 'I thought we'd lost that picture.'

Charles had placed a snapshot taken in Venice during their holiday to celebrate her 75th birthday. A flock of pigeons had taken flight, startling the camera man, and they'd still been laughing when he had taken a second snap. The mirth was written on their faces as they glanced at each other, his body angled towards her. The entire world, including the magnificent Doge's Palace behind them, was forgotten. It was just them.

Passing the frame to Tom she looked down, noticing for the first time that the slip of paper which had covered the picture had writing on it, in Charles's unmistakable hand.

Darling,

Did you think I would neglect our silver anniversary just because I would not be there? In case you wondered, Alice stayed a very short while on my desk. I disposed of her photograph the week before I bought the house. You had the whole of my heart. The frame was bundled into a box of things when we moved to the cottage, and it was not until our first anniversary that I thought of it again. I hope you've been happy for however long we've been separated. My love for you will outlast my life, and this picture frame symbolises that longevity.

Happy anniversary my love.

Charles.

She could not stop the tears flowing as she read the words and it was not until she felt Isobel wrap her in her arms that she realised the other woman had moved. She wept on her friend's shoulder for the man she had lost and Isobel wept with her for the one she was about to relinquish, whilst outside, the weather continued to pour torrents of rain against the window in what seemed to Tom to be some sort of meteorological sympathy.

There was, however, a strength to their emotion; a cathartic quality in allowing themselves to let go. Tom could see the two women crumble and rebuild themselves in the embrace and marvelled at the strength of the love they, as well as he, had been lucky enough to experience.

As the women pulled apart at last, Elsie handed Isobel the note and flashed a rueful smile at Tom, reaching out to squeeze his offered hand.

'Alice,' mused Isobel, 'Would she and the frame have anything to do with that gruff Mr Grigg you had me help all those years ago?'

Elsie nodded and started to explain the intricate story to her friends, revealing in that tale the foundations of a love which had shone like a beacon between them. Outside, the rain continued, but in Elsie's heart the love she had for her husband, living and dead, dried out the brief misery she had felt, leaving only a bright happiness in remembrance of all she had experienced.

CE&CE&CE

CE&CE&CE

Pearl (1955)

The sun shone brightly in a way that seemed to suggest to Daisy, busily moving about the Carson's kitchen, that spring had finally arrived, and that the bright green leaves would soon be pushing through the branches.

New life was everywhere, which made the reason for her presence in the kitchen that much harder to bear.

She refused to cry yet though. There had been far too many reasons for weeping these past years. With the children growing up, she should have spent her time in church wearing bright colours and celebrating love, instead of which she was usually wearing black and praying for the souls of the departed.

Dickie Merton had lost his battle with cancer in the summer of 1950, and although Isobel had struggled gamely on alone (again), no one had been unduly surprised when she had quietly died in the spring of 1952.

It was Lord Grantham's death that had come as the greatest shock to the community. As with King George VI, the war had made an old man of him. The many atrocities both on and off the battlefield chilled the blood and made one wonder about man's capacity for evil. The bombardment of London had made the deepest impression on his health, however. He had worried himself sick over Sybbie's safety throughout the blitz, and then it was Rosamund who had forfeited her life when her house took a direct hit in the so called 'little blitz' of 1944. Robert Crawley had died in 1951, aged 83.

Now, only Lady Grantham and Mrs Carson survived of the old guard, the adults Daisy had known since she first came to Downton, and unless she was very much mistaken, after today only Cora would remain. Daisy sighed and continued making the tea.

Upstairs, the warm sun peeked in at a bedroom that was considerably fuller than it normally would be. Four women stood or sat around the bed, which contained the sleeping form of Elsie Carson.

'Do you think we should wake her?' whispered Anna, moving from her seat by the wall to stand at Cora's shoulder. 'It's almost time for her medication.'

Cora, who had kept vigil by the bedside of her former housekeeper and valued friend for five days, leaned forward to see if Elsie could be woken, but Anna's words seemed to have broken a hushed spell and caused the object of her concern to stir.

Elsie fluttered her eyes open slowly, the light paining her slightly as she drew out of the fractured sleep she had been falling in and out of.

'Oh,' she said, smiling up at the concerned faces of Anna and Cora. 'Hello.'

She moved her head slowly in the direction of the light and gave a soft gasp as her gaze fell across the woman who stood by the window, professionally kitted out in medical uniform, but also clearly heavily pregnant.

'Oh – Lady Sybil. Have you come to …?'

'That's not Sybil,' Cora broke in, gripping Elsie's hand. 'Sybbie's come from Edinburgh. You remember, she's been looking after your care for a few days.' Her tone was soft yet anguished as she glanced at her granddaughter. Yes, the similarity was remarkable. Although her daughter had never reached the age of thirty five, she knew this blooming woman was the very copy of her.

'Oh yes.' Elsie smiled, looking back at the woman who now moved from the window and settled in the chair on the other side of the bed. 'You looked so like your mother in that bright sunshine.'

Elsie lapsed into silence for a while, and the women thought she had fallen asleep once more. Marigold left to see if Daisy needed help with the tea, knowing that the woman's protracted absence would have very little to do with the intricacy of lighting the range or any other domestic triviality.

None of them spoke, but a shared sense of an impending event permeated the room. It was shocking, therefore, when Elsie's voice, quieter than before, cracked through the stillness.

'I'm feeling a little chilled. Anna, would you get me a wrap? There's one in the top drawer of the dresser, I believe.'

Anna did as requested and her eyes misted over as she pulled the beautiful Venetian lace shawl from its place. She recognised it immediately – all the women had coveted it when they'd first seen it.

Between them, she and Sybbie drew the wrap about Elsie's shoulders, allowing her to settle back against the piled up pillows once more.

Elsie's eyes were fully open as she now took in the beautiful light pouring through her window.

Sunny, she thought. The fact it was not raining comforted her. She saw no reason that the weather should mourn along with everyone else. Not today. Whatever today was. I've lost all track, she mused, and summoned the strength to voice her meandering thoughts.

'I keep meaning to ask – have I asked? – What's the date?'

Cora leaned forward to take her hand and smiled into Elsie's eyes, the kindness in them saying all the things she could not voice. 'It's the 12th April 1955.' Her eyes sparkled with merriment in amongst the unshed tears as they shared an unspoken agreement that their marriages continued even though their partners had not.

Delight spread over Elsie's face. 'Ah!' she breathed, moving her head so that she lay looking up at the ceiling. 'You see Charlie, I told you we'd make it.'

Silence enfolded the room once more as Elsie allowed her thoughts to drift, the memories of the last thirty years, and more, swirling through her mind.

Perhaps she slept, the women watching over her were not sure, but gradually her steady breathing grew shallower and softer, and then, before she woke once more, she breathed her last and slipped away to join her husband.

Elsie Carson's death on her thirtieth anniversary was a momentous and distressing event for all that knew and loved her, but in truth part of her had died ten years before, with her husband. It was not a visible death, indeed she lived just as he had wished her to, but a secret part of her soul, which had thrummed with delight whenever he spoke her name in a way so particular to him, ceased to exist on that November day in 1945. It worked both ways, however, and a tiny sliver of Charles Carson was kept alive long after his mortal remains grew cold, and only in the moment after her quiet whisper did he finally, and completely, cease to be.

Their lives were entwined; had been since the moment she arrived in the servant's hall as head housemaid over fifty years ago, although they were not aware of it quite then. It was the thirty years of their marriage that proved the link and opened up a world of possibility and love that neither of them had expected. In the furnace of that friendship – forged in the fires of hard work and mutual respect – the sparks of love were kindled, strengthening the bond Elsie had first truly felt well before their feelings fanned into the conflagration which was to mark the years which remained. As Charles had foretold, the connection between them was not cracked just because the fire was no longer fed by new emotion. Absence was no barrier to love, and their hearts were filled with the other, in their separate places, until death reunited them once and for all.

A/N: Life and death, huh? ….. I don't even have the words anymore. Big themes, which I hope I've handled well. That last paragraph took DAYS – thanks to my three amigos, DaniiShep, Brenna-Louise and Belovedrival, for helping me push through.

My thanks also to DaniiShep for the idea that the war would make an old man of Lord Grantham. It has often been said that the trials of being King unexpectedly, and the pressures of the war, contributed to making George VI old before his time, and making him unable to fight the cancer which killed him so prematurely. The cigarettes prescribed to help his stutter can't have helped either.

The line Mary quotes Charles as saying in her letter is an adapted line from William Henley's 1875 (published 1888) poem Invictus, which he wrote when he had to have his leg amputated. The original line reads 'I thank whatever gods may be/For my unconquerable soul.' I was listening to a radio programme some months ago (about what, I cannot now remember, but I think it had something to do with Nelson Mandela, who often quoted the poem whilst in prison) and it seemed to be a perfect description of Elsie.

I was inspired by a quote from the artist Bansky for the final thoughts. He said 'They say you die twice. One time when you stop breathing and a second time, a bit later on, when somebody says your name for the last time.' I thought that was a really powerful thing, but it could also work the other way, as I suggested.

You will all be completely unsurprised to learn that writing this piece has exhausted me, both physically and mentally. It is the hardest thing I've ever written, and I have great admiration for those writers who can manage to deal with angst on a regular basis. The creative process has thrown up some interesting issues for me, particularly how my mental state appears to be linked to how many reviews I get. This is not the reason I started to write, and I need to take some time to take stock and figure out how to get back to the buzz simply writing gives me. I think this will probably involve not producing anything new for a bit, although who knows, right? I don't lack for ideas. I'm not saying this in a quest for sympathy, I just need to explain my probable absence.

Thank you once again for coming with me on this journey, I would love to know what you thought of this final chapter.