Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters and I do not make any economic benefit out of them.

Chapter 1

The moon was half hidden by clouds and the dusty streets of London glowed with the yellow streetlights, shadows playing upon the road as the lights flickered. In the distance, a clock tower struck ten, its deep sound echoing through the night air. There were still people on the streets, people returning from late hours at factories, trying to swallow their coughs developed from smoke and dust. Carriages were moving up and down with the curtains on the windows drawn. Most shops were closing, shopkeepers locking up their wares and taking in the wooden signs that stood outside all day advertising what they sold. Dirty and dishevelled beggars were creeping into the dark corners that they had made into their homes, for there weren't many people around to listen to their pleas and misfortunes who would occasionally toss a coin into their tins.

A merry group of young men staggered out of the theatre, singing loudly. Only one of them walked outside of the main group, his annoyance towards his colleagues hidden in the darkness of the night. Most of their ties and caps were askew, some had taken their caps into their hands. Some had dropped their caps without notice and were walking on unsteadily not caring. The young man who walked out of the group, with his distinct height and broad frame, scanned the sides of the street around them and unconsciously placed a hand over his coat pocket, where he kept his earnings for the day. While his friends were singing and making plans on what pubs to visit and what brothels they would explore, he was making mental calculations of how he would put his money by.

He would keep away a bit saved away to visit Yorkshire one day and show his father that he had made something of his years in London, though he doubted the old man would ever speak to him well again. His father had dreams for him, big dreams, hoped that his son would one day rise to become the Butler of the big house of Downton Abbey and work for the Earl of Grantham as his family had done for generations. His father, being the Head Groom, even used his position to introduce his boy to the sharp tongued Countess, who instantly took a liking to the smart and regal looking young boy and offered him a place as a hall boy, promised him a future as a footman. But he couldn't help that he had a taste for adventure, which is why he ran away and came to London to make a name for himself. But where he ended up, he often wondered.

Perhaps he would buy something for his mother, for he broke her heart when he ran away. A bolt of good fabric in a latest London design would be good. A pretty colour, for his mother was a beautiful woman who only ever dressed in dull colours, often shades of browns, deep blues or greens. A handsome emerald green, preferably a shining silk of affordable quality would be nice to go with her deep brown eyes. Perhaps a rich shade of purple in brocade. But he doubted he'd ever find the money for those expensive fabrics. It was best, he settled for cotton, he thought. He wrote to her often, told her how each day he was getting better at what he was doing, he asked after her health and wrote of happenings in London, of course only the ones that wouldn't shock her. But he never had the courage to write down the four words he was aching to tell her, 'I am sorry mother.'

He wrote that he was happy with what he was doing. He lied, he was barely content. He hoped that his sin would be forgiven for he couldn't tell her that his big dreams had smashed. He couldn't tell her that her boy was a mere performer in a double act in small theatres. They earned quite well than most others, that he could admit, but it was not what he wanted. What he desired as a young Yorkshire born boy, fresh from the moors and the green fields, was a life of colour and elegance. He wanted to travel the world, work for big clubs in London and entertain nobility. Perhaps, one day, perform before royalty and leave his mark on the world. For everyone to know that Charles Ernest Carson was famous man, a great man. But he was one among a million in the grimmer parts of London. One of the many passing grey faces, upon the grey landscape of a grey city, leading a grey life.

He was woken from his reverie by a merry question from one of his colleagues.

"Fancy a pint tonight old chap? Perhaps something stronger?" the young man shouted, twirling his cap on his index finger while he struggled to maintain his balance.

"I'm sorry but I would have to decline," Charles answered politely even though he was aware that politeness wasn't a quality that impressed these young men.

"Oh! 'Decline!' Fancy as always. It's just a pint m'boy it wouldn't kill ye," another young man stepped forward and tugged at Charles' arm, his words slurred by the amount of alcohol he had already consumed.

"Or are you too much of an angel to have anything besides tea with a splash of milk, just the way your mom made it for you?" Charlie Grigg mocked his partner in the double act, sniggering so loud that even all the others joined in.

Charles Carson was annoyed beyond words could say by his friend's insult. He wasn't a man who did things to stay in favour with the others but he often did when it came to Grigg, only because the crude young man, also a Yorkshireman, had a clever way with words at making Charles feel as if he was somehow insufficient and at times, a coward. Charles hated how Charlie would make him feel so small, but the urge to prove otherwise was too strong that Charles ended up doing what he didn't want to, including leaving Downton to some extent.

"Alright," he said as he finally he gave in to his urge to prove to Grigg that he was also 'a man.'

"I heard old Philip at the stage door say that there's new girls at the Watford's Arms," another added while the some of the others wolf whistled and Charles grunted in disgust.

"Oh lovely!" said Grigg, rubbing his palms together, "Fancy a whiskey at Watford's then boys? I suppose it's going to be a long night for most of us."

Shouts of agreement and several more whistles emerged from the group. But Grigg noticed Charles's disinterest in the prospect. A good beer and a pretty girl was something that no young man in London refused.

"What? Don't you want some fun beneath a skirt?" Grigg winked at Charles and the rest of the group exploded into laughter.

"You disgust me Charlie," Charles hissed at his friend and shook his head, turning to leave.

"Or you're afraid you'll not be good enough for your Alice Neal? She would be grateful you know, if you knew how to please a lady," Grigg shot back and clapped his hands. He laughed so hard at his own words that he had to subdue a cough that resulted from it, but the laughter from the rest of the rest of the group echoed for many seconds.

At these words Charles turned back, the venom of anger flowed in his veins faster than lightening. Alice Neal was the girl of Charles' dreams. He fell in love with the petite blonde the moment he set his eyes on her. Alice and her sister Margaret sang together, the Dove and the Lark they were called and Alice was the Dove with her soft voice and light blonde hair. His dream were filled with her gentle smile. He talked to her as best he could, brought her little gifts and intended to court her properly. Marry her one day. But he never exuded the charm that Charlie Grigg had mastered. And Charles was not as blind as to not notice that Alice was more interested in Grigg's attentions than Charles' actions and mumbled words of elegant courting he had picked up during the short period he worked for the Crawleys at Downton Abbey.

Charles raised his hand clenched into a fist but Grigg was faster and his fist caught Charles' cheek bone in a sharp punch. Charles, unprepared for any attack on himself, staggered back and barely stopped himself from hitting the ground by gaining his stability back. His cap landed a few steps behind him and when he looked up the group of men hooted and ran away. He could have chased Grigg. He was strong, he could have beaten the daylights out of the shorter man but he just didn't care. A tidal wave of sorrow washed over him and shook him to the core. Alice. Will his Alice ever be his?

He touched the sore area on his cheek with his fingertips and winced. With a sigh he turned back to pick up his cap. But instead his eyes landed on the image of an old woman, older than his mother, picking up his cap. He quickly stepped towards her and before he could bend down to get it from her, she looked up and handed it to Charles with a smile.

Her eyes were a deep green, shadows of the dark night playing upon them. She was grey around the temples and a long, grey streak of hair ran from the parting of her hair at the middle of her head to both sides along her forehead up to her ear. The woman was dressed in an old fashion brown dress and a shawl with brown, black, grey and white squares was wrapped around her shoulders. Despite the cold outside, she wore no bonnet.

A chill ran along Charles' spine, the moment her eyes met his for a reason he couldn't comprehend despite the woman's warm smile when she handed him his cap. His gaze locked deep with the old woman's and in fraction of a second he noticed that the shade of her left eye was distinctly lighter than the right. An eerie feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. The fingers of the old woman brushed with his own when he accepted his cap and hers were warm despite the cold night.

"Thank you very much," he accepted graciously with a slight nod and the old woman's smile widened.

"Your world will come crashing lad," she said in a voice that margined a whisper. She reached out her hand and took Charles' fingers in her bony ones.

Charles stared into her eyes not fully comprehending what was going on. The woman's words made a shiver run through his spine. "What… what do you mean?" he stuttered taking in the calm yet serious expression of the woman. Nothing on her face indicated that she was taking him for a fool. For a second he thought the woman was probably mad or mistaken but something drew him to the woman, to her bizarre words.

"Yes lad. All of it. All of your world will come crashing around your feet. Your Dove will fly away. The rain will drive you to the moors," she stated brushing her thumb gently on Charles' hand. Her eyes still fixed on his, and for some reason he couldn't take them away from hers.

"My dove? I don't understand what—," he began unable to make any sense out of the woman's strange compilation of sentences, but the woman cut him short and continued.

"But a Highland heart is written to your soul. A mountain soul with two blue seas, a lilt of the ringing North breeze," she said, the corners of her mouth turning into a warm smile as she recited the words in a poetic tone, yet with an ominous aura surrounding her voice. With her free hand she patted Charles' hand, but in an instant he tugged his hand out of her loose grip and snatched it away.

"A Highland heart? What the hell?" Charles shot back, wondering what to make out of this utter nonsense. Despite his logical mind telling him that there was no sense at all in the woman's words in his heart something told his subconscious mind to remain and listen to what the woman had to say.

The woman sensed Charles' unease and his reluctance and also the somewhat unconscious will to remain instead of leaving abruptly. "Time will test you lad," she said, her eyes boring into the depths of his own, "You'll walk on salt. One Christmas goes. Only then shall the thistle bloom on the rose stalk." As she finished she patted Charles' arm and ran it down to his hand.

Charles stared at her not knowing what to make of her words. It did sound like a prediction, a forecast of some sort about his future. But thoughts were racing through his mind, whether this was all a dream and he would wake up cold in his small room he shared with Grigg or if it was meant to be reality… what then?

The old woman took her hand off Charles' arm. "Remember lad 1925. 1925 will be the year," she said, carefully pronouncing each and every syllable as she turned to leave. The mismatching shades of her two eyes suddenly glimmering in the light from a street lamp a few feet away.

1925. 1925. 1925. The number or rather the year rolled around his mind accompanied by the mismatching set of symbols the woman had conjured up in his mind. A year when he would be an old man. A future he couldn't imagine nor understand.

Charles stood still, words failing him. His mind failing at what he was supposed to do. All he could do was watch the brown clad image of the old woman retreating into the darkness and the distance of the road that stretched in front of him. The darkness swallowing her form for a moment only to be illuminated again by the next street light before disappearing into the darkness again.

I'm hopefully planning on writing a chapter for Elsie as well. And in the mean time I'd be grateful if you could write what you think about this in the reviews. It would mean a lot to me. Thank you!