A/N: This was originally meant as a chapter in a fic that I'm writing set in World War II, but seeing as how I needed serious comfort from the pic (I believe everyone knows what I'm talking about) that has surfaced on Tumblr, I set about to write this down as my contribution to the Mind the Gap challenge which I may be a little late in posting but I'm hoping that it's still the 27th somewhere in the world, so... but thing is, this ended up becoming 100% ANGST. Still, I really hope you'll enjoy it and its spoilers for the Bransons and the Crawleys a few years down the line from Lux Facta Est and Et la lumière fut. I will probably contract or expand this later as a chapter of my new fic when it's done but for now here it is as an OS. It's heavily Sybbie and Thomas (because we need the next generation's Mary and Carson!) in the beginning but watch out for the heavy Tom and Thomas (There's a bit of Sybil too! ;) ) which I hope brings some sort of closure.

Don't forget to let me know what you think!

Disclaimer: Clearly, in my universe, Sybil and Matthew are still alive as you can clearly see here.

May 1941

As luck would have had it, three years of war meant that all able-bodied footmen, sparing Moseley but not Jimmy, have already been sent to the front. In a further joke of fate, Moseley and all the maids have already been dispatched to the dining room to see to the family's breakfast when the telegram arrived.

He, Thomas Barrow, now installed as butler to Downton Abbey, had however been very much present to receive it, detained by some reason or another from his rush to the dining room. It was not the way things were done in Downton Abbey but wartime demanded compromises and this was one of them.

In some tucked-away corner of his mind, he could hear his predecessor's grunts at how easily he accepted that notion – War is no excuse for sloppy service. Oh, Mr. Carson!

"Telegram for Lady Sybil, Mr. Barow," the boy told him as he handed the paper, "Horrible about London isn't it?"

Still too young to be sent to the front, but it won't be long now.

Thomas nodded a casual assent and walked the length of the back door to the dining room, grabbing a silver tray to lay the note in.

Indeed, the telegram was addressed to Sybil Branson without specifying which Sybil Branson, Lady or Miss, was meant to receive it. He rolled his eyes at the post boy's words – Lady Sybil never received telegrams these days, or indeed letters. Lady Sybil, who had no beau, husband, or son at the front, had no expectation of them, seeing as notes of her nephew to the other members of the family were coursed through Miss Sybbie, Lady Mary, or Mr. Matthew. What Lady Sybil received were phone calls – hurried and panicked phone calls for consultations and past and present patient information from the big hospital in London where she had worked as head nurse, and recently from the cottage hospital where she had taken an indefinite leave from the same position.

Telegrams and letters addressed to Sybil Branson were always meant only for Miss Sybil Branson, Sybil the Younger, who often received them with fear in her eyes and panic in her movements. She, the fearless little girl who had once roamed Downton's hall's sans aucun peur, was now afraid. The very thought chilled him to the bone.

Whether by curiosity or by concern, he opened the folded message and confirmed that the message was indeed meant for Miss Sybbie. Had his predecessor been aware of what he had just done – invasion of the house's privacy!, he would have marched out of his retirement and into the big house to demand his job back, the privileges accorded to him, his own cottage included, be damned). Well, some things never changed for Thomas Barrow.

A message for Miss Sybbie brought only two possible outcomes and no middle ground – it would either reassure, or it would destroy all hope. After all, Miss Sybbie had everything to lose at the front – a cousin as good as a brother and a fiancé in the RAF at the same time, both perpetually in danger of exploding in the air and returning home in a matchbox, if at all. And with the news of what had happened in London a mere day past – Master George was still at the front and was thereby safe, as far as the staff knew, but that boy – not that Thomas thought him in any way worthy of his adored Miss Sybbie.

Of course no one in the house could forget what the boy's mother was – that she had served as housemaid was bad enough – Miss Sybbie deserved better than the former housemaid's boy no matter what Anna and Mrs. Hughes said about what mattered was that Miss Sybbie did not believe that she deserved better and that she loved him – that she had sold her flesh, never mind that she had acted as such to feed her child made the offense infinitely worse. What business had he in dragging her with him through the mud in scandal? But it was the even sharper memories of who the boy's father, that major too handsome for his own good who had taken advantage of vulnerability and ambition and left his child when the fun had ran out, that forever shamed young Charlie Bryant in Thomas' eyes. If he ever hurts her –.

Yes, he thought the boy unworthy of Miss Sybbie, fume as he might at lords and ladies' murmurs of apples and trees, but there it was.

And now the stupid boy has been caught in London's hellfire! How dare he! And at a time like this when Miss Sybbie's sister had nearly –

It was too much.

London bombed. STOP. Transferred from Saint Mary's. STOP. Alive and well. STOP. Be dispatched to the front shortly. STOP. Will write soon. STOP. Sorry. STOP. Charlie.

So the boy was still alive then.

Unlike Mr. Carson, he had neither the energy nor the inclination to put a halt to such babble and the last two days had heard the Servant's Hall abuzz with talk of London and Miss Sybbie's fiancé who they knew was being treated there for some injury.

"Suppose Mr. Bryant was part of it? What do you suppose Miss Sybbie would do?" the new kitchen maid had asked, in effect voicing the secret thoughts of all in the room.

"It's not for us to talk about such things, Pansy," Anna had rebuked from across the room, but her tone conveyed perfectly that she wondered too whether the boy had been a casualty.

No, the boy was not worthy of Miss Sybbie but Thomas thanked Heaven he was well – Miss Sybbie did not deserve any more blows, not now.

Paper refolded and now perched atop the tray, he entered the dining room.

"I am sorry, Sir," he addressed Mr. Crawley at the table, "a telegram has arrived for Miss Sybbie."

"It's quite alright, Barrow," Mr. Crawley shrugged, his eyes still digesting the paper. In years past, that morning habit was once shared with His Lordship and Mr. Branson, and then with Master George after the Bransons had left for London. Until a year ago, after Master George had been dispatched to the front, the shared habit with his father-in-law and brother-in-law had resumed. Until a month ago, Mr. Branson had continued to take part of it, Miss Aoife too, but these days, there was but Mr. Crawley to pursue the news.

Quite a small habit, but so telling of the changes the war has brought, just as the mournful air of the dining room tableau and its reducing number of actors displayed.

It had already been a year following Lady Edith – since His Lordship and Her Ladyship had taken to their dressing room and bedroom and had become increasingly out of sight and out of mind, Lady Mary had always taken her breakfast in her bedroom, while Lady Sybil and Mr. Branson had for a month now taken to dining (all sparsely-touched meals) in Miss Aoife's darkened bedroom while largely failing to combat their daughter's failing appetite, Master George at the front, Mr. Crawley was left with his daughter and youngest and eldest nieces, the later noticeably absent at the table.

"Is Sybbie awake yet? Has she gone to the hospital already?" Miss Saoirse asked. Poor child, one sister gravely ill and her parents perpetually ensconced in fear for her welfare. She did not blame them, of course, but was it any wonder that she clung to the eldest sister who could still afford her the time of day?

Miss Sybbie's shifts at the hospital were always early, and recently, long, as if to compensate for the weeks her mother had to understandably give up. That sometimes accounted for her absence at the breakfast table but it was early yet, still an hour before her shift.

"Not that I know of, Miss Saoirse," Thomas answered, only now catching the eye of the maid who attended Lord Grantham's four granddaughters, motioning for him to follow her out the door.

"What is it, Clara?"

"No one downstairs knows where Miss Sybbie has gone," the maid, a girl younger than Miss Sybbie, begun once they were out of the family's earshot. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Barrow. I wanted to tell you earlier, truly, but I couldn't find the time. She hasn't rung for anyone – I know that she's not in the habit of doing that but her bedroom was empty. The bed was slept in but no sign of her. Her uniform's still in the wardrobe and no one has seen her go out… I did not want to worry Miss Saoirse but…"

"Have you checked elsewhere? The library, the garage? Other places she might have gone to?"

Clara nodded. "Miss Margaret has asked for her also… I know she hasn't gone to Her Ladyship's bedroom and His Lordship's dressing room since Lady Edith – and since Lady Sybil and Mr. Branson have not occupied their room last night…"

"Miss Aoife's room?" A chill ran through him. Surely –

"I brought in Lady Sybil and Mr. Branson's trays, Sir. She's not there either."

"Have you told Lady Sybil and Mr. Branson about this?"

"Not yet, Mr. Barrow."

The girl paused as if thinking of a way to speak the words in her mind.

"Mr. Barrow…" she said in a low tone. "When…when London was bombed…" Mr. Bryant was there, wasn't he? hung in the air unspoken but understood. "Suppose Miss Sybbie…"

Thomas clenched his fists. The maid's suspicions mirrored his own. Suppose Miss Sybie had gone to London. The telegram weighed heavily in his hand as he recalled the sound of running feet against gravel he imagined he heard at dawn – a waking dream, he told himself, and cursed himself for that.

Yes, the boy was alive and well but she did not know that, had no way of knowing that.

"Hello," he said rapidly to the telephone in the hall, "This is Barrow the butler… I need to know if Miss Branson…yes, Miss Sybbie Branson, has boarded a train today…The six o'clock to York? Thank you."

Of course, Miss Sybbie had gone to London!

He hastily put the receiver down and ran to Miss Aoife's bedroom.

There were many fond memories of the little girl that Miss Sybbie was that Thomas had retained over the years – a blue ball of energy digging into his pockets for the chance of sweets and confiding that she will be a fairy on her fifth birthday – her Mamma will even make her dress and Cousin Rose her wings! She had even invited him then! A pitiful sight lost in the Bachelor's Corridor calling for help against the ghost of a dead Turk. An imp who tricked Mrs. Patmore (with his help of course) to give her dessert before luncheon, an even more heartbreaking sight who cried in the garage for her mother's welfare at the dawn of a new sibling, a beautiful debutante the talk of the season, a caring young lady who offered no judgment and only comfort.

"You love Jimmy, don't you Thomas?" Miss Sybbie had asked him mournfully one day, seeming to convey the solemnity and wisdom of an adult at merely twelve years of age.

"Miss Sybbie, I –," he had stuttered. Was she too young to know of such things? Would she be scared? Would she fear him? He could not bear the thought.

Everyone above and below stairs had known of the great affection and esteem Mr. Carson had held for Lady Mary and Thomas wondered then if that had come remotely close for the adoration he reserved for Miss Sybbie.

"You do, Thomas. I know you do and it's alright," she had replied, no blame tainted her voice, "does he love you too?"

He shook his head in response as he vainly tried to assuage the tears that rolled down his cheeks.

He felt her small, comforting hand on his back. Her voice was soft.

"I'm so sorry, Thomas. I'm so terribly sorry. But it will be alright, you'll see, it's his loss."

In all his life, only two people had shown him kindness, had treated him as a human being and offered no judgment. One was Lady Sybil. He remembered crying as he had never had before twenty-one years ago when they had feared her lost upon Miss Sybbie's birth. God, if you truly are there. If there is any justice in the world – punish me for what I am, test me for what I am, but don't take her. If you are truly good, let her be, she who is so kind, she who the world does not deserve, her who is my only friend.

The other was Miss Sybbie and he feared for her now as he feared from her mother then.

Over the last three years, he had watched her transform from the vivacious and happy child to the mournful and subdued young woman who walked Downton's walls like a phantom, a free spirit bound in her massive cage.

He blamed the boy. What right had he to hurt her? What right had he to put her in danger?

And he found himself before a sick child's door, seeking help to save her if there was a chance, the slightest chance of doing so.

Knock knock. Knock knock. Knock knock.

Silence met his entreaties, mournful silence, and had it not been for Miss Sybbie, he would have turned back with the telegram still clutched in his hand, to await another day, leaves them with their privacy and the chance to find strength again before another blow fell.

But this was Miss Sybbie, and Mr. Branson and Lady Sybil had a right to know if their daughter –.

Knock knock. Knock knock. Knock knock.

Still silence.

Yet the door was open, and had been so the past month to allow Doctor Clarkson and Mrs. Crawley unperturbed access to and from the sickroom. Thomas' presence here, in the Ladies' Corridor, was a breach of protocol – this was the domain of the maids and the housekeeper, and the sick room was the family's private sphere, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

The flood of light invited by his entrance seemed to have made the least impact on the anxious room. He realized, not without trepidation, that Her Ladyship and Miss Sybbie, the maids as well, had already grown accustomed to the tragedy of this room.

His entreaty of "Mr. Branson," was met again with silence.

The man in question occupied the arm chair by the bed, his arms wrapped around the sleeping form of his wife on his lap, in a gesture of protection (or was it a gesture of seeking strength he no longer possessed from her?). His cheek brushed against the dark curls of her head. Lady Sybil herself burrowed her cheek against Mr. Branson's chest as her arms wound around his neck as if holding on to him for dear life. In the soft light of the lamp, he could see the dried tears on her cheeks. Despite or perhaps the darkening circles under their eyes and the disheveled state of their wear, Thomas felt he was intruding on their intimacy.

In the corner of his eye, he saw the ignored chaise longue that had been installed to more comfortably accommodate them both. What substitute was comfort for the close contact and lifeline they provided each other in the face of sequential tragedy and anxiety?

"Mr. Branson?"

He followed Mr. Branson's eyes to the sick child on the bed, breathing shallowly but mercifully asleep. The father watched his daughter intently, as if afraid that daring so much as to blink would succeed in taking her away. If he had any qualms of Thomas entering into their sanctuary, he did not say so.

"Doctor Clarkson has seen her last night," Mr. Branson finally said, his voice hoarse. "He said that the crisis is over and chances are good that Aoife would recover. But that's what Tapsell said before…"

Thomas did not need to hear the rest to understand what Mr. Branson meant and he recalled the seeming calm before the blood-curling creams awoke the house anew. His gaze returned to Miss Aoife and he felt his skin go cold as he took in her features – lips a ghostly shade of white, skin a horrid tinge of grey, and bones so terribly prominent against the dullness of her complexion – her figure still spoke of death, contrasting so sharply with the pink-and-white twin he had seen mere minutes ago in the dining room. Almost ten years old yet the smallness of her frame appeared to be that of a child at six, while the ghost of death gave her face more years. No one would mistake Miss Aoife and Miss Saoirse for the other now.

One daughter alone, another daughter reluctantly at death's door, another walking right into death.

Thomas remembered a time when he disliked, no despised Tom Branson (funny how today has made him so pensive and nostalgic). For so long, he believed Mr. Branson unworthy of Lady Sybil just as he believed Mr. Bryant unworthy of Miss Sybbie today. What life could that grubby mick give her, he had thought once. Dublin? He intends to bring her to the bloodbath! And when they had returned from that into the exile of Downton, he believed he could not hate Mr. Branson any more. You promised to take her away from here! He wanted to shout, you promised her better than this and now you've delivered her to her father's mercy!

But now…

Thomas saw a prospering man who had displaced himself once again into uncertainty in order to protect his family, he saw a devoted husband at a loss at stemming his wife's tears and pain even as he unsuccessfully tried to halt his own, he saw an adoring father watching one beloved daughter fade before his eyes, hope cruelly dangling in and out of sight. In this broken man, husband, and father, Thomas had finally seen the worthy man Lady Sybil loved and the worthy father Miss Sybbie and her sisters adored.

And that made the revelation he was about to make seem wanton cruelty.

"She's still so weak," Mr. Branson continued, seemingly unaware of Thomas' reverie, "Even as an infant she was never this frail. She was always active and restless, Sybil and I could never convince her to sit down for long, she was never the one to be ill but now…"

Thomas had no answer to that.

Surely, he had suffered enough. They, he and Lady Sybil had suffered enough. Surely, this is already too much.

"Sir?" There was no reluctance in the address, no more proud hesitancy.

Mr. Branson's gaze finally left his daughter's form and settled on Thomas at the door.

"May I come in?"

A nod of assent led Thomas beside the chair so that he may whisper and not disturb Lady Sybil and Miss Aoife's slumber.

"Sir, an urgent telegram has come."

He passed Mr. Branson the paper and watched him read the few lines repeatedly as if trying to get some meaning from them. Worry mingled with confusion in his tired features, as Thomas expected and at the end of what seemed an eternity, he saw Lady Sybil's husband find the energy to come back to his self.

"Matthew…has told us last night that London has been bombed and that there is extensive damage and…a high death rate," he began, attempting to understand.

"Yes, Sir."

"Sybbie doesn't know yet. We – we haven't told her yet what happened. It seemed wrong somehow with Aoife – we were going to tell her not just yet, Sybil and me, we couldn't add up to her troubles, not yet."

He responded with silence, not knowing how to answer.

"Charlie is alive. Has been moved," Mr. Branson continued, seemingly indifferent to Thomas' lack of response, "that…that's good news."

"It would seem so, Sir."

Thomas wanted nothing more at the moment than for the ground to swallow him whole. There was nothing as painful, as heartbreaking, as watching this father realize that his daughter was walking to her death.

"But Barrow…," he struggled now, as if afraid of the other man's response. He dropped the paper to his wife's lap and pressed his free hand to his forehead, the other clutching his wife even tighter. "This message is for my daughter…not me."

Thomas' gaze dropped to his feet, he could not face him as he delivered this blow. It has to be done. It has to be done. "The thing is, Sir," he begun. "Miss Sybbie…she's…no one has seen her this morning…and…"

"She has gone to London." It was a statement of fact of a father who knew his daughter. It wasn't a question but Mr. Branson's voice was no less broken.

"Yes, Sir. The station has confirmed it…she took the earliest train to York. She would have left York for London by now."

"Oh, God," was the cry of anguish, "They're bombing London and my daughter has gone there, and my other daughter is –, Oh, Sybil. What is happening to us?" his fingers pressed deeper against his temples and tears shamelessly rolled down his cheeks and into his wife's hair.

"I'm sorry, Sir," Thomas said sincerely.

"Does Saoirse know?" he fretted, finding a way from this room to protect the last daughter left untouched.

"No, Sir. I've come straight here after I called the station."

"Call Rose and Lady Rosamund, please," desperation laced Mr. Branson's voice as his composure fell away. "I…I don't want to wake Sybil and Aoife to this just yet…This is the first night they have slept through...Belgravia was spared I think…tell them to send someone to King's Cross for Sybbie…tell her…please tell her I will call later… Tell my daughter…tell Saoirse to please stay in the house today. I'll come see her. I'll tell her myself after Sybil wakes. Please, just…"

"Of course, Sir." And he closed the door to give the broken father privacy in his anguish.

Mr. Branson and Lady Sybil – they did not deserve this.

Once upon a time, Thomas Barrow had hated Tom Branson and now all he felt was his heart breaking for this broken man.

A/N 2: 10-11 May 1941 is the date of the London Blitz with the greatest damage which had been set off by bombs falling just after midnight. Structural casualties include the Westminster area - that is the Houses of Parliament, Waterloo Station, and the British musuem, in addition to entire neighbuorhoods. Human casualties amount to more than 6000, the highest number during the war, and survivor accounts talk of the air fogged by plaster even in places that were spared. I'm not entirely sure Belgravia was spared the damage but I'm taking creative liberty on that account because (in future chapters) someone has to tell the Bransons that... Source: Time Out London's excerpts of Gavin Mortimer's The Longest Night.

As for the trains to bombed-out London, the North Eastern Railway remained in service throughout the war and continued to stop at King's Cross, although the journey was much slower because many stops would be taken en route to increase chances at a safe journey and the lights of trains were often dimmed so as to not attract unwanted (air craft) attention. There were even instances when disembarking passengers would be subjected to the horrors of watching King's Cross get bombed as soon as they stepped out of the train! If I remember correctly, this was Platform 10. I can't find my source now but you'll probably find it with the right keywords.

If you're wondering about the title, roughly translated, it means "Little Girl of Another Time"