[fic] Downton Abbey, A Ghost Story
Oct. 31st, 2012 02:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
frea_oTitle: Downton Abbey, A Ghost Story
Rating: PG
Fandom: Downton Abbey
Pairings: William Mason/Lavinia Swire
Warnings: Supernatural, Deals with Death
Summary: Life does not stop with a heartbeat. William Mason and his life after Downton Abbey, and in Downton Abbey.
The greatest truth that most will never know: life does not stop with the cessation of a heartbeat.
William Mason awoke wearing a tuxedo, which felt odd, as he was fairly certain he had fallen asleep wearing pyjamas. Also, when he had fallen asleep, he had been opaque.
“Is anybody here?” he said, sitting up in bed—and sinking a little through the mattress. Alarmed, he peeled away the bedclothes and scrambled to his feet. At least the floor seemed solid enough.
“Ah, there you are, young master,” said a voice from the shadowy depths of the room, and William jumped, reaching for a pistol he no longer carried at his side. Why he felt he should have a pistol, he didn’t know. But he longed for its familiar comfort in his hand.
“W-who are you?”
“No need to fret.” A man, tall, dressed just like William, though of a considerably older style, stepped from the shadows. He looked vaguely familiar, though William knew not why. “I won’t be about much longer, so my name matters little.”
William blinked. The man was bright blue, glowing like a torch. William could see through him to the mirror behind him, the reflection warped and odd.
“You’re—you’re a ghost!” he said, taking a step back. He’d read about ghosts in his mother’s old books, but they weren’t real.
“So are you, lad.”
“What?” William looked down and remembered abruptly that he was transparent, like the strange gentleman. How in the heavens could he have ever forgotten that?
The man smiled. “The longer you are here, the more solid your memories will become.”
“What am I—why am I like this?”
“No way to break it to you gently, lad. You’ve shuffled off of the mortal coil and onto this one.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re a ghost, William Mason.” The man looked him up and down. “And a damned fine one at that, it appears. You’ll do nicely.”
“For what, milord?” The gentleman looked like a lord, like somebody William might have known somewhere, but everything in William’s head felt feathery and difficult to grasp. He was standing, he was wearing tails, he was a ghost. His name was William and he wanted a gun, but he had no idea why.
“You shall soon see.” The man gave him a smile. “Good luck with Downton. You shall need it. There are hard times to come.”
“What do you mean, milord?”
Before the man could answer, the walls began to boil. There was no other way to describe it: the walls began to shift, bubbling and writhing about like water in Mrs. Patmore’s—who was Mrs. Patmore?—prized kettle. Startled, he leapt back. A light began to glow in the man’s chest, like somebody had stuck a torch deep inside of him. It was hot and sharp and it hurt William’s eyes, so he brought a hand up to shield his face.
“No cause for alarm,” the man said. “I’m passing on, you see. My time on this realm is up.”
“But where will you go?” William asked.
“That’s the beauty of it. I’ve no idea.” The man smiled and the light grew so bright that his teeth were like a furnace and his eyes were like miniature suns. “Take care of Downton.”
“I w-will,” William said. There was a bright flash like artillery fire and he was standing in the room alone. Then he looked about, studying his surroundings in confusion. “But what is Downton?” he asked the air, and nothing replied.
* * *
William Mason began to live his unlife in pieces.
It was not precise to say that time was immaterial because time still mattered, but it mattered less. At times, he felt every tick of the clock on the mantel of Downton Abbey—for Downton was a word that was etched into his brain like his name and the itch in his right hand for a weapon—like an eternity, civilizations rising and falling and rising in the space of the second hand sweeping between one tick mark to the next. At other points, he closed his eyes and days had passed by the time he opened them. But time did pass, and time was still important.
Time was the reason he began to pull the pieces together.
His remembered he had once held the post of second footman, that Downton Abbey was a place, not a thing, a place that teemed with life and hope and despair. There were others here, drifting about and living despite death. Mrs. Jenkins, who had been a housekeeper, smiled little and liked less. The kitchen maids Helen and Prudence tittered that she had been as humorless in life as she was in death. Lynch Sr. cared for the stables. They had no butler, so William filled that role himself.
There was much to be done: ghostly meals prepared, cobwebs to clear, the ghosts of horses to ride. William fell into his duties because his duties gave him purpose. He saw to things others forgot because it made him feel whole. When the mortals had gone to bed, he walked into the servants’ hall and sat at the old piano and played, letting his fingers come alive with the memory of how the ivories felt underneath them. Helen danced with a footman who had met his death of smallpox, twirling about to a dance William was positive was out of style. Even Mrs. Jenkins dared not scowl.
Occasionally a mortal came in to sip his or her tea in silence, but the mortals could not see the ghosts, so William played on. He remembered names that went with the faces, and feelings that went with the names. Daisy, the kitchen maid, he felt a swell of warmth for, though he had no idea why, and further could not fathom why her gaze always lingered on the piano when she was alone. Mrs. Hughes espoused a familial feeling, like he had once viewed her as a mother. Sgt. Barrow, the snippy man who ran things for the soldiers abovestairs, made William want to scowl.
Life went on. Watching the soldiers in their cots, he learned who would die, though he didn’t know why. They had a sort of—Prudence called it a veil, and that was likely the best word for it—that set them apart from the rest, a glowing presence that told William they were not long for the world. William appointed himself to sit at these soldiers’ bedsides and to wait. When they expired, he sat and waited to see if they would pass on. Most did. The unlucky few, however, stumbled into the afterlife.
“I am William Mason, footman at Downton Abbey,” he told them. “Welcome to the next life.”
Most started away from him, even fewer believed him. One man said, “Greetin’s, sir,” like William was an officer—and slipped back into his body, mortal once more again.
For weeks after that, rumors circulated around the mortals that Death had a footman.
And so it went, that the mortals lived their lives, and William lived his, until the Spanish Flu struck Downton Abbey.
* * *
“William.”
William looked up from the piano keys to see Prudence, the kitchen maid, standing at the entrance to the servants’ hall. He liked Prudence. She had a twinkle in her eye for him every time he sneaked into the kitchen to filch pastries or apples for the horses.
Tonight, she looked worried.
“What is it, Prudence?” he asked, turning away from the piano.
She twisted her hands about. “Something is wrong,” she said. “I feel…strange.”
“How do you mean?”
“I feel…that’s it. I just feel.” The twinkle was long gone as Prudence looked at him. She had begun to shiver. “I am scared, William.”
“Never fear, Pru, we shall get to the bottom of this. Helen! Mrs. Jenkins! Come quick!” William shouted down the hallway that led to the housekeeper’s study, hoping that she was in there, enjoying her cuppa as she habitually did at this time in the evening.
“No, no, there isn’t time—” Prudence grasped his arms at the wrists, and William felt a sense of cold sweep through the room. A second later, the walls began to buckle. “What is going on, William?”
William looked about at the walls, which were writhing and shaking. “Prudence, you’re passing on.”
“What? But I’ve done nothing amiss—”
“Chin up,” William said. “You’ve been handed a blessing, you have.”
“But why?” Prudence asked as she began to glow, so bright that it once again hurt his eyes. The soldiers that passed on right away, they did so with minimal fuss, but William had to figure, the longer you’d been a ghost, the brighter the afterlife seemed to you. He longed to shield his eyes, for Prudence was glowing more sharply than anything he had ever witnessed, but he didn’t look away, not even when the walls folded in half and crunched. “William, I’m frightened.”
“Be well, Prudence,” William said, and Prudence managed a final, shaky smile before the flash, and he was standing alone in the servant’s hall.
Seconds later, he heard a shout. “William! Hurry!”
“Helen?” he asked, rushing from the hall and into the stairwell. “What is it? What is going on?”
“Two maids, upstairs, they’ve got veils. And the woman they call Miss Swire!” Helen grabbed his hand to pull him toward the living quarters of the mortals. She looked about in confusion. “Where’s Prudence?”
“She’s passed on.”
“Oh.” Envy and fear crossed Helen’s face. “That’s why, then.”
“Why what?”
“One of the maids is to take her place, of course. That is how things work.”
Rating: PG
Fandom: Downton Abbey
Pairings: William Mason/Lavinia Swire
Warnings: Supernatural, Deals with Death
Summary: Life does not stop with a heartbeat. William Mason and his life after Downton Abbey, and in Downton Abbey.
The greatest truth that most will never know: life does not stop with the cessation of a heartbeat.
William Mason awoke wearing a tuxedo, which felt odd, as he was fairly certain he had fallen asleep wearing pyjamas. Also, when he had fallen asleep, he had been opaque.
“Is anybody here?” he said, sitting up in bed—and sinking a little through the mattress. Alarmed, he peeled away the bedclothes and scrambled to his feet. At least the floor seemed solid enough.
“Ah, there you are, young master,” said a voice from the shadowy depths of the room, and William jumped, reaching for a pistol he no longer carried at his side. Why he felt he should have a pistol, he didn’t know. But he longed for its familiar comfort in his hand.
“W-who are you?”
“No need to fret.” A man, tall, dressed just like William, though of a considerably older style, stepped from the shadows. He looked vaguely familiar, though William knew not why. “I won’t be about much longer, so my name matters little.”
William blinked. The man was bright blue, glowing like a torch. William could see through him to the mirror behind him, the reflection warped and odd.
“You’re—you’re a ghost!” he said, taking a step back. He’d read about ghosts in his mother’s old books, but they weren’t real.
“So are you, lad.”
“What?” William looked down and remembered abruptly that he was transparent, like the strange gentleman. How in the heavens could he have ever forgotten that?
The man smiled. “The longer you are here, the more solid your memories will become.”
“What am I—why am I like this?”
“No way to break it to you gently, lad. You’ve shuffled off of the mortal coil and onto this one.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re a ghost, William Mason.” The man looked him up and down. “And a damned fine one at that, it appears. You’ll do nicely.”
“For what, milord?” The gentleman looked like a lord, like somebody William might have known somewhere, but everything in William’s head felt feathery and difficult to grasp. He was standing, he was wearing tails, he was a ghost. His name was William and he wanted a gun, but he had no idea why.
“You shall soon see.” The man gave him a smile. “Good luck with Downton. You shall need it. There are hard times to come.”
“What do you mean, milord?”
Before the man could answer, the walls began to boil. There was no other way to describe it: the walls began to shift, bubbling and writhing about like water in Mrs. Patmore’s—who was Mrs. Patmore?—prized kettle. Startled, he leapt back. A light began to glow in the man’s chest, like somebody had stuck a torch deep inside of him. It was hot and sharp and it hurt William’s eyes, so he brought a hand up to shield his face.
“No cause for alarm,” the man said. “I’m passing on, you see. My time on this realm is up.”
“But where will you go?” William asked.
“That’s the beauty of it. I’ve no idea.” The man smiled and the light grew so bright that his teeth were like a furnace and his eyes were like miniature suns. “Take care of Downton.”
“I w-will,” William said. There was a bright flash like artillery fire and he was standing in the room alone. Then he looked about, studying his surroundings in confusion. “But what is Downton?” he asked the air, and nothing replied.
William Mason began to live his unlife in pieces.
It was not precise to say that time was immaterial because time still mattered, but it mattered less. At times, he felt every tick of the clock on the mantel of Downton Abbey—for Downton was a word that was etched into his brain like his name and the itch in his right hand for a weapon—like an eternity, civilizations rising and falling and rising in the space of the second hand sweeping between one tick mark to the next. At other points, he closed his eyes and days had passed by the time he opened them. But time did pass, and time was still important.
Time was the reason he began to pull the pieces together.
His remembered he had once held the post of second footman, that Downton Abbey was a place, not a thing, a place that teemed with life and hope and despair. There were others here, drifting about and living despite death. Mrs. Jenkins, who had been a housekeeper, smiled little and liked less. The kitchen maids Helen and Prudence tittered that she had been as humorless in life as she was in death. Lynch Sr. cared for the stables. They had no butler, so William filled that role himself.
There was much to be done: ghostly meals prepared, cobwebs to clear, the ghosts of horses to ride. William fell into his duties because his duties gave him purpose. He saw to things others forgot because it made him feel whole. When the mortals had gone to bed, he walked into the servants’ hall and sat at the old piano and played, letting his fingers come alive with the memory of how the ivories felt underneath them. Helen danced with a footman who had met his death of smallpox, twirling about to a dance William was positive was out of style. Even Mrs. Jenkins dared not scowl.
Occasionally a mortal came in to sip his or her tea in silence, but the mortals could not see the ghosts, so William played on. He remembered names that went with the faces, and feelings that went with the names. Daisy, the kitchen maid, he felt a swell of warmth for, though he had no idea why, and further could not fathom why her gaze always lingered on the piano when she was alone. Mrs. Hughes espoused a familial feeling, like he had once viewed her as a mother. Sgt. Barrow, the snippy man who ran things for the soldiers abovestairs, made William want to scowl.
Life went on. Watching the soldiers in their cots, he learned who would die, though he didn’t know why. They had a sort of—Prudence called it a veil, and that was likely the best word for it—that set them apart from the rest, a glowing presence that told William they were not long for the world. William appointed himself to sit at these soldiers’ bedsides and to wait. When they expired, he sat and waited to see if they would pass on. Most did. The unlucky few, however, stumbled into the afterlife.
“I am William Mason, footman at Downton Abbey,” he told them. “Welcome to the next life.”
Most started away from him, even fewer believed him. One man said, “Greetin’s, sir,” like William was an officer—and slipped back into his body, mortal once more again.
For weeks after that, rumors circulated around the mortals that Death had a footman.
And so it went, that the mortals lived their lives, and William lived his, until the Spanish Flu struck Downton Abbey.
“William.”
William looked up from the piano keys to see Prudence, the kitchen maid, standing at the entrance to the servants’ hall. He liked Prudence. She had a twinkle in her eye for him every time he sneaked into the kitchen to filch pastries or apples for the horses.
Tonight, she looked worried.
“What is it, Prudence?” he asked, turning away from the piano.
She twisted her hands about. “Something is wrong,” she said. “I feel…strange.”
“How do you mean?”
“I feel…that’s it. I just feel.” The twinkle was long gone as Prudence looked at him. She had begun to shiver. “I am scared, William.”
“Never fear, Pru, we shall get to the bottom of this. Helen! Mrs. Jenkins! Come quick!” William shouted down the hallway that led to the housekeeper’s study, hoping that she was in there, enjoying her cuppa as she habitually did at this time in the evening.
“No, no, there isn’t time—” Prudence grasped his arms at the wrists, and William felt a sense of cold sweep through the room. A second later, the walls began to buckle. “What is going on, William?”
William looked about at the walls, which were writhing and shaking. “Prudence, you’re passing on.”
“What? But I’ve done nothing amiss—”
“Chin up,” William said. “You’ve been handed a blessing, you have.”
“But why?” Prudence asked as she began to glow, so bright that it once again hurt his eyes. The soldiers that passed on right away, they did so with minimal fuss, but William had to figure, the longer you’d been a ghost, the brighter the afterlife seemed to you. He longed to shield his eyes, for Prudence was glowing more sharply than anything he had ever witnessed, but he didn’t look away, not even when the walls folded in half and crunched. “William, I’m frightened.”
“Be well, Prudence,” William said, and Prudence managed a final, shaky smile before the flash, and he was standing alone in the servant’s hall.
Seconds later, he heard a shout. “William! Hurry!”
“Helen?” he asked, rushing from the hall and into the stairwell. “What is it? What is going on?”
“Two maids, upstairs, they’ve got veils. And the woman they call Miss Swire!” Helen grabbed his hand to pull him toward the living quarters of the mortals. She looked about in confusion. “Where’s Prudence?”
“She’s passed on.”
“Oh.” Envy and fear crossed Helen’s face. “That’s why, then.”
“Why what?”
“One of the maids is to take her place, of course. That is how things work.”
