[Canon Update, Item Post & Sybbie arrival - August 23rd early hours]

[adifferentlife]

The night had been wonderful, everything that Sybil had hoped for it. They were now wed, and had spent the night celebrating with their friends. Food had been plentiful, wine had flowed, and Sybil couldn't remember a nicer night. When she and Henri had finally fallen into bed, they were both exhausted. They were even more exhausted when they finally fell asleep. Things were as close to perfect as she could have ever imagined.

The cries were what woke her. They pulled her from sleep foggy and confused. Henri started to stir as she slipped from their bed, wrapping a robe about herself to go investigate. There was nothing that should have woken her in their rooms, certainly not what sounded like a baby.

She shook her head, trying to clear the mustiness settled in the crooks and crannies of her brain. There, near the doorway was a basket, and in the basket was an infant dressed as if for a christening. She knelt beside it, hushing the child as she reaches for it.

"Henri?" Sybil calls out to her husband. She picks the baby up and rests her against her shoulder, rocking back on her heels as the child nuzzles against her neck. "Henri, something's wrong."

Something's very very wrong if there's an infant in their rooms who is not supposed to be here. She smiles at the oddity and her way with understatement. There's a piece of paper poking out from the basket, and Sybil snags it, her brief glance turning into a much longer look.

It's a baptismal certificate. A baptismal certificate for her daughter, her daughter with Thomas Branson.

"Well, if I can't stop you I see no point in a quarrel. It'll be a very different life to the one you might have had but if you're sure it's what you want."
"I am."

"Somehow none of that seems to matter when we're in Dublin. Class and all that just fades away. I'm Mrs Branson and we get on with our lives like millions of others."

"We need peace, and safety. Downton can offer us both."


"I do believe in God, but all the rest of it, vicars, feast days, deadly sins, I don't care about that. I don't know if a vicar knows any more about god than I do. And I love Tom, so very very much."

"I love him." The memories flooded in, and were she not sitting she would have fallen. Suddenly it all seems so plain, the life that she'd had. Leaving Downton, trying to elope, finally moving to Ireland with Tom and marrying him. Their life there and how they had loved one another. How frightened she had been for Tom and how they had gone back to Downton. She had convinced him to stay there and it was there that she gave birth to their daughter and there that Sybil is sure that she died.

Which means this little girl is her daughter. Sybil looks up to Henri, tears streaming down her face as she sees the face of the other man that she loves. "I love him, and this is our daughter."

Comments

[adifferentlife]

Sybil wants nothing more than to go to him and sit near him on the bed. She wants him to comfort her and this child -- her daughter. Yet there are memories at war within her; her heart tight with the love of two men and her head heavy with all she now knows.

"This child," she says softly, offering the crying babe her finger. She will need something, Sybil knows, though whether it is food or comfort of another type she cannot be sure. The girl takes it, suckling at her knuckle. Sybil cannot look up, cannot look at Henri now. "This is my daughter. I was married before, to Tom."

[jaimemieux]

Henri blinks owlishly at her, and for a moment, selfishly, he can only think, it is far too early in the morning for this sort of thing. He knows Sybil was married at home, had come to terms with it some time ago, and though he had not stopped to think about it further, he cannot be surprised that Sybil and Tom Branson had a child. But what is it doing here?

Worse yet, there is something knowing and sorrowful in his new bride’s eyes. She looks older.

“Are you certain?” he asks quietly.

[adifferentlife]

Knowing one was married and remembering it so vividly are two entirely different things. Holding the product of such a union in her arms makes it different again entirely. Yet she also feels the weight of the new ring that she wears on her hand, the heaviness of her love for the man now staring at her just as real as what she feels for Tom.

Sybil looks to Henri before shifting, and holding out the now crumpled baptismal paper. It names the child and her parents and her godparents, the notation of deceased beside her own name something that has not escaped her in any way. "I'm very sure. I wish that I wasn't."

[jaimemieux]

Combeferre takes the paper with great care, as though it might be a dying star, ready to collapse in on itself and drag them both into nothingness. Even without reading it, he senses that his world is about to change forever - and Sybil’s already has. And I am not even dressed properly, he thinks in a vacant sort of way.

There is the child’s name, and there is Branson’s. And there is Sybil’s, with the terrible notation that they will never be able to unsee.

Death - or more accurately, the knowledge of it - has stalked Combeferre during his time in Darrow, and largely, he has come to accept it as a discomforting but manageable companion. He knows that in Paris, he will die imminently. Courfeyrac will die, and Grantaire, and Prouvaire, and Enjolras, and all those he loved most. And like them all, their cause will die before it had been on the earth long enough to truly live. Exactly like them all.

And nearly a hundred years later on a Yorkshire estate, his wife will also meet an untimely fate.

“Sybil,” he says, voice only a little wooden. “Sit. Please."

[adifferentlife]

Sitting, it would seem, is harder than she might want. It isn't the action specifically that is difficult, but the worry that once she stops all of this will become real. There is a part of her that believes if she keeps moving she can shed all of this; this knowledge of her life, this child in her arms.

Yet, sit she does, after a long pause. Close to Henri, but not as close as she might have just an hour before. The babe in her arms is restless, the lace dress she wears likely uncomfortable. Sybil wonders absently if this was her christening dress and her sisters' before that. She cannot place it, but then what memory does she have of that day?

Silence hangs between them, and Sybil is left wondering what exactly it is she should do, or say. Practicality wins out over sentiment, that focus helping her get through the moment. "She will need to be fed."

[jaimemieux]

Henri exhales quietly. Like his wife, he appreciates practicality. Practicality stopped him from losing faith when he watched the poor, and the innocent, and the young die of cholera, and practicality helped a man not inclined towards violence plan a revolution. It will save them both from this strange turn of events now.

“I will go to the store.” He forces himself out of bed, out of the easy, straightforward, loving life he had dreamed of in his sleep. Combeferre has spent enough time studying modern medicine to know that he will be able to find formula and bottles easily enough. When he had done his rounds in the maternity ward and had learned of such methods, he had called infant formula miraculous, and wondered aloud at the lives that could have been saved at home, only to be lectured for such a point of view. But that hardly matters now.

“Wait here,” he tells Sybil, pulling on trousers and a shirt. He had expected to spend this morning staring into the eyes of his new bride, and yet now he doesn’t quite look at her. “I will return shortly."

[adifferentlife]

"Henri!" She almost lets him go, almost lets him leave to go get this baby - her daughter - the things that she needs. Less than a full day after they were wed, and she nearly lets him get out the door without stopping him. It would be something that she would not forgive herself later, as hard as it all is.

"Henri. I love you." I love you too, is what she doesn't say. "Thank you."

[jaimemieux]

And Combeferre may have left without giving his bride her due. But she calls to him, and he turns, and softness fills his eyes as he looks at her. “I love you,” he says, and goes to her, and presses his lips to her forehead. “We will be all right,” he murmurs against her skin.

Of course they will be. They have each other.

“Stay here,” he tells her gently. “I will not be gone long. I love you.” And with a little more strength in his heart this time, he departs.

[adifferentlife]

It is a relief when he comes back to her for those few seconds, their touch brief but reassuring. It gives her the strength she needs to stay focussed and not panic - not that Sybil was a woman prone to panic.

She bounces the baby on her shoulder in an attempt to soothe the child's tears and cries. Being a mother is something Sybil wants very much, but she has never imagined having it thrust upon her like this.

[jaimemieux]

Combeferre returns to the Darrow Inn a little calmer than he left, a little more prepared to face this strange and unsettling situation. Yes, he reminds himself, he has heard of people, even infants, appearing in Darrow without warning, and yes, he knows that the city’s residents sometimes develop memories of things that had not happened to them when they left their homes. People have discovered that they die - he has discovered that himself. By Darrow’s disturbing standards, nothing that has happened to them that morning has been unprecedented. Both he and Sybil are people who cope, and they have friends, and they will cope with this.

He nudges the hotel room door open and enters bearing grocery bags of formula, and water, and a cheap baby bottle and blanket - the only things he could find for the time being. “Let me take her,” he tells Sybil, who looks so very tired for a young and cheerful bride. He offers her a gentle, hopeful smile, a take one thing at a time and we will be all right smile. “If you can see to feeding her?"

[adifferentlife]

The baby is finally asleep, resting against her shoulder. She smiles tiredly at Henri on his return, the curve of her mouth not reflected in her eyes. "Of course."

It's such a mundane act, and one she has looked forward to a great deal. There's something about being kept awake by a newborn that she thought she would treasure; being driven to wakefulness by her child with this man she has wed. This is not how she has imagined it and it weighs on her. Will Henri accept this? Can she even ask him to?

She makes the bottle as she has at the hospital many times. The water warm but not hot, the formula mixed in and tested on her wrist. "Is she awake?"

[jaimemieux]

Almost from the moment the infant is shifted into his arms, she begins to wake restlessly, with snuffling whimpers - as though she knows that Henri is not her father, but a stranger. Henri has held babies before, but none have seemed so fragile, so liable to break, and Sybbie’s clear unhappiness is doing nothing to improve Henri’s confidence.

Henri is not angry. He is frightened, and confused, and damnably tired, but he could never be angry. Still, there is a small part of him that feels robbed: not only of this first, perfect, day with his wife, but of the first few moments he had hoped to someday hold his own child.

Still, he offers Sybil what he hopes is an encouraging smile. “Mm. Though I fear she’s not very happy about it, poor thing."

[adifferentlife]

He is as gentle with the baby as she would expect, and it both warms and breaks her heart to see. Slowly, she crosses the room to him, tugging at his elbow until he joins her on the sofa.

"Here," she says, tilting the bottle so the baby can accept it. She doesn't take her from Henri's arms, not yet. If she'll feed peacefully then Sybil doesn't want to disturb her.

[jaimemieux]

Henri joins her on the sofa, and thankfully for them both, the child is quick to accept the bottle, and seems to settle as she feeds. She was hungry, Combeferre tells himself, and tired. God knows what such a strange journey could do to an infant. It is not you who makes her unhappy. After a few moments, he raises his eyes and offers his wife a tentative smile. “Oh, Sybil,” he murmurs, grasping at hope, at the warmth that encircles them as they sit together, unexpected though the morning’s events might be. What they lack in certainty, they make up for in love. “She is beautiful,” he says. "Nearly as beautiful as her mother.”

[adifferentlife]

Those words of kindness from her husband are what she needs to hear, and yet also push her to tears. The morning has been hard for them both, Sybil knows, and yet he still loves her. It is in that moment that she feels luckier than she can imagine, a small sliver of hope chasing away some of the exhaustion and worry.

"All of this- It isn't what you agreed to yesterday, is it?" It is, in her way, an offer. An opening for him to say he cannot handle this development. "I would understand if-" But she cannot finish that statement.

"I don't know what I'd do without you," she says softly and seriously, wiping her cheek with the palm of her hand.

[jaimemieux]

“Ah, Sybil.” There are many things Henri could say that he will not - about his fears, his worries, the way the child in his arms and the look in Sybil’s eyes frightens him. He knows better; he knows it is not his place to panic, not when his wife’s terror exceeds his own tenfold. Later, perhaps, Henri will allow himself to panic over the strange turn his life has taken, but not now. Not today.

“I did not promise only to love you when life was easy,” he tells her with serious eyes. “We are in this together, my darling. I swear it." A beat. "All three of us together, now."