✔️ shadows of desire | downton abbey

chapter 21

TW: blood, war

MATTHEW POV; 1916

I woke up to the relentless barrage of gunfire echoing in the distance, the acrid smell of gunpowder thick in the air, mingling with the damp, earthy scent of the trenches. The ground beneath me was hard and cold, the kind of cold that seeped into your bones and refused to leave. As I sat up, every muscle protested, stiff and sore from another night on the unforgiving earth. The fatigue was an ever-present weight, a dull ache that never quite faded.

Running a hand through my hair, I tried to shake off the fog of sleep. My thoughts, as always, drifted to Eden. The memory of her face, so vibrant and alive, was a beacon in the darkness that surrounded us here. Her letters had been a lifeline, her words a comfort amidst the chaos. But it had been days since her last letter arrived, and the silence gnawed at me, a constant, nagging worry.

The air was thick with the sounds of war-artillery in the distance, the clatter of men preparing for another day in hell, the murmur of tired voices. As I donned my uniform, the fabric rough against my skin, I felt the familiar weight of duty and responsibility settle over me. The scent of smoke and sweat clung to everything, a reminder of the unending struggle we faced.

I made my way through the trench, each step a conscious effort to move forward despite the exhaustion that threatened to pull me under. The mud squelched beneath my boots, the cold air biting at any exposed skin. Reaching the command post, I found Sargent Smith, a lanky figure with a perpetual grin, sorting through the morning dispatches.

"Good morning, Smith," I greeted him, trying to muster some semblance of cheerfulness. "Any letters today?"

Smith looked up, his expression shifting into a mock-serious frown. "Ah, Captain Crawley, always on the lookout for love letters, eh?" He chuckled, shaking his head. "Afraid not, sir. Not a single one."

A pang of disappointment hit me, sharper than any physical pain. I forced a smile, though it felt tight and strained. "Thanks, Smith," I said, my voice as steady as I could manage.

As I turned to leave, Smith called after me, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Must be quite the lady to keep you on tenterhooks, sir. Is she your beau? Haven't seen you this worried since we ran out of tea!"

I couldn't help but laugh, though it was a hollow sound, lacking true mirth. "Something like that," I replied, trying to keep my tone light. "Just hoping for a word from home."

The reality was far more complex, and as I walked away, the weight of it all pressed down on me. The gunfire continued, a relentless backdrop to our existence here, each explosion a reminder of the fragile thread we all walked. The trench was filled with the scent of damp earth and sweat, a testament to the toll this place took on every man who set foot in it.

The exhaustion was more than physical; it was a weariness of the soul, a deep-seated fatigue that came from too many days of uncertainty and fear. Yet, even in the midst of this despair, I held onto the thought of Eden. Her absence, the lack of her letters, was a void, but the memory of her love was a lifeline. It was that love that pulled me from my bed each morning, that drove me to face another day.

As I trudged back to my post, the air heavy with the sounds and smells of war, I clung to the hope that one day, this would all be behind us. That I would see Eden again, hear her laughter, and find peace in her presence. It was a hope that kept me moving, one step at a time, through the endless mud and muck of the trenches.

***

The uneasy quiet of the morning was shattered by the sudden, deafening roar of artillery fire. The ground shook violently, the sound reverberating through the trenches like a beast awakened. The sharp, acrid scent of explosives mixed with the musty odor of damp earth, creating an atmosphere thick with tension and fear.