Prince Fitzwilliam Darcy had not spent much time in his home, the kingdom of Pemberley, for a while, much to the chagrin of his aging parents. Shortly after the birth of his younger brother, George, two years prior, Fitzwilliam had seized the opportunity to travel abroad to the kingdom of Netherfield and study in close proximity to his close—and, quite possibly, only—friend: the illustrious Prince Charles Bingley. The friendship had been crafted from birth as one of convenience, to rightly serve the alliance that the boys' fathers had forged before them. Thus, Darcy and Charles treated it as such in the beginning, but, after several encounters in their youth and through the exchange of curious letters on everything from knighthood to witches, the companionship grew into something more genuine.
Truthfully, Fitzwilliam had never expected for their friendship to keep on as it had into their early adulthood, much less for him to all but relocate to Netherfield once he reached the age of sixteen. Fitzwilliam had always loved Pemberley, had always envisioned himself following in his father's footsteps and educating himself at the same institutions his father had. That was, until Fitzwilliam developed a mind of his own and realized just how much he resented following in his father's footsteps. They were, as it turned out, footsteps marked with the blood of innocents, marred by the scent of a tyrant's guilt.
It was a matter of ideological differences that ultimately drove a seemingly impenetrable wedge between father and son. The King and the Prince were cordial, per necessity, but, whenever they spoke, they never said much of anything. And, whenever the King requested a visit from his son, he regretted it upon Fitzwilliam's entrance to the castle. Although it was a fact that could not be openly acknowledged, for propriety and pride would not allow it, the men, as well as the people of Pemberley, were aware that their relationship was strained past repair.
Still, they engaged in duty towards one another whenever necessary—typically, Prince Fitzwilliam halted his life in Netherfield to travel to Pemberley in the event that his mother was sick, either of an illness or of his absence, or his father desired for him to test and train knights, among other practical matters; while King George did generally everything else for his son. This time around, it was the King summoning the Prince for a four-day stint of family dinners, to placate the despairing and sickly Queen Anne. She had, apparently, caught her present sickness on her and her husband's trip to a neighboring country that they were to be returning from on the day of Fitzwilliam's arrival.
It was now the evening of Fitzwilliam's arrival, and his parents were nowhere to be found. This did not startle the Prince; it was, after all, in his mother's nature to make elongated apologies and his father's to pose farewells twice as long as that. It was a known fact that the King and Queen were rarely, if ever, on time to anything, whether it be their son's birthday celebration or their own supper. Fitzwilliam had grown accustomed, if not fond, of this casual aspect of his overtly proper parents. Thus, rather than worry or even irk him, the tardiness of the King and Queen made him feel a warmth that he hadn't felt in a while.
Fitzwilliam busied himself by checking in on first the servants, specifically those preparing the evening's meal; then the knights, whose training he took over unceremoniously, much to the chagrin of his estranged and yet dear old friend, the newly appointed Sir George Wickham; and finally his brother, George, who seemed to do nothing in Fitzwilliam's presence save sleep. After that, Fitzwilliam retired to the gardens, where, he resolved, he would patiently await his parents' return.
At some point or another, Sir Wickham found Fitzwilliam there and they subjected themselves to forced and aimless small talk.
"Why do you still reside in the castle?" was one of Fitzwilliam's many questions.
"Fitzwilliam, old boy—I am still your father's ward." was one of Wickham's many answers.
Things went on like this until a servant came upon them and announced the arrival of Fitzwilliam's cousin, Richard. Fitzwilliam was not keen on humoring company alone. For his part, Richard looked rather grim upon his emergence into the gardens, as if he wished he weren't there at all.
"Fitzwilliam," acknowledged Richard with a curt nod, in a small voice that did not belong to him. "Sir Wickham."
Fitzwilliam quirked an inquisitive brow. Why had Richard showed, if not to exchange meaningless pleasantries or unwanted banter? There was always the possibility that he was in need of something; alas, Fitzwilliam was not his father (and gratefully so) and he could do nothing of great magnitude for Richard in comparison to what King George could do. The Prince, as bold as ever in his haze of exhaustion, would have pointed this out had not Richard spoke first.
"I have news, Fitzwilliam. News that I believe should remain between us two for the time being." He did not spare Wickham so much as another glance.
"I trust your judgement, cousin. Sir Wickham, leave us."
Wickham shuffled away, with an over-the-shoulder remark about getting washed up for supper. Once he was out of sight, Richard inhaled deeply and regarded Fitzwilliam with a piercing gaze.
"Well?" The Prince prompted.
"Yes, well…" Richard started, and then trailed off. He did that a few more times before he got it right, pushing his cousin further and further past annoyance with each attempt. "The matter here is your parents, Fitzwilliam." There, Richard paused, as if he expected Fitzwilliam to connect the dots on his own.
The Prince groaned audibly. This had occurred far too often in recent times. "Do you mean to tell me they have postponed their return?" Haughtily, he remarked, "Tell me, am I to remain here as honorary regent for a month? Or, let me guess, am I to leave of my own accord, only to be summoned back in a few days' time?" He ran his hand over his face. "Which is it this time, Richard?"
"Neither," Richard replied. It was the small voice again.
"Oh." Somewhat pacified, Fitzwilliam queried, "What is it, then?"
Richard averted his gaze and focused intently on the grass beneath his shoes. A moment passed. Then another. Finally, he lifted his head, and:
"I received word a quarter hour ago from Rosings. The King and Queen of Pemberley, your parents, have died on their voyage home."
RDRDRDRDRDRDRDRDRDRDRDRDRDRD
Roughly five years later, in the neighboring kingdom of Longbourn, the Bennet family was finally learning to cope with the abrupt death of their only boy, Lysander.
Lysander Bennet, the younger twin brother of Elizabeth Bennet and general younger brother of Jane Bennet, had always been a source of hope for his parents and sisters. He'd been a pleasant and valiant young man—a promising scholar or something of the other who would ultimately restore wealth to his family's estate when he became its heir. It was a responsibility that Lysander accepted willingly, though not lightly. In addition to heir, Lysander had held a number of other titles, many of them menial. Among them was Elizabeth's confidant; Jane's wardrobe peruser; Mrs. Bennet's taste tester; and the voice of reason in logical disputes between Elizabeth and Mr. Bennet. To his family and all those surrounding him, Lysander was a promising prospect for both the Bennets and, to an extent the people of Longbourn, depending on which career path he chose to take. His future could not be brighter if the path itself were made of lanterns.
And then he'd vanished a year ago, and his family was told, a handful of months later, that he was, indeed, dead, though they were not permitted to see any indication of how this conclusion had been reached.
The Bennet household went dark in the wake of Lysander's death, both literally and figuratively. The windows were never open anymore. The women and Mr. Bennet only sported black attire, inside and outside of their home. The ear-shattering sobs of Mrs. Bennet were for all to hear on a nightly basis, unless she'd temporarily used them all up and, instead, sat numb and stiff-faced in bed until exhaustion lulled her into a peaceless rest. Her daughters and Mr. Bennet did not cope well, either, though less so than Mrs. Bennet.
Only recently had light begun to shine inside of the estate, and the girls begun to wear their brightly-colored dresses, and the family begun to heal, in general.
Now, it was not as difficult a task for Elizabeth to venture outside of her bedroom door—the one she'd shared with Lysander for sixteen years—as it had been a short time prior. This, of course, made it easier for her to visit friends of the family once a week; they were still sending condolences, advice, and, most importantly, food.
Today, Elizabeth had started the moderately lengthy walk home with only a tin of sweet cake. Celebrations had been had the previous week—celebrations that the Bennets had not participated in—so it was expected. And welcome, as Elizabeth and her family did not enjoy being regarded as a charity case. There was a fine line between pity and the acknowledgement of a temporary hardship, and, most times, the Bennets felt that they were on the unfavorable side.
This did nothing to discourage them from accepting the "gifts," of course. Being a charity case was one thing; seeming ungrateful and snobbish was an entirely different matter.
For her part, Elizabeth did not feel particularly guilty about this particular haul. Sweet cake was her favorite dessert, after all. Plus, her family could do with something carefree like a dessert at this stage in the mourning process—a dessert that had not been ruined by the dark clouds looming overhead, for that matter.
Resolved, Elizabeth headed home to the estate in a brisk walk. No matter how quickly her pace, however, she could not avoid the drizzle that came upon her mere minutes into her walk. The drizzle became full rain, and the rain soon became a full pour. Elizabeth had no choice but to take refuge underneath the first roof she happened across. It belonged to one abandoned building or another. She scurried beneath it and immediately stumbled into a firm figure that barely reached her thigh.
Elizabeth froze. The figure stumbled back and onto its bum. And that was when she realized that she had run into a very frightened, very lost boy of no more than four years of age.
His curly brown locks sat messily atop his head. His skin was brown, his cheeks were full, and his fingernails were newly dirty.
He was dry, but he was shivering all the same.
On instinct, Elizabeth set down the tin of sweet cake and stepped forward to wrap the boy in her shawl. She pulled him flush against her. He did not protest. In fact, he barely moved. The only sound Elizabeth heard for a good while was the harsh smattering of rain against the roof.
Soon enough, the boy began to sob, in a more reserved manner than Elizabeth had anticipated. She did what she could to comfort him, offering him the contents of the tin, which seemed to do the trick, temporarily. As he stuffed his mouth, Elizabeth studied him with intense interest. She asked him a number of questions while they waited out the storm—"Where are your Mum and Dad?" Shrug. "What are you doing here?" Shrug. "Do you like sweet cake?" Nod.—and continued to do so long after it stopped.
Only when she realized that the sun was setting did Elizabeth offer to take him home with her. She did not note the gravity of the situation, really. All she saw when she looked at him was a child in need.
"Home?" The boy repeated, as if the word were foreign to him.
Elizabeth nodded. "Home. There's more food—better food." At his sheepish glance downward, she smiled and ruffled his locks. "You can have a bed for the night." Her breath hitched in her throat. The bed, if he took it, would be under use for the first time since Lysander last slept in it. "And warmth. And lots of books."
The boy hesitated. Then, he nodded profusely. "Okay," came his childish whisper.
Elizabeth smiled wider and helped him up. "I'm Elizabeth, if you were wondering."
"I wasn't," the boy replied, succinctly.
"Well, now you know. And your name is?"
"Dakota."
She squeezed his hand.
"What a nice name. Welcome to the South side of Longbourn, Dakota."
They left and abandoned the tin beneath the roof.