I'm so sorry if this is really depressing. Don't worry, it has to get worse before it gets better! And this will end at least not sadly, I promise. After this, it connects back to the original story, MTMDF, which is also HEA for William and Lizzy.

In reply to a guest review, the reason Elizabeth is mentioned here is because this fic is in the universe of my bigger story. To give you a summary, Elizabeth and William meet when they are six and thirteen, respectively. They become best friends, but William's parents die and a distance grows between them, which isn't helped by the fact that William has fallen in love with his best friend. To say more would give you spoilers, so either go read it, or continue reading this one!


"William?" The little blonde figure wandered through the snow to find her brother. "William? Are you still here?"

It had been more than two hours since William had gone out into the snow to their mother's rose garden, and Georgiana Darcy was worried. She had bundled up warmly (her brother would probably scold her if she did not) in a scarf, gloves, cloth cap, and an extra-warm pelisse, and set out to find him.

Cautiously she creaked open the gates to the garden, calling, "William?"

His still form lay in the snow, half-buried already by the falling flakes that had never seemed so menacing as that moment. Frantic, Georgiana cried, "William! William! Wake up! Please, wake up! Please be alive, be alive!" She was almost sobbing as she dug her brother out of the snow. She gasped as her gloved fingers made contact with his neck. It was burning hot.

He shifted. "Do not make me leave," he murmured. "I do not want to leave." His face was beaded with sweat despite the extreme cold, and already his scarf was soaked. Georgiana flew her brother's forehead and knew what was the matter: he had fallen ill in the snow.

"I will be back, dearest brother," she said, kissing his flushed cheek. "I will be back soon! With that, she dashed away to find Mrs. Reynolds.


A week passed, and soon a tall, lean, but weak figure, wrapped in a navy blue dressing gown, sat at his desk, writing down his torturous emotions before a moon that shone on his dark hair and pale, sallow face. In his desperate longing, his journal entries were no longer addressed to the diary itself, but to the one held dearest to his heart.


1 January 1808, New Year's.

Dear Elizabeth,

Is it really New Year's already? I have no memory of the past week. All I remember is wandering out to the rose garden and falling asleep. Am I going mad? Georgiana says I was delirious with fever nearly two days, and in an uncertain recovery for five days. I feel strangely empty. Without you here, Pemberley is dark and opressive. The only place I can find peace is in the rose gardens my mother planted, and sometimes not even then.

Why do I live in constant fear? Fear for what, exactly? Uncle Alexander has said that I must recover soon, and I do not wish to disappoint him. I... It simply feels so strange being the master here, especially since I am so weak. I can barely hold this pen steady, do you see? Richard thinks it is because I have been ill. No, it is because this poison called bitterness and grief has already made me the worst it can get. Elizabeth, I am not ill. I am not dead. I exist, which is a state worse than death. I fervently hope that you should never come to such a state.

I live in fear and sadness, although I know not what I am afraid of, or what makes me sad. I simply am. I exist, but I cannot live. I think perhaps the part of me that lived was frozen to death in the snow last Christmas.

Why do I feel like such a burden - and yet have such a heavy burden on my shoulders as well. It feels like a man trying to swim in the middle of an ocean with a weight tied to his legs, dearest Elizabeth. I can barely keep my chin up, and I am being pulled under all the time. I do not even know who I am any longer.

Is this a sign of madness, that I have no sense of identity?


2 January 1808

Dear Elizabeth,

I hate this place!

I cannot say that I dislike darkness, but this darkness is oppressive! It is too much - I know not how much longer I can take this without going insane. No sunlight, no joy, no meaning - all a black void with a dot of sun at the top. So far away that I am unsure whether or not it is worth fighting for.

I wish dearly that I could put this in an envelope and send it to you, if only to see your reply. But I will not worry you. I value joy much more now that I do not have it, and I shall never willingly cause the loss of your joy.

My only meaning is you. I look forward to this summer, when I know you will meet me once more. Those golden days are all Inlive for now. I sleep most of the time, trying to escape the cage of reality. I wish I could fall asleep and never awaken. I wish I had died last Christmas.


7 April 1808

Dear Elizabeth,

Something is wrong. Something is terribly wrong.

You did not come to the park today, and you always come on my birthday... What has happened? I liked your present, but I admit that I would like your presence infinitely more.

Still, I like to come to the park, because there I can pretend that my world has not shattered. There I can pretend that I am still William, happy and content. There I can pretend that I do not see the darkness both in me and the world outside.

The lantern of my world has been broken, and the night outside is cold and unfeeling. No matter how much I want your company, how much I wish I could build my lantern again, the darkness and cold wind has already invaded my world and swept the last shards of the glass away. My hands grasp at them, but they slip through my fingers, slicing them open.

Why is my pen as eloquent as I used to be, yet my tongue tied when I try to speak? Trapped, why am I trapped inside myself? I pray to God to simply end my suffering and either take my soul from this earth or give me even just a candle in this eternal night. And I pray you, my dearest friend, return soon, for this young tree cannot live without the sun.

So many colours. I do not have two senses where there should be one, but I can see the colours everywhere. Red and black and blue and lilac - everything is awash in it! The black of Pemberley's night, the pale blue of Anne's slight smirk, the jovial yellow of Richard's cheer, the green of Alex's introspection. I feel rather than see the blue and silver of my own pale weakness, and the crimson sadness that is killing me.

I know not why I can see all this colour, but I delight in remembering the gold and green of your teasing smiles. Gold for happiness, green for life. And it is so frustrating that I am so poetic in writing but so stuttering in tongue.


Resting back upon his chair, William, now four-and-twenty years old, wondered when he had come to this state, this state worse than death.