The gentlemen rode horses lightened by their magical workings, so they could run for hours at a full gallop without tiring themselves. Each man fed energy into his horse, allowing the animal to run without food or exhaustion. For short distances flight and physical translocation could move a gentleman far more quickly. But horses were the fastest way to travel greater than twenty miles. Few gentlemen could travel through air for lengthier distances; translocation tired the user quickly, and in general was only used to gain tactical advantage or to reach inaccessible locations.

So slow.

Messages must be reaching Wickham. It had been more than a full day already since they set out. Darcy's group had been forced to slow several times to burn away the ice on the road. The working which lightened the horses made them unstable, and it was dangerous to ride them at a full speed over ice. He'd intended to stop for the night less than forty miles from Pemberley, but instead they stopped at nearly a hundred miles.

Halfway through the day they had run into a wall of pelting sleet that slowed the men to a near crawl until in frustration Darcy created a massive spell that cleared the road of water for a mile in front of him. He'd only been able to hold it for a quarter of an hour. But that he could do such a great working at all… that he even tried shocked him. When had he become so much more powerful?

Darcy had recently galloped down this road. Just a few weeks before… six years ago. When he had returned after visiting his London holdings.

The same buildings. A few were missing. And a few others had been built. The same season, but different fields were left fallow and different fields had winter wheat. There were new enclosures. Entire groves of trees were missing, and in other places saplings had grown into vibrant young trees, and vibrant young trees had begun to mature.

The hundred men entered the land of Pemberley with a rumbling roar, and the instant he was upon his own land Darcy felt the heady, exalting rush. The consciousness of the house flowed through him. The weight of the centuries and its beauty. In the back of his mind he felt the memory of the house, the records of its existence layered into the massive stones of the foundation.

The vibration through all his pores, and the sense of bricks and fields being happy at their master's return.

Wickham was not present. Nowhere within Darcy's lands could the steward be sensed — except he no longer was steward, he had disavowed the connection, so that Darcy could not track him through it. And Georgiana. Georgiana was absent as well.

She must live still, else she could not be a hostage.

Darcy pulled the reins on his horse. He studied, with eyes of a master, the rolling hills and the tall trees and the statuary of the park, and the marble columns and stone walls of his home. He saw the magic of his land, the magic of his people. They gathered in the courtyard of Pemberley. In the gathering place for times of danger, celebration, or mourning.

The power of the house called to him. The power should be used in such a time as this.

And Darcy spoke: "I am returned! I, Fitzwilliam Darcy, the master of these lands, the lord of this house, and your protector. For six years mine absence has endured, but I return, and I take my rightful place. You are my subjects and I am your highest servant. Always Darcy! Always Pemberley!"

The shout rang out, audible in every square mile of his domains. It passed through the connections tying Pemberley to every station and office of the Darcy clan, to the grand house in Derby, to the fields twenty miles away around the town of Lambton, to the nobles who had pledged their support to the Darcys in times of trouble. All connected to him heard his shout.

Darcy rode forward at a gallop to the house. He must enter the inner foundation, the center of the Darcy clan. He must restore the connection and commune with the house. Only then could he be free to chase Wickham and Georgiana. Darcy went slowly enough towards Pemberley that the fastest dozen of his men kept up with him, even though he could outpace them with ease.

Except for Richard. He believed from the ease with which he followed that Richard could pace him.

Signs, yet small, of decay met his eyes and magical sense.

The peasant tenants had not been given enough capital and magic and their homes and fields displayed the lack. A few houses had been abandoned, and a few beggars allowed to live on in tiny huts.

This was what his people had told him in London.

Wickham had been a poor steward.

Pemberley rose ahead of them. A grand mansion in the style of the seventeenth century. Long wings, a giant statue in the center, a pond filled with magic, water leaping high into the air, and then falling unnaturally slowly down. Gardens that flowered no matter the time of year. The smell of citrus, and jasmine, and fresh roses.

The gardens had been well cared for at least.

Darcy pulled up at the courtyard. A statue fifteen feet in height stood in the middle. His great- great-grandfather, the man who had brought William of the Netherlands to the crown. He held a sword out. The mighty bronze statue had turned green with age. The crowd gathered round it. Men and women in the clothes of their daily lives. Already thousands of people. So many cried. More streamed to the gathering, following the horses.

They screamed and cheered when they saw him.

Home.

Fitzwilliam Darcy, the missing prince of Pemberley, was home.

Darcy leapt from the horse.

His people gathered about him, touching him and he touched them in return. Each time there was a flow betwixt them in which potentia left Darcy, yet each touch somehow left Darcy more powerful than before.

He was pushed through the screaming crowd to the grand entry hall, its doors held wide open. The staff of the house stood, in their uniforms. Footmen in livery, the butler, Mrs. Reynolds crying and embracing him.

Just as with Richard before, Darcy did not release his hold on his magical armor when Mrs. Reynolds embraced him. He was ready for a desperate strike from this dear woman to kill him. But despite the paranoia, he was still desperately happy to see her.

He walked into Pemberley. He needed to claim his full right.

Pemberley welcomed him.

Darcy tingled with emotion, pride and power. His finger buzzed, every inch of his head bubbled with fey pulsing, his toes could barely be felt, yet his movements were rock steady. At the end of the grand entrance hall was a small door. It could only be opened with the combination of a key held by the steward and a key held by the keeper of the house.

Or by the will of the true master of Pemberley.

The door threw itself open as Darcy reached it.

The crowd which had followed packed the massive hall. They cheered.

Darcy entered.

The door softly closed of its own will behind him. The room glowed with an eerie low light. Pemberley whispered aloud here, almost sentient in its moanings. Almost human. The spirit of his parents and grandparents echoed here, and all his ancestors down to the distant ancestor who had established a holding on this land. His ancestors were here with him.

Something was missing.

He perceived now with perfect clarity. No imagination. A hole, gaping and wide in his soul. Something ripped out and some part of his being leaked away through it. This was that which caused the ache.

What had been done to him?

In this moment of greatness, of triumph, Darcy experienced sadness. His soul was missing. His heart. And this… none of this could fill it for him. No matter how he wished, or begged, or desired. He must find it.

But first.

Darcy bowed his head against the rock on which words were inscribed only intelligible to one of the blood by which the Darcys had always lived. Mystic power flooded his being, magic carved into strength by the will and work of hundreds of scholarly gentlemen and great warriors.

Pemberley asked a question to him, but in such a way as to show it already knew his answer. Darcy returned the expected answer. He was willing to submit all to the honour of the clan.

He was the master of Pemberley.

Darcy rose. There was little time, and he must find Wickham and rescue his sister.

The light blinded him when he opened the door once more and returned unto the vast great hall. The crowd remained. They cheered and cried. There were shouts of glee. Shouts of praise. Cries that they had always known he would return.

Darcy stood upon a dais that stood in the back of the hall, next to the door that led to the foundation stone. "I am returned. My once friend, my steward, Wickham, betrayed me and fled. I must seek him now, and I must defeat him. And when I am returned I will listen to all your grievances and hear all charges. I am the Darcy of Pemberley. You are my people, my friends, and I am eternally your man."