Hello everyone, if anyone is still with me. Bear with me here. I had an idea of what I wanted to happen, but GETTING there has been the hard part. Hopefully, I have achieved something good. For any of you who happen to have also watched 1982 Scarlet Pimpernel, this scene is a little bit taken off this since Darcy is such an awesome fighter that he can obviously run rings around Wickham and do whatever the heck he wants just as Percy can do it to Chauvelin. So basically Darcy makes Wickham look like an idiot.

Reviews are at the bottom.

Disclaimer: Never owned it. Never will. Such is the cruelty of life.

"Until tomorrow, George." The words were whispered, heard by no one except the man who uttered them. "Until tomorrow."

Later that evening, a dark-haired man could be seen pacing in a richly furnished study. His coat and waistcoat were unbuttoned, his cravat loosened, his hands firmly thrust into his breeches pockets. His whole attitude was one of intense focus. There were whisperings among the servants that the master was deeply displeased because an unworthy gentleman had been trifling with the young miss's feelings. As a result, strict instructions had been given that no one was to disturb master in his study. Food had been placed outside the door at suppertime with a discreet knock on the door, only to be removed an hour and a half later with only the drink being touched and a small nibble at the food.

Inside the closed and locked room, Fitzwilliam Darcy was indeed in a bad humor. He had only this afternoon seen again a man he had hoped to never see again. And seen him under the most unpleasant circumstances. George Wickham had apparently been able to weasel himself into Darcy's sister's affections and persuaded her to elope with him. Further investigation had revealed, as had been feared, only mercenary motives.

Darcy smiled grimly. But tomorrow, he thought, justice will be dealt.

Abruptly, the man's pacing stopped. He cut across the room, breaking from the path he had made in the floor, to cross to a large mahogany desk that gleamed softly in the firelight. The top of the desk was impeccably neat, but the man didn't reach for any of the stacks of paper that were carefully piled on the desk. Instead, he placed his hands on a drawer that was just below the lip of the top of the desk, half hidden in the shadow. Gently, he pulled it towards him, revealing a long and shallow compartment, just large enough to secure a sword. Reverently, he drew the shining silver from its resting place, holding it and rotating it slowly so the firelight was reflected dancing on the blade. A soft smile graced the stern features of Darcy's face, relaxing the angry lines that had developed in the past few days and the worry lines that had appeared all too early in his life.

As the sword rested in his hands, a calmness spread throughout the man's body. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment as he balanced, allowed the muscles that had tightened to relax. The shoulders, tight and pressed back, slumped forward slightly and his torso curved in. His whole attitude was one of relaxation, readiness, and protection.

For a moment, Darcy balanced on his toes, seemingly waiting for someone or something to make the first move; something that could only be seen by him. Abruptly his eyes snapped open, but they remained fixed on something that was far away, staring past the dark walls and the bookshelves and the fireplace with the dancing flames. Slowly, he began to dance, thrusting and parrying with the sword. He weaved across the floor, his feet shuffling softly and his body moving in one fluid motion. After a time, the patterns began to repeat and, as they did so, they became faster and faster until the sword and the arm became a single blur of silver and cloth, a slash of motion in the air.

As suddenly as it all started, it stopped. The man's eyes came back from wherever they had been staring, bringing him back to the present and the study that surrounded him. He slowly became aware of his rapid breathing, of the sweat that had seeped out onto his body, flowing down from his hair across his brown and down to his eyes, moistening the fragile hairs that peeked out from his shirt, and soaking the white shirt. Darcy allowed his sword arm to drop slowly from its ready position until it rested down by his side. He wiped his forehead with his other hand, brushing his damp, curly hair away from his eyes. For a moment, the hand paused near the back of the skull and the curls slowly freed themselves from the restriction and gently fell to again rest across his brow.

The morning dawned bright and clear, but there were soft clouds on the horizon. It was warm, but not unpleasant, and a breeze occasionally rustled through the trees outside a bedroom window to flutter through the curtains. A bird chirped and the soft sound pierced the brain of Fitzwilliam Darcy as no amount of sunlight could. Eyelids fluttered open to reveal eyes that burned with a passion, with a purpose. A hand clenched underneath the bedsheets, but then relaxed as Darcy again closed his eyes and forced all his muscles to relax. He was slightly stiff from the unexpected workout yesterday, but it was a good stiffness, one that told him that he was ready to face Wickham and make him pay. It would no good to get all worked up, as there were still hours before the confrontation.

Ready to get up, determined, yet still loose, the young man swung his legs over the side of the bed and stretched his arms far above his head in a shoulder-popping stretch before he stood up, leaning backwards to pop his back. Twisting side to side, he worked out the kinks he had developed since last night until there was no tenseness in his body anywhere. After splashing his face with cool water and rubbing it vigorously with the towel near the basin, Darcy quickly descended the stairs and sat at the breakfast table where he ate a filling breakfast of toast and bacon. Since Georgiana was not yet up, he was able to escape to the sanctuary of his study where he dealt with the various matters of business that followed him wherever he went, for Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberly and Derbyshire always had business to attend to.

He ate a small lunch in his study before returning to his room to quickly change into more comfortable clothes, ones that allowed for more freedom of movement. Upon coming downstairs, he found his steward waiting with two swords, his old friend and fencing mentor, who was standing as his second, and the carriage waiting outside.

The carriage ride was quiet, Darcy absorbed in his own thoughts, preparing for the duel ahead of him. His second sat across from him, on the opposite side of the carriage. Once, Darcy smiled at him, grateful that he had agreed to come, even more grateful that he lived in this town. The two of them had worked to perfect their fencing skills together and there was no other man he would rather have behind him, save his cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam. Even Bingley couldn't compare because Bingley was an overeager puppy. Plus, the man had never learned to fence properly. So the two men bounced along, their heads nodding to the movement of the carriage, Darcy gently stroking the sword that lay sheathed across his lap.

Suddenly, the carriage stopped. Both men looked up, then, realizing that they were at the appointed place, opened the door to the carriage and stepped out of the carriage. They were the first ones at the secluded field. Trees surrounded it, and there was very little chance of anyone passing along the road since it did not lead into the town. Therefore, it was the perfect spot to hold a duel: close to town in case someone was seriously hurt, but far enough away that the chances of anyone bothering the duelers were rather slim.

"Typical," Darcy muttered as he looked around the empty field. "Just typical. The man was always late for class, for church, he was even sometimes late when Father called him. Why should this be any different?"

Ever practical and efficient, Darcy chose to waste no time. Wickham had never been worth much time to begin with, so he planned on spending as little time as possible here. He began to stretch and warm up, jumping around and swinging his arms to get the blood flowing after the ride. Drawing his sword, he dueled the air in simple moves in order to warm up. Focused solely on his task, he was surprised when his sword clanged against another. Refocusing his eyes in order to see the world around him, he saw his second holding the second sword and grinning. Darcy grinned back and the two began to mock fight, but both being careful not to expend too much energy.

Finally, half an hour after he should have been at the field, Wickham strolled up nonchalantly, hands shoved in breech pockets, a swagger in his step. His whole attitude was one of relaxation and a cocky smile was flickering across his lips.

"So terribly sorry to be late," he called out as he walked up to the two waiting men. "I fear I don't have a sword. I was unable to purchase one on such short notice and you know, Darcy, that you were always the more violent and aggressive of us…" His voice trailed off with this suggestion.

"Oh, don't worry, George," Darcy drawled pleasantly. "I thought you might have difficulty purchasing something, seeing as how you appear to have run up bills with all the creditors in town, so I took the liberty of bringing one of my own." At this, his second stepped forward and showed the other sword the steward had been holding, the one that Darcy had not been using the night before and this morning. Wickham took the sword, muttering his thanks, but both men could see that he was thrown off balance by this and had clearly been hoping that lack of a weapon could postpone the duel and possibly give him the chance to get out of town. Now, there was no way of avoiding conflict with an experienced swordsman who had a score to settle.

Both men walked to opposite sides of the clearing, shrugging off their coats and vests as they did so. Turning, each did his final preparations, Darcy relaxing and simply loosening up any tightness, Wickham attempting to warm up slightly and calm his fear. The two then returned to the middle of the clearing. Smartly, Darcy swung up his sword to salute his opponent, although the look in his eyes made it clear that this was simply a formality and there was no respect intended in the move. Wickham's salute was slightly delayed and sloppy. Clearly, he was playing "monkey see, monkey do" and copying the more experienced man. Without delay, Darcy went on the offensive, attacking Wickham. The other man barely had time to get his sword up to block the thrust, and he staggered off-balance slightly. To his surprise, Darcy backed off, waiting for his opponent to regain his footing. His eyes gleamed with a strange light, and a mocking smile played around his lips.

Oh, no, Wickham thought. Oh, no.

For a time, the two men circled, each waiting for the other to make a move. Before long, sweat was trickling down Wickham's brow as the sun warmed him and he became even more jittery. Darcy, on the other hand, appeared cool and composed, willing to wait all afternoon. Frustrated, Wickham made the first move, charging forward and attempting to slash through the other man's defense. The black-haired man simply knocked away the blows, his green eyes gleaming with that strange light as well as boredom.

Come on, they taunted. Is that the best you can do?

The fight continued on in this manner, Wickham slashing wildly and Darcy parrying his attacks with ease. Every now and then, just to change things up, Darcy would go on the offensive and attack Wickham, backing him up and almost breaking through his defense… then backing off. Each time this happened, the other man grew more and more frustrated and less and less level-headed. He knew that Darcy was just toying with him. Roaring, yet panting, hair soaked with sweat, he doubled his efforts, barely seeing what he was doing.

Until a slight pain in his arm brought him back to the present. Seeing that Darcy had retreated, he glanced down at his right arm. A slice in the fabric ran from his shoulder to his elbow. Underneath this was a cut, shallow and relatively painless, but seeping blood nonetheless.

"Your reflexes are even slower than they used to be, Wickham."

The cold voice drew his gaze up to watch the man who stood across from him.

"Too many years of wine and women? Too many years living idly off the work of others? Being nothing but a good-for-nothing pest, shaming the race of men and placing a black mark upon our sex?"

Again the blade danced in, this time marking Wickham's other arm.

"Come, Wickham," Darcy challenged. "Let us see if a man still lurks underneath sad exterior."

Biting his lip, Wickham answered the challenge, throwing himself back into the fight. The dance resumed, but this time, Darcy was done waiting. He stayed on the offensive, toying with Wickham, cutting his shirt to shreds and leaving scratches everywhere. Finished with the torso, he began the more difficult task of marking the other man's face. Before long, the other man's face had a scratch on the cheek and another above the eye.

On the other side of the clearing, Darcy's second watched with an amused eye. His friend was not following the rules of dueling, but this was a special situation. He, too, had known Wickham in Cambridge and agreed that it was high time for this man to be taught a lesson.

Suddenly, it was all over. With a ring, Wickham's sword flew from his hand, the silver blade catching the sunlight as it sailed across the clearing out of his reach. When his eyes came back from following the sword, they saw Darcy standing with his respective sword up high. A slight prick on the neck let Wickham know where the tip of the blade was resting.

"I believe we are finished," the other man said with false pleasantry. "But before you go…"

Again the sword flashed and hot pain forced Wickham to his knees. Warm blood trickled down his leg from a wound that wound from his hip to his mid-thigh, coming uncomfortably close to his groin in the process.

"Let us see how amorous you will be feeling before that feels," Darcy added. Stepping closer, he allowed his voice to drop and all his hatred to color his voice. "I never want to see you again. Don't come to Pemberly. Don't try to contact me for money. Don't ever touch or think about touching my sister again, or so help me God I will find you and kill you."

Unable to respond, the other man simply stared and Darcy turned away contemptuously, whipping out a handkerchief to clean the sword from his blade. He met his second, who was carrying the mate of the sword, at the carriage. Both climbed in and shut the door and the carriage turned around before it stopped and Darcy leaned out the window.

"We shall send back help for you when we re-enter town. Good-bye, George."

With that, Fitzwilliam Darcy leaned back against the back of the seat and drove away, fully expecting to never again hear from the likes of George Wickham.

THE END

Little Minamino: well... he didn't put steel into his heart... but I hope you liked this. Ouch... I'm sorry about your broken arm. Although it's healed by now since it's taken me so long to do this... oh boy... glad you thought it was still interesting enough to come back a year later.

HarvestMoonRacoon: That's a pretty sweet name by the way. Tell your mom to get in line! Jk. That's pretty cool. Darcy thanks you for the banner by the way. I hope he beat Wickham up enough for you... um... sorry about the year long wait

Charles of China: you just found out what happens next, so unless you want me to retype the story... I'm glad you think it's cool, though... and I'm sorry he didn't kill him. Just curious... why did you review chapter 3 before chapter 1?

But we all know that Wickham, being the cad he is, shows up again!

Well, it was a little weak, but I just couldn't get it going and really all I wanted to do was finish it. Although I still wanted to make it good for all of you out there who have waited for so long.

Now, press that little button to send me a review!

Until next time!

I remain, your humble servant,

Percyismine