Disclaimer: I do not own Pride and Prejudice
Mr. Darcy hated London. He hated the noise. He hated the smell. London even had its own particular taste, which he despised. He hated the crowds; the people with unknown faces – friends, lovers, families – each with their own joys, hopes, heartbreaks even. Each distinctly alive. Fitzwilliam Darcy no longer felt alive. He breathed, he walked, he ate, he spoke (when absolutely necessary), but he was a shell of a man. He had become a brilliant actor; nearly had them all convinced he was fine. Only Georgiana saw through his guise. She could gaze through his mask to glimpse the dead man he had become.
Why had he allowed himself to be drawn into town? As if it could help him somehow. As if it could thaw his very soul. It could no more accomplish that task then overly sweet wine could bid bones to return to life. Instead of attempting to appear his old self while he was in this worthless city, he sat in his chair and stared into the fire. He was permanently "Not at Home". When he could no longer bare the silence, when the thought of pistils tempted him, he would wander out in the streets to be deafened by the voices of strangers. A lame attempt to dull the ever present pain.
Faces continued to pass him by. Women, men, and children, rich and poor, working and leisurely. Darcy froze. On face in a sea of strangers. It was her. Elizabeth Bennet. She was very much the same. Elizabeth Bennet. She was beautiful. She was happy. She had stolen his soul. Elizabeth Bennet. Her fine eyes shone as she laughed and clung gently to the arm of an unknown gentleman. Elizabeth Bennet. Once, he had seen his unborn children in those fine eyes. Heard a life of happiness in the music of her laughter. Elizabeth Bennet. He, too, had died that day in Kent; died with those unborn babes, with his one chance at a worthwhile life. Died with the dream of Elizabeth Darcy. Of his Elizabeth. Elizabeth Bennet.
Perhaps she was no longer Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Perhaps she had shed the name of her childhood and had taken on another name. Her husbands name. But she would always been Elizabeth Bennet to Darcy. Now that he knew that she would never share his name. Elizabeth Bennet.
She had passed so close to him. Elizabeth. Close enough for him to have reach out and toughed her. Elizabeth. Close enough for him to have whispered her name, and have her turn to face him. Force her to notice him; to look at him just once more. Elizabeth. But Fitzwilliam Darcy could do no such thing; a dead man is as useless as stone. A dead man has no voice. Elizabeth Bennet.
Darcy knew not how long he had stood there motionless. It was long after she had passed. Long after her laughter had faded around the street corner, and even he could only hear the barest ghost of it taunting him. She was gone. Elizabeth Bennet. Elizabeth Bennet. Elizabeth Bennet. Elizabeth Bennet. Elizabeth Bennet. Elizabeth Bennet. Elizabeth Bennet. Elizabeth.
A/N: I had a bit of writers block. I think it is because the story I was writing is to happy for my mood lately. So I sat down to write and this is what happen. It is unedited.