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Fitzwilliam's heart skipped several beats. His countenance paled further. His breath became shallower. He reached out his hand, groping for his wife's. He absent-mindedly rubbed his thumb back and forth across the palm of her hand. He morosely closed his eyes for a moment, tears warning to overflow. When they opened, he saw the rise and fall of her chest. His heart leapt for joy, pulse quickening. Relief swept through his body, making him tremble. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words could be summoned. He licked his lips to try again.

"Elizabeth? Elizabeth, are you alright? Darling, speak." His voice was hoarse and wavering. He bided his time, waiting for a response. Fitzwilliam stroked her forehead, checked her pulse, all the while still grasping her hand. Her breathing became less shallow; some small amount of color returned to her visage; a pulse was detectable.

"Elizabeth, can you hear me? Wake up, darling, you will be alright, that I will ensure. Speak, Elizabeth, if you are capable. The sun is coming out, I am sure you feel it. Oh, Elizabeth, you must wake. Whatever will I do without you?"

Now the tears did fall. Unchecked as they were, he continued speaking words of comfort to the unconscious Elizabeth, though she did not hear them. The chirping of nearby birds roused him from his meditation. He looked across the horizon. The sun had receded behind the clouds and dark was beginning to fall. Fitzwilliam rechecked her pulse. It was steadily becoming more prominent. He released her hand to stand. Pemberley was in sight; why had he not noticed this before? Shouldering Elizabeth he strode towards Pemberley.

He reached Pemberley in a matter of hours. By that time the sun had set and the night air cooled. They were quite the sight to be seen, emerging from the darkness; him with his torn pant knees, tousled hair, and haggard look; her, unconscious, dirt-streaked, and limp. Indeed, Mrs. Reynolds had been worried about them and their unkempt appearance deranged her more.

"M-Mr. Darcy, you are here! Oh, Lord! Mr. Darcy what have they done to you?! A-and Mrs. Darcy! Is she dead? Good God Almighty, what has happened to you? We heard a loud noise, no one is sure what, and then you never returned! I did not know what to think! Pray, what has happened to you?" Mrs. Reynolds greeted them hysterically. She put her hand to her heaving chest, watching him avidly as she spoke.

"Please, let us tend to Mrs. Darcy before we begin reminiscing. She has not moved in several hours, though her pulse has increased steadily. Please, ready our bed and send for the doctor. I know not what condition she is in." Fitzwilliam, still holding Elizabeth, looked down at her with no small amount of worry.

"Of course! How silly of me to overlook that. Your bed ought to be made already; I shall box Sara's ears if it isn't. I will send for the doctor directly. You head on up." Mrs. Reynolds rushed off to send for the doctor, muttering incoherently under her breath as she did.

Fitzwilliam carried Elizabeth off to bed, laying her down gently as he did so. Smoothing her hair back from her forehead, he gazed at her face. She did not appear to be in pain, though it was screwed up as if disturbed by something. He caressed her cheek, admiring the soft blush covering her features. Pulling himself away from her, he hoisted the covers up to her chin. Looking at her mournfully, he turned and went to inquire after the doctor.

"Well, Mr. Darcy, I hate to be the one to tell you this, it is obvious you are very attached to your wife, and you have not yet been married six months. But, Mr. Darcy please bear with me, your wife seems to have suffered from severe head trauma. Most likely, she will not wake for some time, because…your wife is in a coma. She may not emerge for days, weeks, months, or even years. There have been cases where the person has never wakened, but I have never seen one; they are extremely rare. She may or may not hear you, and she may or may not respond to anything. There is no way to tell when this state shall pass. My guess is, by looking at the severity of her injury, a month." The nice doctor tried to smile kindly at the shocked man before him, but was stopped by the look in his face.

Fitzwilliam could not believe his ears. Elizabeth, his Elizabeth, in a coma! And there was a slight possibility she may never wake up! He might spend the rest of his life caring after a non-responsive wife. They would never have children, he would be all to himself in his lonely mansion. She would wake up years later to find an old man sitting at her bedside, her whole life gone by. Rousing himself from these evil thoughts, he gaped at the doctor, an expression of pure incredulity on his countenance. The horror of it overwhelmed him, still, and barely did he believe it. Mere hours ago they were joking, teasing, and laughing together, not a solemn thought to trouble them. Now, they might not share that again. Forcing himself to close his mouth, Fitzwilliam sank in to the nearest chair, head in his hands. His shoulders heaved in silent sobs that shook all his body.

The kind doctor peered at this silent expression of grief, and, perceiving there to be no more reason for his presence at the moment, left. As a precaution, however, he was to stay at the mysterious Pemberley, performing daily check-ups and what-not to detect any impending complications which may occur.

Fitzwilliam heard the doctor sigh, and close the door soundly behind him. He continued in his grief for several more minutes, his supply of tears exhausted. Raising his head from his hands, he looked at Elizabeth. Even when she was in such a state, a state from which she may never arouse, she looked beautiful. Getting up, he unbraided her hair, arranging neatly on her pillow. Planting a quick kiss on her cheek, he bid her goodnight, promising to come back as soon as he could in the morning.

That night he could not sleep. Tossing and turning in his bed, Fitzwilliam lay awake until the early hours of the morning. He could not help but think of Elizabeth, ill, lying alone in the chamber next door. This was the first time they had slept apart since their wedding three months ago. It was a small amount of time to be married, for sure, though it did not feel so to them. He missed her presence beside him as he slept; their bed seemed immense without it.

The sun had just risen when Fitzwilliam got up out of bed. Forgetting the incident of last night, he looked around confusedly, searching for his wife. It all came back to him in but a moment. Dressing in a hurry, lest he should encounter an unsuspecting member of the household, he almost forgot his shirt. With all the anticipation welling up within him, it took great self control to not fling the door open and run to her side. Instead, he quiescently slipped in, nearly tip-toeing to her bed.

She was still sleeping as soundly as when he had left her. Elizabeth's countenance was more peaceful and rested then before, a expression of perfect calm. Her flush had deepened, making her look more ill and feverish than he had last noticed.

Leaning down beside her bed, Fitzwilliam took her hand in his. Resting his head on the edge of the bed, Fitzwilliam thought of their past three months together. It was full of happy memories and many firsts. He could still see her beam at him as the Reverend pronounced them man and wife. He saw her family wave as they were packed into the carriage. A thousand images came to mind, all increasing his distress.

Lack of sleep and incessant worry had exhausted him immeasurably. After only ten minutes of his sorrowful reflection, he fell back to sleep.

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