Chapter 17

"Goodbye, daddy," Elizabeth said quietly as she placed the knife into her father's hand. She stared longingly into his eyes once more before turning her head and squeezing her eyes shut. Her father pulled the blade from her hand and she heard a muffled groan as it pierced his skin as his body slumped to the floor.

She couldn't hold back the sob that tore through her. The anguish she originally felt at discovering both her mother and best friend had perished. And now her father had made the ultimate sacrifice so he wouldn't turn. It was too much to bear.

She didn't know how long she sat there weeping before the door opened again. It must have been some time though for sitting there she relived a thousand moments with her father throughout the course of her life.

"Elizabeth," Darcy said quietly after shutting the door.

Her husband's voice sounded so far away, like he too was now out of reach and she was living in some sort of dreamland. He said her name again.

"Wickham?" Elizabeth asked, anger washing over her. Her eyes remained fixated on her father, who lay in a pool of blood on the floor in front of her.

"He's dead," he confirmed.

She reluctantly turned her gaze towards the sound of his shuffling feet. She opened her mouth to speak, yell, do something, but only another cry burst fourth as she sank into her husband's waiting arms. She felt him lightly stroke her hair and back as he offered soothing words of encouragement.

"My love," she heard him whisper after she had cried her last tears, "we need to leave."

Elizabeth lifted her head from his shoulder. She wanted to tell him she didn't have any fight left in her. Her grief was too great and body was too weak. Everyone else could finish vanquishing the remaining undead. She needed to grieve. Mourn for the losses she felt so keenly. She would never again be able to confide in Charlotte, or listen to her mother gush about how she managed to marry a man like Fitzwilliam, or seek out her father's guidance. She glanced at her husband to tell him no. She would not keep fighting. But his soft eyes met hers and Elizabeth was whole once more; stronger with his unyielding might. And she could not give up for it was not in her. She was, after all, a warrior.

"Can you stand?" Fitzwilliam asked her.

She nodded in the affirmative and he helped her to her feet, trying to ignore the shooting pain coursing down her leg from when Caroline stabbed her. She needed to carry on; if not for herself, for her sisters.

He placed a dagger into her palm as she said, "Dad told me about Charlotte… And my cousin... And mom… So much death."

She knew she would carry the guilt with her for the rest of her days. Her parents, cousin and closest friend had all died trying to rescue her. And Charles had lost his sister at her own hand.

"Don't do that to yourself," he said, meeting her eyes. "Their deaths are not on you. The blame lies solely on Wickham."

She glanced away, not believing him.

"And Caroline?" she retorted quietly.

"She was responsible for her own actions," he responded flatly, his eyes shifting from her body to her father. She scoffed. Regardless, how was she ever going to tell Charles she had killed his sister. And what would Jane think?

"Did you….?" He let the question hang in the air as he looked from her father's lifeless body to her distraught face.

"No," Elizabeth responded, breaking from her reverie and glancing at her father once more. "He wanted to do it himself."

"You get your strength from him," her husband said, kissing her head tenderly. And now, she thought, I get it from you.

They stood there in silence for several more moments, each praying quietly, and then walked towards the door together, blades in hand.

"Goodbye, daddy," she whispered before taking a deep breath and following her husband into the depths of the house.