Darcy glared over the ramparts of the city, across its encompassing moat and into the countryside. His unblinking eyes were a defiant glacial blue as they examined the land. The rolling green hills, the distant white topped mountains, scattered fields of dark earthen brown. A beautiful prospect, yet his eyes stared unseeing.
His mind remained in past battles. Specifically in the cries of his comrade for his wife. Darcy replayed the cry over and over, sensing the affection below the agony. He longed for such a relationship, a deep companionship.
He was beginning to feel time moving swiftly. He felt like half a person, and mere a tool the bishop could dust off and use when it suited him. Darcy gave a self deprecating smirk. "The Bishop would not even have to dust me off," he thought.
He was meticulous, to his men's dismay. Darcy took his role as Captain of the Guard seriously and stoically, as his father before him taught.His hand absent mindedly reached and felt the sword at his side. His father's sword, his ancestor's sword, and what should be his sons sword. The sword had never known defeat.
Until now.
Darcy turned from the ramparts with a sigh, feeling his failure deeper today than other days. The sword would be buried alone with him, his space unfilled, and his family line discontinued. More than five generations of strong, successful men, to end with him.
The ultimate failure.
Darcy walked down the stairs to the training grounds, ready to drive himself and his men through a punishing training session. Perhaps to prove to his mind through his strength, his skill or his leadership that he was not a failure.
When his men saw his tall figure marching towards the training grounds with a pained look in his eye, they groaned. Though they would follow him through hell, they dreaded the training to get there.
The training bore fruit though. The guard was superb, well trained, and greatly provided for. Captain Darcy could see the weakness in each man. He would train one on one until the weakness was gone. As grateful as the men were afterwards, the training was exhausting.
OOXXOOXoXXx
Darcy sat on his great black war horse, Goliath, for inspection from the Bishop. His face was as cold and stony as the ice topped mountains. Like how his mothers face was. His guard lined behind him, standing or mounted, lined according to office and rank.
It was a spectacle for the nobles of the city. An event to attend and be seen themselves.
But Darcy paid no heed to the commotion as the new Bishop continued his admiration of the guard. This man was recently appointed when the last Bishop died that winter. Darcy was sad to see the man go. A kinder, wiser man had never lived. Alas, his recommendation for a successor seemed off the mark. The new Bishop's admiration held a hungry glint. A glint that did not sit well with Darcy.
After the bishop released them, they marched off. They marched away from the citadels courtyard and down the hill to the training grounds near the city wall.In relative seclusion his men erupted in whispers.
"Did you see her?" "My God, it was like looking at an angel!" "Like looking at the face of love!"
Darcy repressed a smirk as he handed Goliath to a squire. The horse examined Darcy for a second, shook his mane before lumbering away with a huff. "My men," Darcy thought, "are no better than old women. One newcomer, and they fall to pieces." He subtly wished he had seen the new woman, to see if she indeed had the face of love.
No, he couldn't believe it. Such things only belonged in faerie tales. He shook his head, pushing down his laugh, before sternly ordering his men to collect themselves.
He then marched up the tower off the training ground to his quarters and helped his squire take off his armor. Piece by black piece, meticulously cleaned, and put back together.
OXXOOXoXXx
Darcy strode into the dining hall where he was to be a guest. He maintained his black clothes, feeling uncomfortable in anything else after all the years.
As usual, he was slightly surprised at the elegance of the great hall. A lyre and flute player sat in the corner playing softly and calmly. There was no raucous laughter, clanking glasses, or drunken brawls. The women giggled softly, and the men spoke gently.
Darcy felt his arms getting limper the longer he stayed. He could feel eyes on him, but he paid no mind. Out of the corner of his eye, he did spy one familiar drunken face. He gave a sly smirk as he walked over to the man.
"Father Fitzwilliam," he said in way of greeting, "I wasn't aware you would be coming."
"For free food and wine?" the priest said with a smile on his face, "I wouldn't miss it for all the gold in Rome." Darcy shook his head and clapped his priest on the shoulder.
"Save me that seat, won't you?" Darcy commanded. His friend nodded with a happy grin and turned back to his plate. Darcy turned his face to the new Bishop and went to go and greet his host.
But his usual purposeful, confident stride was interrupted by a beautiful, melodious laugh. Not a titter, or giggle. Or a cackle or bellow. But a laugh. His eyes immediately seized onto the sound and pulled along his gaze to a woman. A beautiful woman. It was like looking at the face of love.
His stride found new purpose and before he knew it, he stood at attention before the angel. Her bright amber eyes turned to look at him. He suddenly felt self conscious as he towered over the others in the room, and dressed solely in black he stuck out, a crow amongst the peacocks. His tongue was tied and heavy in the face of her gaze, making him a little more self conscious.
Her skin was nearly gold from so much sunshine. Cinnamon hair twirled alongside her face. Her lips turned up in an impish smile and a clever spark in her amber eye. Nothing could escape those eyes, certainly not Darcy. They were so full of mirth he felt he would die to keep even an ounce of pain from them. She was a summer day, bright, clean and beautiful. He suddenly believed in faerie tales.
Her lips smiled and moved. Darcy heard nothing. Her face evolved into a beautiful laugh, but Darcy heard nothing. One of her dark eyebrows rose and her face grew an endearing mischievous look. He could watch her for years. Until she looked at him confused, then shrugged and turned away to her companion, seemingly annoyed.
He world popped and suddenly sound reached his ears. The music played and the people chattered. He gave himself a mental check, to see if his mouth was open or he had gone cross eyed.
Thankfully, he had done nothing awkward, except for glare at an angel. He took a step forward to her, commanding her gaze back to him. But when her attention enveloped him, he was at her mercy.
"Are you ready to speak now?" she smiled with a questioning look. Even her voice was smooth and calming.
"I am, my lady," he said, giving a slight bow.
"Excellent!" she smiled, "I couldn't fathom why you would come over in such a state just to glare so fearsomely." He had the grace to blush a shade, but he maintained eye contact, afraid now to look away.
"I didn't mean to stare," he said, offering an apologetic smile.
" I'm sure," she said, narrowing her eyes but there lay a twinkle in them. As if she was laughing at him.
"I am William Darcy," he said, hoping for her name, "I am the captain of the guard here."
"How fascinating, my cousin and I were at your presentation. Very orderly and impressive! You must be very proud."
"I'll have to pass along your congratulations to my men. I am very proud of them," he said, lamenting at the purposeful exclusion of her name. Now it was her turn to be silent. Her gaze held him as a very willing prisoner as she considered him.
"A noble who passes up on a compliment?" she said with a happy gaze and upturned smile. "I am all astonishment. I'm sure my cousin, Jane, will feel the same. I am impressed, Captain Darcy," she said. He opened his mouth to beg her name, but a hand tapped on his shoulder plate. A servant stood behind him.
"The Bishop has requested to see you, Captain," he said. Darcy felt frustrated, and must have looked it, because the lady laughed melodiously.
"Don't look so cross Captain! I will be remaining in the city with my cousin. I'm sure our paths will cross again." He could bear it no longer.
"Please my lady, a name" Darcy begged, unused to the taste of begging, but it suited him when it was for her. The servant grew restless next to him.
"You have a name. It's much more exciting this way Captain," she said with a smile and a gold glint in her eye that made the Captain inclined to agree with her. He bowed and turned to follow the servant. A quick glance back revealed she still watched him. He felt warmer than any wine could give.
He followed the servant to the head of the hall. At the Bishop's seat he bowed deeply, pressing a kiss to the ring on the Bishop's outstretched hand. When he looked up into the man's eye, there was a hostile glint, contrasting starkly with his white mitre and robes.
"I see you found our newest occupant," he said.
"I did, she refused to give me her name though," Darcy begrudgingly admitted, still upset that his begging hadn't worked. The Bishop looked suspiciously pleased with this knowledge. Strange for a holy man. He felt uncomfortable under the Bishop's stare, though he could not place why. All the warmth from speaking with the golden lady was gone. "She seemed to only tolerate my intrusion," he said.
The Bishop seemed gleeful at this pronouncement, though it did not go past a chilling smile. Maybe Darcy read too much in the Bishop's eye, no one around seemed to find anything wrong with the Bishop. In fact, everyone was trying to be close to the man.
"Indeed?" The Bishop asked calmly, "such a shame. But still, I must congratulate you on the state of your guard."
"Thank you, your grace, but it is my men that deserve the praise."
"You must pass off my congratulations to them then," he said, before quickly looking down. "If I might ask," he continued hesitantly, his black eyes flicking up and locking with Darcy icy ones, "are you looking for a wife?" Darcy felt a sinking dread in his stomach that surprised him. Perhaps it was the noise of the celebration.
"Of course, your grace, but no one comes to mind presently," Darcy lied, seeing the cinnamon curls and amber eyes.
"Such a pity," the Bishop said, with his lips pulling upwards. Darcy bowed in response and the Bishop waved him off.
As he turned, he clandestinely looked at the woman seat. It was vacant, as was the one next to her. He maintained a steady pace back to Father Fitzwilliam, taking care to not look directly at the woman's seat.
Fitzwilliam offered him food and wine, which he took. The priest rambled on, and usually Darcy enjoyed his rambles and grievances. But in his mind he was distracted. He had found her. Now he must win her.