[PPZ] - Til Death Do Us Part #BigChange [Elarcy]

1| Change

Change.

A small word. Innocuous in its simplicity, unassuming in its form, and yet can oft bring the boldest of persons to their knees. Change. A shudder ripped through my belly as I, Elizabeth Darcy, stood at the edge of a precipice, and all it would take to cast me over the side was the barest gust of wind. A breath.

A scream. Like the one building inside of me, aching to burst out from my bones.

"Mrs. Darcy..." The man delivering a most unwelcoming message waved a hand before my eyes. "Have you heard a single word I've said?"

"Yes." Drawing deep within myself, clawing down to my toes for every ounce of strength I as yet possessed, I brought myself upright. Shoulders back and spine straight. The time for weakness had long since passed.

I was no longer a girl who lived in simpler days of dresses and social gossip. 

I was a woman steeped in a world of death and misery, where the living dead swarmed the fields, invaded houses and tore whole families apart. Where the night rang with cries and the air was stifled with the stench of fire and burning flesh.

"Lady Catherine's death is a vicious blow to our forces. Her loss has staggered the men's confidences. Shaken them to their very marrow." The messenger swiped a hand through his wet hair, scattering droplets to dampen the parchment of the letter on the table. "His Royal Highness, the Duke of Wellington insists you must honour Lady Catherine's final wish and take command of her camp on the front lines. We must leave at once, Mrs. Darcy. Your presence is required immediately."

A collective gasp sounded within the room, reminding me that I was not alone but in the midst of a tea-party with what remained of London's high society. A celebratory gathering of women in honour of recent blessings, now all dashed to dust at my feet.

"Surely you don't mean to take her this instant," Jane said. She rushed to my side, stroking a hand over her swollen belly where her first born rolled and kicked in obvious awareness of her distress. "Our guests..." Jane looked to me, helpless. 

"I am afraid I must insist," the messenger answered with a hint of regret. "His Royal Highness is not pleased about this change of command, but respected her Ladyship enough to honour her final wish in this world." 

"This is Wickham's doing," I said and at the utterance of his foul name, my hands clenched tight into fists that longed to pummel into the walls of his rotting flesh. The Black Battle of York had waged now for the better part of two years. With a man of his military skill and knowledge at the head of a salivating Horde, our losses had been great and our reserves were nearly crippled.

A recent alliance with France's King Louis XVIII promised a fighting chance, but only just. And still, those men were a week away from reaching our shores while Wickham's army of the Dead were ever growing.

Swallowing England whole.

For no fault other than proximity, Scotland had almost been razed to the ground and so she'd built a wall across her boarders, leaving us alone to fend for ourselves. Not that I could blame our neighbours for abandoning us in our hour of need. For all the centuries of Scottish blood spilled for English vanity, I could fill an ocean.

No. Our only hope was to survive long enough for the French troops to deliver us from our plight.

The door to the library whisked open and a dark figure strode in. Proud and fierce and mine.