He was with her again.
Darcy’s resurgent presence was a shearing light that sliced through the psychic uproar. But it was more than that; it was a call to truth, a demand for the others. Through their bond, Elizabeth felt Wickham’s mind respond with the full, feverish procession of his own history.
A memory so old and deep it was almost buried: two boys, running through the woods at Pemberley, their laughter echoing through the trees. She felt a phantom ache of a love that had long since curdled into hatred and jealousy. It was a tangled, painful knot of what had been and what might have been. But in that knot, a stubborn thread of that old affection remained.
Then, the most powerful memory of all, a moment that shone like a beacon, as the official words on the dispatch naming him Captain blurred before his eyes, replaced by the radiant smile on Georgiana's face, a smile that banished the long shadows of their hardship and offered a love and a faith he knew he had never deserved.
Elizabeth felt the ache of Wickham’s own deep regret, the shame of having ripped this gentle, trusting girl from her comfortable life, of having deceived her so callously.
She felt how much he had come to admire and love her. And in that moment, in that pivotal, defining moment, he had finally begun to feel worthy of her.
Grounded by that memory, Wickham found his footing. He turned his back on the Blight's hollow promises. As he did so, it was as if a clean current of power surged from him into the bond, a power that Elizabeth grasped and clung to.
The wrenching agony inside Elizabeth ceased. Shaking, breathless, she felt Darcy's resolve flow directly into her through their bond. His strength became her own. Fortified by his power, she gathered the threads of their individual victories as they converged within her, weaving their fractured magic whole again.
But the Blight, seeing its other prey escape, intensified its assault on the one it still held captive. Through their newly stabilised bond, Elizabeth and Darcy felt the full force of the poison being poured into Georgiana's mind.
Darcy's will became a cleaving blade that slashed at the psychic assault that had fastened on his sister. It did not simply speak of pride; itwaspride — not in himself, but a pure, unwavering manifestation of the strength he now recognised in his sister. The darkness retreated before the relentless force.
As Darcy fought it back, Elizabeth gathered the stubborn magic she felt blazing from Wickham, fused it with her own heart and strength, and poured it into reforming a bond with Georgiana.
At first, Georgiana's spirit seemed to simply absorb the offering, a wounded silence her only response. But then, a hesitant pulse answered it. Nourished by that warmth, her own magic began to stir, slowly at first, then growing, until it was a brilliant light, scouring the last of the shadows. Her power, whole once more, rejoined theirs.
One by one, the Blight’s illusions shattered like black glass.
For a moment, in the ringing silence of their own minds, they were simply four survivors, blinking in the sudden quiet. Theywere left with nothing but the raw edges of fear and relief, their faces pale in the harrowing aftermath.
Through a shimmering haze of emotion and exhaustion, Elizabeth's glance darted went from Georgiana's tear-streaked face to Darcy’s, only to find his attention already fixed elsewhere. His gaze drew from the middle distance to pin Wickham's. The look that passed between the two men was as hard and sharp as a blade. Elizabeth felt the tension through the bond, a grim acknowledgment of the abominable words that had been spoken.
She knew Darcy would not — could not — let such an insult go unanswered.
A crooked smile tugged at Wickham’s lips. “It was effective, was it not? A masterstroke of viciousness.”
“George,” said Georgiana, paling.
“And my response was sincere,” replied Darcy, the words a low, chilling promise.
This was an indulgence they could ill spare, especially not now. As if sensing Elizabeth’s dismay, Wickham turned to meet her gaze with a look of bold, unrepentant acknowledgment. It was a look that said, ‘You saw the serpent at my ear.’
She had. She had also seen him cast it aside. She had felt his regret.
And when the moment had demanded it, when temptation had whispered its sweetest promises, he had saved Darcy. When the phantom of Pemberley had risen before his eyes, he had chosen again to reject it.
His gaze held hers for a beat longer, and then he gave a slight inclination of his head — a quiet closing of the door on the man he might have been. She answered with a steady look of her own — an acknowledgment. She understood him better now. Darcy had not been entirely correct in his assessment…and neither had she.
Elizabeth felt, more than saw, the line of Darcy’s scrutiny travel from her to Wickham and back again. He had seen the look that passed between her and Wickham, and was now dissecting its meaning. After a moment he gave a barely perceptible nod; a small thing, but she read in it the quiet, monumental effort of a man setting down a heavy burden. It was the strength to choose grace over grievance, to choose absolution in the face of a greater darkness.
That was all. A final, ugly clearing of the air, a tacit understanding of the necessary but vile provocation, and the absolute response it had required. They turned, in silent accord, to face the Blight.
The unified magic that flowed from them now was not the volatile power of before, so easily fractured. This was something new, something forged from their own personal hells and tempered by compassion and forgiveness. It was stronger, cleaner, and utterly without fear.
Faced with a power that did not meet its hatred with more hatred, the baleful presence at the heart of the quarry recoiled in confusion, scorched by a light it could not understand. A discordant shriek, a sound of pure, agonised disbelief, echoed through their minds, before collapsing into a high, keening sound of pure outrage. A set of shadowy tendrils withered, turning to black dust that blew away on a newly clean wind.
The core of the Blight, its hateful, sentient will, withdrew as if burnt under the pressure of their grace.
And then, into that sudden quiet, something else rushed in.
A faint vibration shivered up from the earth; very weak, yet slowly growing in strength, it became a deep, resonant hum that pulsed up from the ground beneath her feet. It was the feeling she had sensed at the signal station, that powerful earth-song of stone and time, momentarily freed from its oppressor.
