Fitzwilliam Darcy stormed angrily from the parsonage resided by Mr. Collins. Feeling dejected, bitter, and vulnerable, he wished to quit this blasted countryside as quickly as possible. When did he begin letting his emotions cloud his judgment? He wished she had just finished him off. Rammed that letter opener into his heart for now he wanted to rip it from his chest all on his own. Detesting himself, he mounted Combat and galloped towards Rosings. What he desired would never come to pass. Together they could have been the deadliest couple in all of Great Britain. Her wielding her katana, slicing zombie heads from their foundation, fire in her eyes as her unruly curls flowed gracefully about her shoulders with every subsequent kill.

Exiting the forest, he slowed Combat to a trot on the gravel drive leading to Rosings Park. Glancing down at his faithful horse, Darcy unequivocally determined two things: The first, he would write Elizabeth to explain his actions. If she comprehended his motives, she may endeavor to forgive him. And the second, he would seek solace in combat, his faithful retreat. In more ways than one, his horse and the battlefield provided comfort and a sense of belonging. In normal society he felt awkward, insecure and out of place, but he always felt sure of himself with a weapon in his hand and an undead lying slain at his feet. Arriving at the lowered stairway, he dismounted Combat and began walking up the steps into the heart of Rosings.