(no subject)
When one awakes and finds oneself unexpectedly in a foreign locale, it has the potential to be exceedingly distressing by its very nature. The sense of displacement is profound, and strikes that most primal place deep in the heart of all men. Even more upsetting, then, would be discovering that you have not been in bed beside your wife, but instead in a macabre, nightmarish place, filled to the brim with all manner of horrific items surely only suitable for murders and madmen. Worse still would be finding that in addition to all of this, you were not yourself at all, but rather an extremely pale little girl with a fondness for black. Indeed, even her long, ankle-skimming night gown was a shade of darkest grey, well-worn no doubt from its previously stark black colouring.
Fitzwilliam Darcy prided himself on his ability to maintain a cool head in most any situation. In fact, there were scant few instances in which he might be unable to maintain his calm countenance. This, he believed, very rightly qualified.
Ultimately, it was the spider that did it, a large, furred thing that peered at him from one bleak corner of the room. Darcy skittered from the unfamiliar hut and through the gruesome gate surrounding it, any little relief he might have felt at confirming he was still on the island all but dashed by the creeping, oppressive reality of his present situation. It was so positively sinister that it made him fairly gleeful, which was entirely confusing all on its own.
Being only in a night dress and wholly unwilling to venture back into the unsettling confines of the the hut he had awoken in, not to mention quite determined to make any sense of his circumstances, Darcy resignedly marched his tiny body to the Compound. The task proved much more trying than anticipated, as little legs and bare feet did not stride with the same confidence of his own. Nevertheless, he managed to make it to the clothes bin in the basement room and secured himself an appropriate dress and a pair of pale pink girls' slippers, which he put directly on with minimal difficulty.
Up next was the task of determining how long he might expect to be held prisoner, and to decide whether returning to New Pemberley in such a state would be relieving or calamitous.
Fitzwilliam Darcy prided himself on his ability to maintain a cool head in most any situation. In fact, there were scant few instances in which he might be unable to maintain his calm countenance. This, he believed, very rightly qualified.
Ultimately, it was the spider that did it, a large, furred thing that peered at him from one bleak corner of the room. Darcy skittered from the unfamiliar hut and through the gruesome gate surrounding it, any little relief he might have felt at confirming he was still on the island all but dashed by the creeping, oppressive reality of his present situation. It was so positively sinister that it made him fairly gleeful, which was entirely confusing all on its own.
Being only in a night dress and wholly unwilling to venture back into the unsettling confines of the the hut he had awoken in, not to mention quite determined to make any sense of his circumstances, Darcy resignedly marched his tiny body to the Compound. The task proved much more trying than anticipated, as little legs and bare feet did not stride with the same confidence of his own. Nevertheless, he managed to make it to the clothes bin in the basement room and secured himself an appropriate dress and a pair of pale pink girls' slippers, which he put directly on with minimal difficulty.
Up next was the task of determining how long he might expect to be held prisoner, and to decide whether returning to New Pemberley in such a state would be relieving or calamitous.