AN: Oh MAN I had a completely different Elizabeth/Darcy fic planned out but then I saw a post about these soulmate/enemy tattoos and THEN read this obikin fic about it... All I could think about was how *perfect* this was for Darcy/Elizabeth. This is probably one of three or four parts.

Showing them wasn't considered proper at all. Many otherwise eligible matches went unmade because the names didn't match. It become vogue for people, young ladies especially, to wear long sleeves or elaborate bracelets to hide the names etched in elegant script.

But then too many marriages had been thrown into ruin by it, seeing someone else's name on their newly wed's wrist. Laws had to be put in place to prevent anyone from seeking divorce or legal action against spouses who had perhaps misrepresented the depth of their affection. Occasionally it would help people keep a spouse who later met the man or woman whose name was sitting incriminatingly on their wrist.

It soon became a secret shared among only the closest of people - siblings might show each other, beloved friends as well. Parents might catch a glimpse of the names that appeared on their children's wrists at the tender age of sixteen. (Though many parents avoided it - heartbreaking enough to be married to someone you know wasn't your soulmate, but to force your child to do so... It didn't sit right.)

Spouses might even be lucky enough to affirm to each other that their names were there. Though most weren't, and so most did not share the secret. For even if your spouse's name happened to be on yours, it did not mean that your name was on theirs.

Of course, the absolutely scandalous would reveal their names proudly to all, leaving it for the whole world to wonder which was their lover and which their hated rival. A daring servant girl might announce to all who would listen the name of the rich young man (or sometimes old, no matter) whose name they happened to bear on their wrist. More often than not, they ignored the other name... often a parent or spouse or friend of their dear soulmate, someone with the power to absolutely ruin them.

More often than not, it didn't work out in the lovers' favor.

Although the worst stories were well circulated and gossiped about non-stop, Fitzwilliam Darcy grew up only seeing the good parts first hand. For on his mother's wrist was the elegant script of his father's name, and likewise her name was on his. His mother was a rare woman with but one name - no rival or enemy to speak of. He had no doubt his father had another name, but it was kept hidden and never discussed, so as far as the young man cared it may as well not have existed at all.

On the day of his sixteenth birthday, he woke up excitedly. In the first glimmers of light, he rushed to the window to try and make out the letters he could only faintly see.

His left wrist now bore a name written in smooth cursive letters: Elizabeth Bennet.

On his right, in a familiar script that always had erred towards efficiency rather than elegance: George Wickham.

All morning, he stared at those names. He was at a complete loss. Wickham was a friend. The idea that he could be an adversary seemed unfathomable. They were playmates, their only rivalry being in footraces and the occasional wrestling match. Perhaps the other boy was more mischievous and could be bad tempered, but that didn't seem enough to warrant anything close to the title of "enemy."

Young though he was, he considered the other possibility. That Wickham was his soulmate. He frowned at that. Whatever his feelings towards the other boy might be, they were hardly romantic. His grandfather had often philosophized about what it means to be a soulmate. Lovers, to be sure, was the more common expression of that bond. But he insisted that a deep friendship or partnership could exist in place of it.

Yet that didn't seem right either. Yes, he and Wickham were friends, but he felt no particular strong affection for the other boy.

He became transfixed with the name on his left wrist. Frowning, he thought it didn't seem particularly fair to this unknown Miss Bennet to assume her to be his greatest enemy. Or soulmate, for that matter.

Sighing, he eventually came to the conclusion that only time would reveal this particular secret to him.

Despite the mid-summer heat, he opted to wear the longest shirt he could find. A jacket followed, just to be sure the sleeves would remain fixed in place. When he came down for breakfast, neither parent remarked on the attire of their only son. They must have decided to let the boy choose how much of the names he shared with them.

The vote of confidence pleased him. The constant reminder of his confusion did not.

Elizabeth Bennet was not afforded such privacy from her parents, nor were any of her sisters.

Jane's sixteenth birthday had been warning enough. Her eldest sister had taken it all with an amount of grace that Elizabeth, even at the young age of thirteen, knew she would never possess. The family had gathered around Jane as her mother fawned over the wonderously beautiful name written on her daughter's wrist.

Charles Bingley.

(Though Elizabeth had never said as much, she had thought the handwriting was a little sloppy - not so much ill-practiced but rushed. She knew there was no point in saying as much since it would only anger her mother and disappoint her sister. So naturally, her father was the one who remarked upon it.)

When they went to her other hand, tugging up the sleeve of her nightgown, there was the overly ornate name written with needless flourishes: Caroline Bingley.

Their mother went on and on about the possible scandals this could mean. Clearly this Charles Bingley was Jane's great love, and his mother/sister/wife was there to stand in the way of poor Jane. (Who this woman was changed from day to day as Mrs. Bennet came up with more and more elaborate stories trying to explain the mystery.) Their father almost immediately retreated to the library with a wry smile.

In the confines of Jane's bed, as the two girls whispered to each other late at night, Jane lamented that she would be the cause of any difficulty for this man. To imagine a future where she would be a source of discord among any family... it wounded the poor girl greatly. Elizabeth did what she could to comfort her sister, but without the particulars, well, there was little to say.

Two years of hearing about Jane this and Bingley that were enough to give Elizabeth a certain amount of dread for her own impending birthday. The day she turned sixteen she was given no peace from her mother.

Hiding in her room did nothing. There were threats that her door would be kicked in and she would be forcibly brought downstairs. Eventually she pushed open her door and fled down to her father's study. A full hour of begging allowed for the following agreement: she would reveal the names to her father and her father alone.

The prospect of knowing something his wife did not delighted Mr. Bennet (the years of teasing it offered apparently seemed to outweigh the years of nagging he would receive). So carefully, she pulled back her sleeves and showed the names.

On her right wrist, the precise letters spelling Fitzwilliam Darcy. On her left, the more casual George Wickham.