Author's note: Even though not everyone thought so, I realized the fanfiction I was working on; The Black Pawn, was turning into an epic fail, so I stopped working on it. Here is just some drabble for Pride and Prejudice I came up with to make up for it, kind of. I'm not entirely sure where this idea came from, but I guess I wanted to show Mr. Darcy trying to figure out just what his love for Elizabeth means after she takes his proposal and grinds it into the dirt with her foot. (well o.k maybe it wasn't THAT dramatic, but you have to admit it must have shocked poor Mr. Darcy quite a bit.) So here he is, pondering himself, his love and what the hell kind of damn flowers do you send a woman when you want her to stop spitting venom every time she says your name. CAUTION: This fanfic uses much symbolism and metaphor so you shall have to engage in thinking to fully understand it.
I am not dead, a good novelist or skeptic of society (yet!) so it's quite obvious Jane owns the characters and the mediocre plot belongs to me, enjoy.
Mr. Darcy walked through the gardens of Rosings, looking at the flowers and their imperfections. He carried in his hand a sealed piece of parchment, the wax still radiating a faint warmth in his hands. The letter seemed to taunt him. It was a reminder to Mr. Darcy of his failure, his own imperfections. He had never considered himself perfect, but he was used to being thought of, as Ms. Bingley so incorrectly put it "a man without faults." He grimaced. The only person to question that description had so aptly been the one to throw them back in his face.
Elizabeth Bennet. There was nothing remarkable about the name. Nothing to suggest grandeur or beauty, nor was it a particularly beautiful name to hear. It had a sort of curtness to it, a sense of bluntness that fitted its bearer perfectly. She had been perfectly blunt about her dislike for him, and all too obvious in her abhorrence of his offer. All the same Mr. Darcy and found himself muttering it to himself over and over again, whispering that name before he fell asleep and finding it inerasably etched in his dreams. It haunted him as much as her face.
His feelings had been shunned, his presence found positively vile in the company of the one person whose good opinion he had ever truly desired. It should have been an insult, and to some degree it was, but mostly it inspired sadness, remorse and above all, pain.
It was true Elizabeth was blunt, but there was also a sort of mysteriousness about her. The way she smiled knowingly whenever she put him down, the way she walked passed him that displayed her unwillingness to submit to a commanding stare… and her eyes. Oh it was her eyes that inspired the most in his torture. They seemed to dance on flames, daring to do anything, defy anyone and they had such warmth. He remembered the smile she gave him when she played the piano that day at Rosings. The first look of acceptance, approval, maybe even friendship he had earned from her. And no doubt the last.
The letter was his defense. Feeble though it was, Mr. Darcy knew it was his only sliver of hope for redemption. The only chance he had of earning another look of warmth from the woman he would gladly walk the world for. He hoped with all his heart she would read it. He prayed with all his soul she would believe him.
He had observed Elizabeth at every opportunity he could, but he had never been very much coherent in the strategies of romance. Especially when one knows the chance at romance is gone. Looking at the flowers in the garden, thinking of which one to send to her, he wondered what would suit her best. What would suit what he was trying to tell her.
Violets? No they would not due at all. They were too poised, too elegant. Mr. Darcy turned away from the flower in frustration, sighing angrily as he did so. No, they would not due. They held themselves too high. Not like Elizabeth didn't do that at times, but that sort of beauty was too much like himself as well, cold in expression, stiff in figure.
He pondered over another few flowers in such ways, dismissing them after coming to similar conclusions. Absent-mindedly he found himself fingering a rose. He turned away with utmost disgust at himself. A rose would be a terrible thing to send. It was a symbol of romance, of perfection. It was a flower of fantasy, one with no true place in his life. What would Elizabeth think of him if he sent it to her?
Mr. Darcy heard a rumble above him, and by the time he looked up the rain started to fall in heavy torrents. Quickly he ran to find shelter beneath a willow tree, shivering in his instantly damp clothes. He sighed angrily, looking up at the sky. It seemed to be mocking him, painting his chaotic mind with a sort of amused vividness. Mr. Darcy hung his head, acknowledging his defeat.
How fitting that when one is at the pinnacle of sorrow they discover that the light of euphoria is only just above them.
Mr. Darcy smiled when he realized that, had he not looked down, he would have never found it. Eagerly Mr. Darcy took out the pocket knife he had brought with him, cutting of the sprig of lavender from its stalk. He sat down on the stone bench beneath the tree, staring at the tiny herb in wonder.
It fit perfectly, lavender. He held it to his nose, breathing in its soothing fragrance. Oh, yes it was the perfect representation of his meaning. It's simplicity in structure and use with it's distinctness of smell and color. It fit Elizabeth, with her common place, pointed wit and shining eyes. Its message, however, was what got to Mr. Darcy the most. Lavender was not an offering of love. It represented spring and a chance for new beginnings. That was what Mr. Darcy truly wanted after all, a chance to start over with Ms. Bennet, as friends or allies in life. Almost as an after thought, Mr. Darcy thought of how herbs were stored to last longer, and were at times used for preservatives. Maybe the tiny plant could be a charm, to preserve any good opinion Elizabeth might gain of him.
The rain didn't last forever. It stopped, eventually, but the sky remained overcast. Mr. Darcy took nature's signal to rise and return to the large mansion of Rosings. He stepped with a light heart, after he had slipped the tiny sprig of lavender into his sealed letter. He smiled faintly, at the still present warmth of the wax's seal.
Before he reached the main house he found himself looking down, holding the letter in his hand and frowning. It had occurred to him that the lavender did not say what he wanted to tell Elizabeth, but rather what he needed to say to her. Had he the choice he would have said "I love you" to her in every possible way.
Mr. Darcy shook his head again. No, that would not do. He chuckled sadly at himself for a moment. No that would not do at all. The lavender, after all, did the job.
But not perfectly, that is impossibility.
The thought crossed his mind again one more time, before returning to the spot in Mr. Darcy's mind where it rested without rivalry.