Austen Fanfic — Between The Night And The Morrow, chapt 2

*First chapter here Third chapter here. Yes, I’m lazy. But mostly, frankly, I just woke up. This week has not been good for sleeping, between snowstorms throwing all our schedules askew and various due dates bugging me. So, I slept till almost noon central, almost ten my time — which doesn’t happen but once every few months. The explanation for this, for late arrivals is that I started this story for Austen fandom years ago, but have never finished. It’s a desecration of Pride and Prejudice. I threw elves at it. Literature purists, feel free to avert your eyes and cry. If this gets enough following on this blog, I’ll finish it. If not, I’ll let sleeping fanfic lie. First chapter is here*

Through the great hall at Netherfield, Lord Darcy came striding. Though the palace at Netherfield – ancient and honored – was the seat of his friend Duke Carolus Bingley, it was now hosting the most high court of Fairyland and the Elven Realms of Avalon. As such, its great hall had been outfitted with the twin thrones of the king and queen of the elven realms in these isles, and – because the kingdom was in danger – filled with every great Lord and Lady, every prince, every duke, every mere baron that held land and magic in the kingdom.

Lord Darcy entered, without bothering to change out of his riding attire. The silver spurs on the well polished boots that encased his legs up to the knees, struck sparks from the polished marble floors. The court parted, like clouds when the sun appears. The ladies lined, on either side of the path he strode through, and knelt one after the other, as he passed, turning to him their flower-like countenances which sparkled with admiration of his fine figure, his glossy black locks and the grey eyes which shone as though bits of silver had got caught deep within.

The faces fell as they saw who followed him – the proud Carola Bingley, his fiancé, who looked at them all as though they were beneath her contempt. Lord Bingley, with his softer features and his vague smile, would have encouraged them to come forward, but Carola was jealous of her position and prerogative.

Ten steps before the throne, Prince Darcy stopped and bowed deeply but did not kneel. The grandson of the king, and his heir – who would be king whenever Oberon should go forth to the isles of the blessed – he was the highest born there, save the sovereigns.

“Speak grandson,” Oberon said, from his throne, his voice deep like thunder and rolling over the court like a wave. “What have you found? The boundaries of our land, are they secure? What signs of the rebels? Is there any magical defiling? Any show of his encroaching?”

Darcy bowed again, a contained gesture. His features froze into somber-seeming stillness, as though he had of a sudden turned to a statue. “Noble Oberon,” he said. “I would not deceive you. Though I found no explicit sign of the rebel, I could taste the flavor of his foul magic, the touch of his followers on hill and glade.” He hesitated. “The home you spoke of, fifty years ago, but three miles hence, is now inhabited by a family and not, as you had said, just a lonely old man. And that family…” He struggled for words while Oberon watched. “That family, oh noble king, has five daughters, all fair virgins of… of distinguished lineage. Far away, and in their mother’s line they are of your own blood, your majesty.”

“Five virgins,” Oberon said, frowning slightly. “Of my blood. The rebel will never resist this. He will come for them.”

“So I thought,” Darcy said. He bit the side of his lip, lost in thought. “And being that though they are mortals, they are of your blood, I think we have only two options…”

The king looked at him and then said, his voice terrible as the thunder that announces a storm. “I see only one,” he said. “We must bring them to us and find them marriages and keep them safe, deep within our palace.”

Something like pride or disdain twisted Darcy’s lips and his eyes flashed. “Bring them within? Oh, no your majesty. For though they are descended from you, many generations of mortals have poured their coarse, impure stuff into their veins. You’d not allow them to thus pollute the shades of fairyland!”

Oberon opened his lips, as though to say something, then closed them. “What do you suggest, then, grandson?”

“Two things we can do and one of them is to wrap them tight in spells so that they won’t consider the intruder or go with him, or even think of him, or of believing his foul lies.”

“And the other?” Oberon said. His lips twisted in turn. It was well known that since the Bard incident he didn’t approve of putting spells on any humans, be they ever the rudest of mechanicals. Besides, Darcy knew, every sense would revolt at the idea of spelling his descendants, no matter how remote.

“The other is that, under some disguise or contravention, dressed as mortals, behaving as they do, we meet them and warn them.”

“I like that idea better,” Oberon said. “It doesn’t do, grandson, no matter your opinions, to treat humans as though they were mere cattle. They are our cousins, in body and in magic, and deserve better treatment than the deer in the forest, whom we bespell to our traps.”

Darcy pressed his lips together but, in public, forbore to argue with his grandfather. Instead, he bowed again. “We have found, through the minds of the sleeping mortals, that an assembly is held every month, in Merryton, the nearby city. That is a … ball… A dance. Carolus Bingley and I have spoken, and we think the best thing would be for us to arrive in Merryton perhaps a day or two before and to attend this assembly under the guise of mortals. There, we’d talk to the young women – their name is Bennet – under pretext of dancing with them, but… your majesty… if words fail… then we must try spells.”

“If words fail….” the king conceded.

It wasn’t till later, in the receiving room of his private quarters, having changed from his riding attire into a blue velvet suit of doublet and knee breeches that sparkled like the deep summer sky strewn with distant stars, that he turned to Carolus and said, “I believe my grandfather means well, but I don’t see why we can’t just spell the mortals from a distance. To have to mingle with them will make for an unbearable evening.”

Golden haired Carolus Bingley sitting near him, laughed heartily. “It is no so bad, Darcy,” he said. “It will be great amusement. It is years since we dropped in at a mortal feast, since our king disapproves of it. I am sure there will be many pleasant people and many uncommonly pretty girls.”

Darcy smiled at his friend. Though they were very different from each other, the prince and the duke had been friends since childhood. And though he did not agree with Carolus, he couldn’t help being amused by him. “You, Carolus, are ever pleased with your company elf or mortal.”

“I just don’t see any reason,” Lord Bingley, Duke of Silver Bells, said, “For going through the world disapproving of everything and everyone.”

But Carola Bingley who sat nearby, admiring her golden beauty on a mirror, turned her passionless eyes to Darcy and said, “I will go with you, milord. I’ll make an unbearable evening perhaps not so terrible.”

Darcy’s gaze flickered onto his fiancé and he said “Yes, that will make it easier.”

“Do you really think we might have to put spells on them?” Bingley asked.

“I very much fear so,” Darcy said. “Mortals are not known for their rationality.” He turned at a sound of soft footsteps behind him. There stood, in the half-light of his sparsely but beautifully furnished domain, a young girl in a flowing green silk dress, her blond hair loosened down her back, her green eyes making her look like something untamed and quite fearful of approaching other creatures.

Prince Darcy’s features split in a wide smile, “Ah Georgiana,” he said, softly. “Come sister. Come and play for us.”

As the young girl sat before the harp, the music poured from her sweetly precise fingertips to fill the entire palace and leak out into the mortal night to enchant unwary passerbye.

Lydia had talked of nothing else all the way to the assembly in the carriage. “And they say there are two gentlemen, and both wearing such fine things and paying with such liberality that, perforce, they must be very wealthy. And…”

But nothing prepared Lizzy for the shock she received when, on entering the assembly, Sir William Lucas begged to make known to the Bennets “Mr. Darcy and Mr. Bingley.”

There they were, one dark and one blond, but both unmistakably the men she’d seen riding in outlandish costume in the moonlight just a few days before. Were they elves? Or had she dreamed all? Or were they just men of the ton in search of fresh amusement?