five | 05.

WHAT IS TO BE FELT.

    The night came to a grim conclusion with the acrid scent of burning flesh thick in the air, the sky above the assembly hall aglow with the flickering light from the fires.

    The Bennet sisters stood together, their faces smeared with ash and blood, their dresses torn and stained beyond recognition.

As the last of the bodies was consumed by the flames, the sisters turned away, their steps heavy and weary as they made their way back to the carriage.

    The ride to Longbourn was quiet, the wheels crunching over the gravel road the only sound that punctuated the silence between them.

No words were spoken, each of them lost in their own thoughts, grappling with the events of the evening. The adrenaline that had carried them through the battle was gone, leaving only exhaustion and a dull, aching fatigue in its wake.

When they arrived home, the familiar sight of Longbourn's ivy-clad walls greeted them.

Mr. Bennet stood at the door, his face illuminated by the warm glow of the lantern he held aloft.

His eyes were shadowed with concern, the lines of his face deepening as he took in the sight of his daughters, their usually vibrant spirits muted by what they had endured.

"I heard what happened." He said quietly, his voice strained with the effort of keeping his emotions in check.

    His gaze swept over each of them, lingering on their disheveled appearances, the blood and grime that marred their gowns and faces. "Are you all alright?"

    Elizabeth nodded. "We're fine, Papa. Tired, but fine." Her voice was steady, but there was an edge to it that hinted at the strain beneath her composed exterior.

    Jane managed a small, weary smile, her eyes filled with a quiet, resilient grace. "It's over now."

Without a word, Mary pushed past them, her movements abrupt. She heard her father's voice, faintly questioning, but she did not stop.

The hallways of Longbourn blurred around her as she ascended the stairs, her feet carrying her up and away from the quiet inquiries and concerned looks.

Each step felt heavier than the last, as if the weight of the night clung to her, pulling her down, deeper and deeper into herself.

Her room was dark and still, the shadows deep and unmoving as she closed the door behind her. She leaned against it for a moment, her eyes squeezed shut, the events of the night replaying in her mind with a brutal and rather unforgiving clarity.

The terror, the blood, the cold, unfeeling words that still echoed in her ears— they all pressed in on her, suffocating in their intensity.

    She moved mechanically, each action detached, as though she were watching herself from a distance.

    She stripped off her ruined dress, the fabric stiff and sticky with dried blood. Her hands shook as she fumbled with the fastenings, her fingers clumsy and uncooperative.

    When the dress finally fell to the floor, she stepped out of it with a shuddering breath, the cool air against her bare skin arising goosebumps.

    The bathwater was lukewarm, but she barely noticed. She scrubbed at her skin, her movements almost frantic as she tried to wash away the grime.

    Her hands moved over her arms, her legs, her face, as if she could erase the memory of every wound, every scream, every accusing look. But no matter how hard she scrubbed, the images remained, seared into her mind.

When she finally slipped into her bed, her body felt impossibly heavy, her limbs aching with a bone-deep weariness.

She pulled the blankets up around her, cocooning herself in the familiar comfort of her sheets.

But sleep would not come, the darkness behind her eyelids filled with the ghosts of the evening— the snarling faces of the undead, the sickening sound of flesh parting beneath her blade, the searing humiliation of Mr. Darcy's words.

She stared up at the ceiling, her eyes wide and unblinking, her mind a restless with anger and regret. She should have been stronger, should have cared less, should have been able to push it all away.

But she couldn't. And that, more than anything else, left her feeling utterly defeated.

So she lay there, alone in the darkness, the silence of the house pressing in around her, and waited for the dawn to come.

____________

"You know, I saw the way you looked at him last night." Jane's voice was light, almost teasing, as she moved in a quick, controlled motion, sending a jab toward Mary's midsection.

The two of them were sparring in the dim cellar of Longbourn, where they often practiced, the rough stone walls echoing with the sounds of their exertions.

Their breaths mingled with the soft thud of feet against the dirt floor, the sharp smacks of skin on skin, the faint scrape of their boots shifting through the dust.

Mary blocked the jab with a sharp upward motion of her forearm, the impact reverberating through her bones.

"How I looked?" She panted, her voice tight with effort as she advanced, trying to keep Jane on the back foot. Her muscles burned with the intensity of their training, each punch and kick a release for the frustration still simmering inside her. "As if I hated him?"

Jane's lips curved into a knowing smile, her eyes gleaming with a mischievous light as she ducked under Mary's arm, her movements fluid and deceptively graceful.

She feinted to the left, drawing Mary's guard high, before sweeping low and sending her leg in a swift arc. The kick connected solidly with Mary's ankles, and before she could brace herself, Mary felt the ground vanish beneath her feet.

She hit the stone floor hard, the breath knocked from her lungs in a sharp gasp. Pain shot up her side as her hip struck the ground, the jolt of it momentarily blinding her to everything but the fierce, throbbing ache.

"No," Jane continued, straightening with an almost lazy elegance, her breathing steady despite their exertions. "As if you liked him."

The words sent a spike of something sharp through Mary, a sensation she refused to name. She rolled to the side and pushed herself up, ignoring the protest of her bruised hip as she regained her footing.

"You're mistaken," Her eyes narrowed, every muscle in her body coiled tight with renewed tension as she circled Jane, looking for an opening. "I wouldn't like him if he gifted me a thousand jewels and his half of Derbyshire."

She launched herself at Jane with renewed ferocity, her movements swift and precise, her fists cutting through the air in a flurry of strikes. She aimed for Jane's midsection, then feinted high, her foot snapping up in a roundhouse kick aimed at Jane's ribs.

She deflected Mary's blows with ease, her arms moving in smooth, controlled arcs that absorbed the force of each strike.

As Mary's foot swung past her, Jane caught her ankle with both hands, using Mary's own momentum to pivot and throw her off balance. Mary stumbled, but she recovered quickly, shifting her weight and twisting to break free.

They parted, both breathing heavily, their eyes locked in challenge. Mary's heart hammered in her chest, the adrenaline coursing through her veins making every nerve feel raw, exposed.

Her hands trembled slightly as she raised them.

Jane's laughter, soft and breathless, broke the tense silence. "Oh, Mary," she said, shaking her head as she stepped back, her guard still up but her expression relaxed. "Just admit it. You find him handsome."

The words struck Mary harder than any blow could have, and for a moment, she hesitated, her guard lowering ever so slightly.

Jane took advantage of the lapse, darting forward with a quick jab that caught Mary on the shoulder. It was a light touch, a reminder of her mistake, but it stung nonetheless, the implication of Jane's words echoing in Mary's mind.

With a frustrated growl, Mary lunged forward, her fists flying in a series of rapid punches aimed at Jane's torso.

    She was moving too fast, her form a fraction too wild, her control slipping. Jane blocked each strike with ease, her eyes never leaving Mary's, a serene smile playing at her lips.

"Handsome?" Mary spat, the word tasting sour on her tongue. She pivoted, throwing her elbow in a sharp arc toward Jane's temple, but Jane ducked, her smile never faltering. "What does it matter when he's so insufferably arrogant? When he looks at everyone as if they're dirt beneath his boots?"

Jane's expression softened, even as she caught Mary's wrist and twisted, forcing her to her knees with a fluid, practiced motion. "Handsome doesn't excuse arrogance," she agreed, her voice calm, almost soothing. "But if I may so express it, he has a right to be proud."

Mary gritted her teeth, her pulse pounding in her ears as she struggled to break free.

The cellar felt small, the shadows closing in around her, the scent of dust and sweat thick in the air.

    With a sudden burst of strength, she wrenched her arm from Jane's grasp and sprang to her feet, her breath coming in harsh, uneven gasps.

For a moment, they were locked together, arms straining against one another.

Mary could see the determination in Jane's eyes, the teasing light that softened the challenge in her gaze. And beneath it all, the love, the concern, the quiet understanding that had always defined their bond.

But Mary couldn't—wouldn't—say it. Couldn't admit to the confusion that swirled within her, the unwanted attraction that had taken root despite her better judgment.

    "Pride is a very common failing, I believe. Vanity and pride are quite different things, though the words are often used synonymously." Mary's voice was steady as she spoke, her gaze unwavering as she disengaged from Jane, a small, satisfied smile playing at her lips.

    She stepped back, her breathing still even despite the exertion of their sparring session.

    As she turned, she noticed Elizabeth descending the cellar stairs, her eyes bright, her smile wide as she took in the sight of her two sisters.

    Mary leaned against the cool stone wall, her posture relaxed but alert, her arms crossed loosely over her chest as she watched Elizabeth stride confidently to the center of the room.

    There was an eagerness in Lizzy's movements, a barely-contained energy that spoke of her love for the fight, for the challenge.

    The sisters exchanged a brief look, a spark of excitement passing between them, before Elizabeth squared off against Jane.

    Mary's eyes followed every move, analyzing their techniques, the subtle shifts in their stances, the way each sister anticipated the other's next attack.

    A sudden clang rang out above their heads, the sound of the bell reverberating through the small space, and Jane immediately stepped back, dropping her guard.

    She glanced toward the iron-wrought door that separated the cellar from the outside of the house, her brow furrowing in concern as she moved to see who might be there.

    Mary straightened, her curiosity piqued, her eyes narrowing as she watched Jane's silhouette in the dim light.

    "He saved you from a zombie, you know." Came Kitty's voice, cutting through the silence as she and Lydia descended the stairs.

    Mary scoffed, a sound that echoed faintly in the enclosed space. "I had no need of saving." She retorted, her voice firm, almost defiant. She felt her shoulders tense, her grip tightening on her arms as she spoke. "He only sought to soothe his own ego by playing the hero. I was in no danger."

    Kitty's eyes widened, her expression incredulous. "But she was a zombie, Mary." She insisted, her voice carrying a note of alarm. "Thank goodness he was there."

    "Quite civilized in comparison to the others." Mary replied coolly, lifting her chin as if daring them to challenge her further. But the words felt hollow, even to her own ears.

    She could still see the woman's face, could still hear the faint, rasping whisper of her voice before Mr. Darcy's gunshot had ended it all.

    "You're being unreasonable." Lydia added, her tone lacking any real reprimand, as if she found Mary's stubbornness more amusing than troubling. "What if he hadn't been there? You might have—"

    "I don't wish to speak on it any longer." Mary cut in, her voice suddenly sharp, a note of finality that silenced whatever Lydia had been about to say.

    She turned away from them, the conversation grating against her already frayed nerves. She felt vulnerable, and hated it—the thought of being seen as weak, of needing help, especially from a man like Mr. Darcy.

    The girls traveled outside where Jane had already been seated on the stone steps of the front porch, a folded letter in her hands.

    She looked up as they approached. "The Bingleys have invited me to tea!" She announced, her voice brimming joy.

    "Of course they have!" Elizabeth exclaimed, a broad grin splitting her face as she swept down to sit beside Jane.

    Her eyes were bright with amusement as she glanced back at Mary, who lingered just a few steps behind, still struggling to shake off the turmoil of her thoughts.

    Lydia, ever the mischief-maker, darted forward and gave Elizabeth's dark curls a playful tug, her laughter ringing out in the stillness. Elizabeth swatted her hand away, mock indignation written across her features as she leapt up, chasing after her younger sister with a flurry of teasing shouts.

    Mary stood there, watching them, her arms wrapped around herself as if to ward off the sudden chill that crept up her spine despite the warmth of the day.

    She turned her gaze away, her thoughts drifting back to the night before, to the way Mr. Darcy had looked down at her, the weight of his words pressing down on her even now.

    She had not needed saving, and yet he had acted as though she were some damsel in distress, in need of his intervention.

    The very idea rankled her, gnawing at the edges and threatening to unravel the carefully constructed armor she had built around herself.

    But for now, she pushed it aside, burying the confusion, the anger, the humiliation deep within.

    There would be time enough to confront those feelings later, when she was alone, when she did not have to maintain the fragile illusion of indifference.

END OF CHAPTER V.