In the natural order of things, there were two matters alone which were certain. All that existed was in some way alive. By extension, all that existed was bound to be destroyed. There was no telling when – only that the death of all things was an inevitable truth that none could escape. That which marked a man’s worth in life – that which made a man truly accomplished – was not in what he owned or acquired, but rather in what he built and designed that could sustain itself without him.
Indeed, the value of a man was quite limited beyond the scope of the legacy he left behind – for most, the greatest achievement they could attest to would be the reproduction of themselves – another body to carry their name and perhaps build some meaning behind it that the progenitor could not devine. For Fitzwilliam, his position was one that was markedly better and simultaneously worse than that of other men, for his name already had legacy behind it.
A legacy of failure and scandal, uprooted by a father who refused to be disdained by the failings of his own, transformed into a story of improbable success and impossible kindness. His memory lived on through Pemberley in the same lingering notations of a saint – but none had forgotten the colors that came before. Colors that, up until today, Fitzwilliam had managed to rise above, untouched by their tainted hues but far from impeccable.
His saintly father had shadows too, that were for Fitzwilliam to manage and to bury, that none could know for fear of tearing away the veil of a success story and turning up a hideous underbelly. Yet he had persevered – and above that, he had overcome those shadows, and his endeavors had bourne such fruits as to forge a legacy of his own for Pemberley that would surely last generations.
If only the ship had not sunk, taking with it not only the lives of those who had become his companions for the months he had been upon the horrid shores of the New World, but also the better majority of assets that would have secured to Pemberley the lands his father had been forced to sell in order to clear the debts set by his grandfather. That he survived was a miracle – but oh, what a bitter kindness it was!
Stumbling forward, he caught himself against a tree, the harsh bark scraping at his hand as he leaned against it and struggled to make sense of why he had lived to see the shore. Behind him, the waves crashed loudly against the rocks, pounding against his ears as though he were still tossing about in their wake like so much splintered wood.
Glancing up, he caught sight of a form – and for a moment, he thought himself washed upon a savage island, saved only for crueller intentions. As the man came closer, however, the marks of civilization became more clear. A sword at his hip meant little – any pirate could bear one of those – but there was something or other about the Orient he remembered reading that indicated some import to that weapon. The man’s bearing, too, was refined in a way he would not have attributed to a vagabond. It was too soon to consider the arrival of him anything other than a threat, but these signs, at least, indicated there was hope that his survival was not a complete waste of effort on the Lord’s part.
Sighing, he straightened a little and waved the man over, or tried to – no sooner had he raised his arm did the sea’s kind numbness dissipate, reminding him of the violence his body had endured with a sharp relief. Gasping, it was all his pride could manage, not to collapse to his knees as the edges of his gaze tinted grey from the pain, the nausea that struck him low, and the ferocity of the waves still pounding inside his head.
Ocean Archive 