Chapter Text
The Pemberley Pack were the most powerful werewolves pack in all of Britain, even all of the British Empire. All of the pack rejoiced when their Alpha male, Grey Darcy, met his fated mate, Lady Anne Fitzwilliam. The Fitzwilliams were a pack with roots in Ireland, and their pack lands were among the largest in England. The heir, born of such ancient, strong families, would be strong. The future of the pack was safe for another generation, so the pack felt.
The Fitzwilliam pack rejoiced as well. An alliance with the Pemberley Pack would secure their footing in England, indeed in the empire. With the Pemberley heir being one of Fitzwilliam blood, their future prosperity was quite secure.
There was only one who was seriously displeased. Lady Catherine Fitzwilliam, sister to the new Luna of the Pemberley Pack, was consumed with jealousy. Not only had her younger, weaker sister found her mate first, there was virtually no chance of Lady Catherine besting her. Lady Catherine, who had spent years of planning to mate with the Darcy heir herself, desired to gain that pack’s strength and affluence for her own. While her sister could not be replaced as Luna, once the heir, Fitzwilliam Darcy, was born, Lady Catherine decided her future path. If she could not benefit from leading the Pemberley Pack directly, she would birth a daughter who could do so in her stead.
Knowing she would need a daughter as her heir, she made a sacrificial offer to the Fates.
“Accept my sacrifice,” she intoned, “and hear my wish.”
As the charred remains of the roe deer burnt down and emitted grey smoke, which swirled around her, blocking her view, voices spoke to her.
“We will hear you,” three distinct voices said.
“I desire a daughter of mine to be mated with the Pemberley heir,” Lady Catherine replied. “There must be no competition for his position as heir.”
“What will you offer in return?” voice hissed near her ear.
When Lady Catherine spun around, she saw three crones sitting in the smoke. One was spinning endless amounts of threads, one was rolling up threads, or moving them about, and one was cutting threads with a gleaming knife.
“I can offer you riches beyond imagining,” Lady Catherine replied.
The crones all laughed, an unpleasant, chilling sound.
“We have no need for your riches,” the spinster chuckled. “We demand your loyalty, absolute loyalty.”
“You shall have it,” Lady Catherine replied.
“Very well,” the crone holding a ball of yarn said. “Your mate’s child shall be the fated mate of the Pemberley Alpha.”
She braided two strands together in an unbreakable rope.
“There will be no alternate heirs to Pemberley,” the third crone said, picking four strands out from a large, moving group of lengthy yarn. With a swift movement, she cut all four strands.
“You will swear a blood oath to us, to forever protect and serve the future Luna of Pemberley Pack,” she said, grabbing hold of Lady Catherine’s wrist and cutting it deep enough to draw blood. All three crones held her arm, blood dripping down on the rope that represented the fate of Pemberley’s future leaders.
“I solemnly swear to protect and serve the future Luna of Pemberley Pack,” Lady Catherine vowed, and a swirling of silver bonds appeared over her arms and neck, sinking into her skin.
“You are bound by your word,” the three voices of the Fates whispered around her. The three of them disappeared as the smoke dissipated, leaving behind Lady Catherine, whose wrist healed quickly, even though the wound left behind a scar, to remind her of her oath every day of her life.
Lady Catherine, who had not found her fated mate at this time, decided she would wait no longer. If he could not be bothered to find her, she would seek a mate for herself. With that plan in mind, she departed for London for another season amongst the ton, searching for a suitable mate for herself.
‘Suitable' to Lady Catherine, was a mate who had sufficient riches to keep her in comfort, sufficient land and underlings for her to lead, and a sufficiently easygoing character to let her lead. She found these characteristics combined in Sir Lewis de Bourgh, and she hesitated not in claiming him. During the first dance, she pretended to trip, and as the man caught her, she extended her fangs and bit him in the neck, placing her mark on him. She felt the pain of the latent bond to her fated mate being sundered from her, while at the same time the feelings of Sir Lewis crowded her consciousness. There was pain, bewilderment, fury, resentment and resignation. He knew what was done, could not be undone. He too felt the loss of the connection to his fated mate, amplified by his anger at the presumption of this aggravating female.
“She shall not be rewarded,” his wolf growled, and Sir Lewis nodded.
He carefully touched the base of his neck, where the lady’s claiming mark was.
“It is an ever-fixed mark,” his wolf howled sadly. “We are doomed to mate this female now.”
“It is a shame,” Sir Lewis sighed, “a bite drawing blood at the base of our neck, breaks the bonds the fates had devised for us. We are stuck with her.”
“We will not claim her in return,” the wolf stubbornly refused. “She may have stolen what was another’s claim, but we will not reward it by claiming her back. Let all the world see her shame, see her for what she is.”
“A fate-breaker,” Sir Lewis mumbled.
“A bond-breaker,” his wolf agreed.
“It will diminish the strength of the pack,” his wolf sighed.
“We will transcribe all but Rosings Park itself to our cousin,” Sir Lewis said. “The members of our pack will remain free of her, except those who choose to stay with us. We will diminish her circle of influence and curtail her freedom. While we must have an heir, only one should suffice. Without claiming the mother, the child shall be female by default, no unmated pair has ever been gifted a son, and the pack, or what’s left of it, will devolve to her future mate instead. Let us pray he will be an honourable man at least.”