A/N: This was not supposed to be written. But, ya know, I had to take a break from my other multi-chaptered story. This is what came up.

Admittedly, I have encountered many women in my life. Not all of those encounters were memorable, or even pleasant. Some of those meetings were dreadful. Such were those with some of my colleagues, rivals, and later even enemies. Arguably, the woman who had the most effect on me was my sister. Inarguably, the most outstanding woman I came across was an actress. A British actress that I never really came across, face-to-face. But I truly wish I had. I never knew the woman by anything other than the roles she played; I never once realized that there was a woman behind that face of a goddess. Ironic, really, considering the fact that that goddess shaped me into a man I am today.

A strange presence of hers always followed me. I carried her with me wherever I went. In my heart, in a newspaper article, in a framed photograph. You can consider it pathetic. I will not try to deny it or to defend myself. In that case, all childish adorations are to be considered feeble. That would make the signed photograph of Marlene Dietrich you keep under your bed look quite humorous. And, yes Mundy, I am talking to you. I believe our doctor shares your incomprehensible fascination with that woman. I certainly do not.

But I am not here to talk about your goddesses. I'm here to talk about mine. Although I never saw the woman, five images of hers were engraved in my memory. They came years apart, decades even. They stayed in my head, in my soul. I remember every image of hers, each image marking the beginning of a new era in my life.

These are the five faces of Vivien Leigh.

The Scarlett O'Hara

I was a young boy of seven when I first went to see a movie. I remember mother being particularly busy at the time, so my sister brought me to the film. I remember complaining like I usually did, about the damp Parisian streets, about the weather and the crowds we had to push through in order to get there. My sister did not seem to mind my rambling, but an occasional frown spread across her face, and if I said that she didn't consider throwing me in front of a moving vehicle, I would probably be lying.

Probably being the key word in that sentence. I could never truly understand her.

After about twenty minutes of walking, we arrived. The cigarette smoke, that would later soothe me like few other things would, stung my eyes and made me cough. I complained, imagining that I sounded exactly like an old man. My sister held her hand tightly on my wrist, an action which I found quite irritating. In my mind, I was already a grown man.

But I still had much to learn about sibling sacrifices, love and true beauty.

Finally, we were inside. The screening room was about the size of our Respawn room, though much less clean. Yes, it is possible. The smoke coming out of the expensive cigars filled the room until the smoke was so thick you could cut it with a knife. The chairs were all covered with red, ribbed corduroy that scratched against the palm of my hand, leaving deep imprints. I ran my finger over them out of boredom. A wide, white screen was spread across the wall, and I found myself squinting through the dense fog to see it. I complained about the chatter, saying to my sister that we will not be able to hear a word of the film. She sighed and moved a strand of hair off my face. How she refrained from punching me I will never know. The girl must have been a saint.

As the lights began to shut off one by one, the crowd's anxious rumble became an incoherent whisper. When the grainy snow appeared on the white fabric spread before our eyes, the chatter completely vanished. All that could be heard was a mechanical, buzzing sound, most likely coming from the film projector, spreading a tiny ray of light from behind a hall in the wall. It spread wider and wider until it hit the screen, making an image clearly visible. I watched the light before my eyes, my head propped up against my hand. I sighed, telling my sister that the opening credits were too long. This was followed by a couple of hisses from the back, commanding me to be silent.

I have no recollection of what was going through my head moments before I saw the first scene. But I remember the first time I saw her face, the face that left me completely and utterly speechless for the first time in my life.

Two men were parading around a woman wearing a long, white gown. I found that dress completely repulsive, but that was before I could make out the woman wearing it. The men had long glasses in their hands, odd plants coming out of them. Not knowing a lick of English at the time, I had no idea what they were talking about. I had half of my mind set on leaving the room and going off into the streets. Curses left my mouth. Why on Earth could she have expected me to spend hours watching something I wouldn't understand? I understand now why my sister didn't hit me when I entirely deserved it. She was a lunatic.

But the English stopped being an issue as the two men parted and revealed a face in between them. My jaw dropped when I saw her, and I immediately forgot about the language. I forgot that I was even watching the film.

Describing the woman on screen in front of me would be presumptuous; words would not do her justice.

But, being a very presumptuous person, I will try to do so.

Her face was pale, glowing by the sunlight that needn't even be real to highlight her beauty. In all my life I have never seen such a beautiful face, except for one exception which I will cover later on as I tell you this story. And it was surrounded by thick locks of dark hair. To this day, I shamefully admit, I was never certain if her hair was extremely dark brown or completely black. It fell just above her shoulders, curled at her delicate neck. Not a single hair was out of place, not a single hair of her eyebrows, either. They arched perfectly above her turquoise eyes, streaked with fine, dark marks like marble. And to top off her stunning visage, two thin lips a soft shade of pink, stretching into a mischievous smile as she told the two men that a war would not occur. I could not understand her at the time, but I still enjoyed listening to her voice, new and exotic to me. Overall, a vision that was sitting right in front of me. I could barely speak I was so taken aback.

I told you I could not do her justice.

My sister moved closer to me.

"That's Scarlett," she whispered. "She's played by Vivien Leigh."

The name fell from her lips and into my puerile heart.

I watched that entire movie, not making a sound. My sister inched towards me, explaining the plot in short, and at times annoying sentences. I ended up liking the movie. I grew so incredibly angry whenever somebody in the back begun to speak. Though I couldn't fully comprehend the plot, I understood it. I understood everything Scarlett felt. She had inflicted a spell on me with a blink, a smile, and a phrase that I would later use intermittently during my childhood, not knowing exactly what it meant.

Fiddle-dee-dee!

My sister warned me about using the phrase too much. She warned me about becoming one of those men, the men that phrase suited.

My sister was an insane, homophobic saint. Then again, weren't they all?

A/N: I know, I know... but I swear to God, this is the last time I write romance... weeeeell, maybe the second-last time.
And yes, there will be more to this... sorry.