Summary: WHAT IF... What if true love in the form of Rhett Butler left Scarlett O'Hara? What if Scarlett ate Rhett? One shot.
Disclaimer: Neither work in this crossover is mine.
—
They called it the Massacre of '78.
How hungry she'd been, Scarlett reflected over the bloodless severed hand that rested on the fertile cotton fields of Tara. It still wore an enameled bracelet she recognised as Suellen's. Why, she'd sworn on these very fields that she would never go hungry again, as God was her witness. She'd lately drunk the last drop of all the sustenance within fifty miles around. But deep in her stomach she felt an aching, tingling craving that just couldn't be parted from her.
The stranger had come from behind her. His skin was white as a haunt, and strange enough his eyes were a scarlet, bloody red. Even stranger that she could behold him so in the dark. Recently, Scarlett thought, a time not too long ago, she'd run amiss another such stranger, but it never was Scarlett's nature to be introspective.
"Pardon me, miss," he said in a Yankee's nasal voice, raising his hat. "Couldn't help misnoticing your activities of late. Afraid I've been sent to kill you..."
Scarlett smiled her most fetching smile, and saw her charm catch a man in his tracks quite literally. Her newest beau told of kings and queens of this odd new world open to her. According to his word she'd broke some silly law, and would do best to chat to this Yankee's bosses in person. She decided a tour through Italy would cause her no harm. So long as she returned to restore her Tara to what it ought to be.
—
"Empress Scarlett," the Cullen boy said, kneeling before her court of Tara. "I would rather die than live without my Bella. Please, kill me."
"Why, Ned. It pleases me to grant your wish."
—
A/N: Unlike the Volturi, Scarlett O'Hara does not fuck around.