All characters are the property of Margaret Mitchell and her heirs. Joseph is mine, otherwise I own nothing.

Scarlett had wired Rhett the date and time of her arrival, and upon disembarking at the station in Charleston, found the Butler carriage and driver waiting for her. The ride was short and with each passing minute, Scarlett could feel her pulse rate pick up and the heat rising in her cheeks. What had sounded so reasonable in Wade's office, now seemed to be a fool's mission, and she began to regret her decision to come here. Before she could ask the driver to return to the station, he stopped the carriage in front of the lovely old house on the Battery, the one Rhett had purchased for his mother after his father's death in 1866.

As she climbed the front steps, the door opened and she was greeted by a tall, black man who spoke with the lilting accent of the Caribbean. "Missus Butler, welcome." He introduced himself as Rhett's valet, Joseph. Stepping into the foyer, Scarlett could hear a mantle clock softly chime the half hour somewhere in the house, otherwise it was absolutely still. Joseph helped her out of her coat, and hung it up as she removed her hat and gloves. She laid them on a console table, and looked around curiously for any sign of Rhett. Seeing none, she peered at her reflection in the mirror over the table, smoothing down a few stray strands; she wondered if Rhett would think her old-looking now that her hair was graying.

"Please follow me," Joseph requested.

He led Scarlett up the stairs into a large sitting room with a view of the harbor. Reclining in a chaise in front of the fireplace, with his back to the door, was Rhett. The soft swish of her skirt, the faint smell of her cologne whispered her arrival. "What took you so long, Scarlett? I've been waiting for you."

Scarlett walked around the chaise to face him and took in the sight. Yes, he was old, his hair totally white and thinning on top, but he also appeared to be quite ill. His eyes were sunken, the whites looked slightly yellow. He had lost a considerable amount of weight; his arms were like match sticks, his hands bony. He appeared to be wasting away, his flesh loose and waxy-looking under the tan of his normal skin tone, yet his legs were swollen and his belly protuberant. Her face must have registered the shock of seeing him so. He looked up at her and spoke flatly, "I'm dying."

Scarlett bent over and embraced him; she could feel his bones under the fabric of his dressing gown. "You should have wired me sooner," she said softly, "If I had known, I would have come to you."

"No. No one needed to see me like this. Please sit." He gestured for her to sit in the chair opposite him. "I asked you to come because, while I am still capable of attending to my own affairs, I want to discuss the disposition of my estate with you. Legally, you are still my wife. The papers are here: a copy of my will, bank statements, stock and bond certificates." He indicated two folders on the table next to him; her name was written on the cover of the uppermost folder. "I didn't want any hard feelings or legal action after my death contesting the terms of the will."

"I would never..." she began to protest, but he silenced her with a gesture.

"I need to tell you this, it is our last link. I'm leaving you one third of my assets to be shared with your children. It's all spelled out. My sister and my brother's family will receive the other two-thirds of the estate, along with some bequests for charity. Unless, of course, you object." He looked at her in a way that challenged her to protest.

"You have always been more than generous with me, Rhett. How could I object?" she conceded gracefully.

"Very well, you can review the details later, if you wish. Now, there is one other issue. As I'm sure you know I want to be laid to rest in Atlanta, next to Bonnie. I've worked out all the details with a local undertaker for shipment of my remains. The instructions are in the second folder. You will be responsible for arranging some of the final details in Atlanta. Are you willing to do this for me?"

"Of course." Scarlett looked at Rhett, her face filled with concern. He looked so tired, as if this had taken the last ounce of his energy.

"I don't need your pity, Scarlett." He spoke harshly, his black eyes hard.

"Nor do you have it. Don't be so quick to judge me, Rhett Butler." She bristled in anticipation of more unpleasantness. Whenever they were together, it seemed they would always argue.

He glared at her. "My sister tells me I have become a bitter, angry old man. I suppose you share that opinion."

Rosemary had been staying with Rhett until mid-November. She had reached the end of her tether with his biting remarks and angry tirades. Even though she knew his illness caused this change in his personality, it did not make it any easier to bear. She had initially suggested that if he felt it necessary to subject anyone to this barrage of negativity, he should contact his estranged wife, thinking it would serve Scarlett right. Rosemary returned to her family in North Carolina, realizing upon her departure that she probably would never see her brother again. While this saddened her, she felt enormous relief as her train pulled out of the Charleston station. Despite the distance, they maintained a correspondence and Rosemary's friend, Sally Brewton, was checking up on Rhett on a weekly basis for her.

"I'll wait and come to my own conclusions, thank you." Then her tone softened, Scarlett slid forward to the edge of her chair, and gently took his hand, "Tell me what happened to you."

He leaned his head against the back of the chaise and stared at the ceiling. "La fée verte, the green fairy. My doctors say it was the drink. My liver is failing and there is nothing that can be done."

"Green fairy? What do you mean?" she asked, puzzled.

"Absinthe, the drink of artists and poets. Drinking it is a very Parisian habit, and I embraced it. It possessed me. It's called the green fairy because of the color of the liquor and the effect it has on the mind. Did you know that your eyes are much the same color? I would envision you in my drunkenness, the green-eyed fairy, possessing me, destroying me."

She was taken aback by this revelation, and abruptly let go of his hand. Not sure how he meant it or how to respond, she shifted in her chair and attempted to redirect the conversation. "Have you much pain?" she asked quietly.

"At times. This has been a good day, an opportune time for your arrival, actually." He sighed heavily, "Although I did expect you last week. How long were you planning to stay?"

"Well, I thought I would see my sister while I was here. Since I didn't know what to expect, I wasn't sure." She had a blank expression on her face, and her mind was reeling from the impact of his appearance and illness.

"Stay with me, Scarlett." It sounded more like a demand than a request.

Scarlett's mouth dropped open. "You want me to stay with you? Have you taken leave of your senses?" she blurted impulsively.

"I will be frank--I don't want to die alone. I would like you to stay with me to the end." He was still staring at the ceiling, his voice emotionless.

His request stunned her. "If this is what you want, I'll stay. But, Rhett, why me? Why now, after all these years?"

"You are my wife, are you not?" He asked testily. "Since you refused to divorce me, I am asking you to behave as a wife would, to care for her dying husband."

"Me, your wife?" She was incredulous. "This is like a bad joke. Or are you indulging in your fondness for lost causes once they are really lost?"

"No, Scarlett, claiming to be married for the last twenty-seven years, that was the bad joke." He was starting to sound more irritated. "Besides, if I thought this was truly a lost cause, I wouldn't have asked you to come here."

"In that case, I'll ask again, why me? Where is your Frenchwoman?" Scarlett nearly choked on the last word.

"You ask too damn many questions," he snapped. "Give me your answer!"

"Despite everything we've been through, I still care about you." She spoke so quietly, she was almost whispering.

He lifted his head and searched her face, "Does that mean you'll stay?"

She nodded slowly, "Yes," she replied.

He let out a soft sigh of relief. "Good." He leaned back into the chaise again, and closed his eyes. "You should know what to expect. My doctor will be here tomorrow, he can give you details. He tells me that as I fail, I may lose clarity of mind, perhaps become agitated. At that point, he will begin dosing me heavily with laudanum and morphine, hastening the end." He was silent for a moment, then sat up and slid his legs off the chaise. "I'd like to go back to bed. Help me up, Scarlett."

Rhett grabbed for a cane next to the chaise with his right hand. He asked Scarlett to take his left arm. She supported him on the left while he pulled himself upright, groaning with the effort. Scarlett was struck by the magnitude of his physical change. He was stooped, not as tall as he had been, and quite frail. He leaned heavily on the cane, moving stiffly with a distinct limp, slowly making progress toward the bedroom.

Surprised by his infirmity, she asked, "How did you injure your left leg?"

"I had an apoplectic stroke ten years ago leaving my left side weaker than the right," he said through clenched jaw, his body tense from the effort of walking.

"Sounds like you hit a rough patch," she said.

"It was more like a rough decade," he replied, grimacing.

Scarlett guided him toward the bed and helped him out of his dressing gown. As he settled into it, she plumped up the pillows, then, pulled the covers up around him. "If you don't need anything else, I will take my leave to unpack."

Alone in her room, Scarlett pondered all that she had learned during this encounter. Rhett was, by all appearances, just as his sister described him, bitter and angry, a broken man. Did Céline Durocher, his French mistress, have anything to do with this, she wondered. Or had life dealt him such grievous blows that he escaped by drinking, much as he had during those awful months in 1873 after Bonnie died? She shuddered to remember that time in their marriage, when they both found solace in the bottom of a brandy bottle rather than in each others arms. While Scarlett had pulled herself out of it with the help of her family, it looked as though Rhett had thoroughly ruined himself. In a small way, he was offering her a final chance to prove her mettle as his wife. It was a challenge she embraced because it took twenty-seven years for this opportunity to arise.

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