Scarlett O'Hara, clad in black, stood at the foot of Melanie Wilkes' grave. She was a petite woman but on this particular day, she somehow stood taller than all the rest. Her spine was as straight as a ramrod and her unflinching, steely green gaze appeared to see nothing, but the corner of her mouth would twitch almost imperceptibly whenever a particularly loud sob or sniff ripped through the air. The simple pine casket was bathed with bouquets and wreaths of flowers and scented candles encased in ornate silver holders, but they failed to conceal the sweet odor of rotting flesh emitting from within. Whatever they did with the body, the draining of blood and pumping of chemicals, they had done a poor job. It seemed that the embalmer was not the only one who needed a good lashing.

And by her side was her Ashley, her debonair Ashley, her handsome golden fool…but not quite so handsome: his hair was a touch more silver than gold now, his head and shoulders were bowed, the face was thin and drawn, and there were lines in the corner of his mouth she had never seen before. One of the buttons on his shirt was missing and his shirt desperately needed to be mended. Melly must have mended his shirts for him. And then she felt a mixture of frustration and rage course through her veins. Can't this man do anything for himself? For once she was glad that Beau had not been named after his father; the thought of having two Ashley's hovering around her was abhorrent…wasn't it was enough that she was now saddled with one of them? She had made that promise to Melanie out of what? Some sense of lingering friendship? Duty? Guilt? Or perhaps the grief had rendered her temporarily mad, but she now saw it for what it truly was: it was her atonement for sniffing at another woman's husband when she had been carrying his child, when she had defended her honor with her own, and when she had been drawing her final breaths in the next room; it was a noose around her neck, a burden that she alone would have to carry for as long as she was permitted to walk this earth.

And what a fool she had been that night: after blubbering on that staircase like a child, she had made that declaration as if someone could actually hear her, as if someone would give a damn. What comfort could Tara give her now that Mammy, like Rhett, like everyone else, had given her up for lost? And Suellen…she would put on a contrite, somber mien in front of Will, but Scarlett could see her gloating like the devil she was once his back was turned for, as things were, she was the only one out of the three sisters with a real husband now and judging by the way her brood was multiplying every year…when they all passed, Tara, for all intents and purposes, would likely go to their children for Ella's head for figures was about as good as her father's and Wade's dreams were elsewhere. If only she would take a respite from breeding, Scarlett thought as she savagely tore several threads loose from her skirts. Sue likely regarded all of this as Scarlett's well-deserved comeuppance for Frank.

And as for Ashley being a coward…I suppose he is one, but he's certainly not the only man I know with such a shortcoming. Even you…you felt no fear blockading under the threat of arrest or death, running through minie balls and cannonfire, Ku Kluxing right under the Yankees' noses and you felt no twinge of conscience double dealing the Confederacy, murdering Yankees and God knows how many other men, and cavorting with gamblers, drunks, and whores, but God forbid you look your own wife in the eye and tell her the truth. You snuck off from my bed that night like a thief and were lying with your whore while I thought that you had died, you took my daughter away from me for months, and then we had our pleasant talk on the landing…on that last night, you said that it was your fault, but you never said you were sorry. Perhaps you were never sorry. And I can understand that now. After all, in your mind, you were ridding yourself of Ashley Wilkes' bastard.

You were, as you said, free to choose and you made your choice. You begged me to marry you while I was half-drunk and while Frank was rotting in the next room. Pa told me that you can't change a man by marrying them and why shouldn't that apply to women as well? For all your airs and booklearning, it seems that the lowly Irishman knew more than you did. He knew more than the three of us put together. We all ought to have listened to him more closely; it may have saved our hides.

Poor besotted fools, the lot of us…it wasn't just you and Ashley, but it was also Charles, Frank, and the rest. All of you were in love with someone who only existed in your minds; I was in love with the man I was supposed to fall in love with: an honorable Southern gentleman, Ashley was in love with the woman I should have been: kind, gentle, and caring…like Mother was, and you were in love with the idea of me loving you. I wonder now…if it weren't for Ashley, if you hadn't overheard us that day, would you still have wanted me as badly as you did? But in the end it's all my fault, isn't it? And I take back what I said: you did tell me the truth or what you believed to be the truth, but it was a bit later than I would have liked and you left before I could get a real word in…so who's the real coward here? WHO?!

The last bit escaped her lips before she could stop it and she immediately jerked out of her reverie, hoping beyond hope that that was the only thing she had uttered aloud. Scarlett didn't need to turn around to feel the eyes of Atlanta boring into the back of her skull. She hadn't had a proper drink in weeks; she should have had one, have had several stiff ones, before even thinking of stepping foot here.

She could see the Meades in her periphery: Dr. Meade seemed to have aged a hundred years in the last few days; his moustache and closely clipped whiskers from what had been left of his beard couldn't conceal his sagging jowls. The suit hung loosely from his bony frame and Mrs. Meade's spotted hand, peeking out from a threadbare black stuff sleeve, looked like a chicken's claw. It seems that one is dying as well. At least, Scarlett mused wryly, I still have my looks, but what good would they be to her now? Every man who managed to lay hands on her fell into misfortune. The first two certainly had; they had eagerly run towards death trying to prove themselves heroes and the third…what was there to say about the third?

Caroline Meade returned Scarlett's gaze defiantly and then jerked her head to the side with a sniff. Scarlett clenched her fists, her fingernails digging into the soft flesh. You old crone. Save your dirty glances for the Carpetbaggers that remain in this town or Bullock's men. If it weren't for Melly, if it weren't for Beau, I would have us settle this once and for all and call you out. I've killed one man before and in your eyes, it's two…or is it three now? No matter, I've killed more men than the rest of you combined. I-

But her thoughts were interrupted by Beau tugging on her skirts. He was his father in miniature; he was tall for his age with a slender build, had blond hair, thick golden eyelashes, and those sad grey eyes, but he also inherited Melly's heart shaped face and widow's peak. His face was wan and expression forlorn, the eyes puffy and red. Scarlett thought of Ellen lying on that bed, her creamy complexion spotted with typhoid's parting gift and her clever capable hands contorted into stiff yellow claws and she thought of Pa lying there in the funeral parlor with his collar pulled up to conceal the odd crook in his neck and she felt her heart swell. Oh Beau. His arms went around her waist and she bent down to ruffle his hair and kissed him right above his ear.

And then it was finally over. The priest closed his prayer book and the mourners began to disperse. Scarlett turned and swept past Ashley in a whirl of black; she could hear his footfalls behind her, but stared determinedly ahead and continued to walk at a brisk pace. His legs were longer though, and before long, she felt his hand on her shoulder. She looked at the hand curiously; she had felt its warmth on her body more than once. She remembered, all too vividly, how his touch had made her skin flush, the heat in her blood, the throbbing tender flesh…there was no such fire the last time; there had only been a warm friendliness, but even that was gone. The hand was only a cold dead weight now, a reminder of a promise she had made to a woman in that room that had reeked of death and unspoken regrets. She wanted to wrench his hand off but she heard a whisper caress her ear, the softest of lullabies: Promise me. Promise me, and so she stopped in her tracks.

"Scarlett, I'm sorry."

Scarlett turned around to face him fully with her eyebrows raised. There was a curious bemusement in her eyes.

"For what?"

"For everything."

She didn't reply. The two stood there gazing at one another in silence and the silence went on and on and on until Ashley could bear it no longer.

"Scarlett? Did you hear me?"

She burst into a peal of merry laughter. An intoxicating blush flooded her white face and she smiled, pearly-white teeth flashing under pouty pink lips; with that cloud of black hair and sparkling green eyes, it was a sight that would have put a Botticelli angel to shame.

Oh Ashley. Sweet Ashley. What a fool for thinking that apologies would do anything at this point. But the smile slid off her face as quickly as it had appeared for she heard an echo of a voice, her childishly insistent voice, saying those words to a man whose lips she had so desperately wanted to kiss but from which had issued words that were as bitter as ashes and as final as any death knell, a man whose eyes in which she had hoped to find love and forgiveness but had only found complete and utter exhaustion.

Oh Rhett. What have I done?

"None of us have anything to be sorry for. We all got what we deserved and in a way, we all got what we wanted, didn't we? Each and every one of us."

"Even Melly…she was too good for this world, too good for any of us." He jerked his hand away at that, his face ashen and eyes wide, as if he were seeing her for the first time. Her eyes no longer burned with contempt but searched his face with pitying, almost kindly look.

So I suppose that it is only fitting that she went on ahead.

She had promised herself that night of her mad flight from Atlanta to never look back and she resolved herself to hold true to that vow, for looking back was death. She almost made it to her carriage, but found that she couldn't resist one final look at the man she now hated almost as much as she had once loved.

You ought to have married me that day at Twelve Oaks, Ashley Wilkes. That was one mistake I now wish you had made.

I think my stories echo each other because I am really trying to write one story: a viable way for them to reunite after everything that's happened.

I also realize that my endings have been quite optimistic thus far…I'm working on trying to change that without being utterly hopeless. In all honesty, I am starting to think that it is highly unlikely that they will be open to each other about past wrongs.