"Sit down."

The command came from the figure by the fireplace, with a face deceptively calm.

It had been a long while since he had a tete-a-tete with his father. The last one sent him packing back to West Point, naively obliging, tail between his hind legs. It had been humiliating then, even as he left so cavalierly, that he heeded his father like a poor lapdog seeking its owner's attention. The man did nothing to deserve it, other than the unfortunate merit of being bound by their blood, and rather than being frustrated with him, he was more enraged with himself. There was a time where their exchanges consisted of many unkind words, sharp and venomous, his father composed, just barely, teeming with repressed rage. A small part of him wished he still held such sentiments. In that minute respect, he revealed he had still cared.

His father was always the most cruel when he was the most insincere.

Now, his face bland and apathetic, Rhett felt violently angry, and he would have shown it had it not made him seem so lowly, so animalistic, so brutal as to prove his father's point. Civilized man, only when it benefitted him the most! Hypocrite, that Stephen Butler, the gentleman of the sort that believed in allotted positions in life, in hierarchy, in authority. In his narrow world, there existed only two types of people.

The disobedient and the obedient. And Rhett had long forgotten the latter.

But, understanding that tonight was different than the day before West Point, different from all other encounters with his father, Rhett would play to his terms and see the whole sordid affair through. He began levelly, "I hope this is not concerning all the gossip you've heard tonight."

His father smiled then, or perhaps it was a trick of the light. "I have been told by a number of credible sources."

He scoffed. Credibility was a scarce commodity in this town. Credibility–where rumors, lies, and gossip flourished–held up by mutual disdain of anything that would complicate the sweet, sheltered way of living.

"By whom father?" It was hard to curb his bitterness, long brewing since childhood. "By word of mouth? People who weren't there, people quick to assume, people you would believe over your own son?"

The man had the gall to laugh. Derisively, in mockery. "You have a poor track record. With your conduct and your manner, what fool would I be to take your word?"

Rhett was silent for a while. He would not say he regretted anything he did, for his actions were only a response to his father's quiet animosity. That wrongful superiority. He dug deeper (if only to exalt himself of fault, to prove his behavior justified), he dug to find the first offense. When exactly did his father decide to give up on him? Perhaps when he was nine and fought with the neighbor's son? Thirteen and neglected his curfew? Or at nineteen and expelled?

Without thinking, the thought verbalized. "I cannot recall, father, the last time you've seemed to like me."

"You make it very difficult, acting this way and making a fool of our family name, which I've painstakingly procured, no thanks to your grandfather. You bring us down with you with every misstep. What of Rosemary? Your mother?"

It took all his restraint not to strike the man. What did he care for his poor mother? And his dear sister, whom he only loved for she was so young and unquestioning, too pure to know his true nature. He had been like that once, and a brutal awakening it was since then!

"Do not bring them into this," he sneered.

"Ah, I forget your fondness for ignoring the truth."

His fury flared, and sitting became no longer sufficient. He stood, his limbs trembling, displeased with the suppressed rage. Instead, it poisoned his speech, stealing from his breath the coolness his father so expertly employed in every word.

"What truth is there in gossip?," he seethed. "You're entertaining the menagerie of fools who'd faint at the sight of two members of the opposite sex breathing the same air just as much as sharing the same bed."

"Ah, your vulgarity rears its head." He smiled, smugly, as if he was proven right, and he cursed himself for falling for the bait.

Stephen continued, calmly. "It is my opinion that the menagerie of fools , as you so aptly put it, are those who only bring difficulty upon themselves by resisting the tide for no particular reason except to please themselves. You have honor, money, a right to pride, and yet you squirm at the face of obedience, for nothing of true importance. You have everything, could want for nothing, and yet you turn your nose from the silver platter. You wish to live like a heathen but out there, against the truly wretched kind, you won't survive. Forsaking the hand that feeds you–the intelligence is astounding. You throw away a good life, a respectable life, with both hands like an unruly child. Don't forget, Rhett. Without me, without your name, without honor you are nothing."

He began pacing, roughing up the beloved Oriental carpet, imported from a distant place that would laugh at the entire ordeal, a twisted sense of excitement flaring within him. What a bunch of nonsense he spouts! How foolish! He knows nothing of me, and how wrong he is!

"Your name means nothing to me. You mean nothing to me, just as I mean nothing to you. I can take care of myself, and I always have. You think that this way of life is forever, cotton is king, no one trumps the Southern gentleman, hurrah! The truth, which has so effortlessly eluded you, is that the world is changing and you would not survive out there because you hold such things dear, while I'll be perfectly fine. And while I survive, I bet even starving and at death's door, you'd not relent, shaking a weary fist and babbling– I could not love thee, loved I not honor more! "

His father looked at him steadily and took a sip from his glass of whiskey. Lax and leisurely.

"The awaited final act," he murmured. "Quite the hypotheticals you've spun up. You should be a playwright with that level of imagination."

Rhett stopped pacing, rising to the challenge. "I meant what I said. I'll be fine without you."

"Careful, Rhett," he warned insincerely. "Once you say something, you can't retract it. You follow through with it, like a man should."

"I don't deny it."

He hated how his voice wavered.

Stephen stood, the glass clinking on the mahogany table, sharp and ringing. He seemed pleased with himself and what he was about to do.

"Very well then."

Rhett watched as he rose and approached the fireplace mantle, grazing the cover of the large tome that sat directly at the center. The low flame cast a sharp shadow upon his face, disfiguring the proud profile nearly beyond the point of recognition. He stood there for several seconds before treading towards the desk and returning with a pen in hand, ink dripping down onto the imported carpet, staining his starched white sleeves. Scraping, incising, scarring the thin page, the scratch of his pen buzzed in his ear. Then, Stephen turned, his face unaffected, and dropped the Bible in his lap, the first page open. His name, drenched in ink, crossed out, like a void in the room lit only by faint fire.

"You're to be gone by daylight."

Stephen blithely tossed the pen onto his lap, tipped back his glass, and slipped through the doors.

Rhett sat still, fixated by his name drenched in a pool of black ink.

Scarlett sat at the top of the staircase, clad in merely a wrapper and flimsy slippers, waiting for what seemed like hours for the two men to emerge from the room. The help passed by with feigned ignorance, treating her as an inanimate fixture amongst the tremors of upheaval (nor did they wish to deal with her famed temper). The only clue she had to the temperament of the room were low murmurs and quiet footfalls. Not one voice raised, not one glass shattered. If it were any other two people in the room, one would think it to be a civil conversation, but she knew the malice veiled behind closed doors.

It was midnight when Eleanor came upon her. Startled by the cold hand on her shoulder, she turned to see her, prim and proper, not a hair out of place. How could she be so composed when her husband and son could be tearing each other apart? She should find it within herself to march down the steps and back Rhett on such matters, denying Stephen free reign. Instead, she beckoned with her (now gratingly) serene voice for her to return to her room, to leave the two men to sort out their business.

"But Mrs. Butler, Rhett did nothing wrong."

The woman looked at her pitifully and for a moment, Scarlett resented her. How could she possibly do nothing?

"You don't think so?" she countered.

Her lips pressed into a thin, strained line. "It matters little what I think."

"But if you say something, maybe Rhett would stand a chance."

The frown deepened. She regarded her, so much like him in spirit, with uncertainty.

"You seem so sure of his fate, my dear."

Scarlett stood, raising her chin defiantly. "And so do you. Even when you know your word would mean something."

Eleanor's face did not change, but she backed away as if her words held some truth.

"Men don't listen when it comes to things like this. They believe they have complete control over matters, and should anything interfere…" she trailed off, turning her head. "Please, go to bed and rest. We'll find out in the morning."

Seeing how the girl maintained her position, the woman gave up her coaxing with a resigned sigh and returned to her room.

A few minutes later, someone came out.

When Stephen saw her, his face remained unchanged, and seemed determined in ignoring her until the top step and she jerked upward, stopping his ascent.

"He didn't do anything wrong, Mr. Butler. Myrtle talked to me earlier and the last thing she would add to her plate is another scandal. The whole thing is blown out of proportion."

She suspected he heard none of it.

He sighed, half annoyance, half weariness. "It is Rhett's mess, sweet innocent. One that I no longer feel inclined to clean up. He's said as much—he is perfectly capable. Alone."

There was an attempt to side-step her, but she appeared in front of him as soon as he evaded.

"He won't admit it, but he doesn't really mean that."

The hour and the nerves catching up to him, he dropped the guise of civility. It reminded her of his face after she refused his initial proposition for her to marry his son (if he still held that title), and she wished she had understood the depth of her feelings then, if only to avoid all this misunderstanding. She pushed away the possibility that his disownment was an inevitability, a matter beyond their control.

"Oh, but he did," he muttered, tersely. "And I'll throw you out just as I did him if you question me once more."

So it was done , Scarlett thought dejectedly, watching the man retreat to his individual chambers without a second glance. Just like that, it had been done .

But, it was far too quiet. Disowned and yet it remained so quiet! How could the world shift so suddenly, so inconspicuously? She would have liked to scream, for that would suit the circumstances, bringing to this any sense of normalcy. She heard the shutting of the door behind her and fell back to the steps, boring holes through the office doors with a pounding heart. Tempted as she was to run down to see him, something told her to wait, that this moment of quiet was important, for ambushing him with pointless questioning would be of no help to his cause.

But, he did not come out immediately, and she was nearly half-asleep when she felt a nudge upon her shoulder.

"Go to bed," uttered a mechanical voice. Looking up, she saw a pale, hardened face and eyes so minutely swollen that she had to wonder if he cried. Yet, he said the words with such apathy. And Rhett did not cry.

"What's to become of you?" she asked, rushing to his side.

It took a moment for him to realize she was there. "I'll be fine. Go to sleep."

"But Rhett–"

"Not now," he clipped, sharply. In his slight outburst, for the first time in a long while, she saw a slither of the Captain Butler she'd come to know in Atlanta. Seeing her hurt face, he sighed and patted her hand mechanically.

"Go to sleep," he repeated and turned away.

She grazed his sleeve to stop his descent and he wrenched his arm away with such force, as if scalded, that her slipper glided along the freshly polished steps. The horror of the tumbling fall, down the steep, winding stairs, flashed in her mind for a moment, stealing her breath, before Rhett's quick reflex, seeing her in the mere corner of his eye, extended his arm instinctively and the view of it all was fiercely suppressed by the wrinkled cotton of his dress shirt. He held her tightly–his arms trembling.

She was shaken, though not enough to deter her from her inquiry.

"Where will you go?"

He could not speak for a moment. "New Orleans, Texas, California… I don't rightly know." He slyly disentangled her from his arms.

"Rhett… Talk to me, please."

For a second, she thought he would cave in. Only for a second, his mask slipped and he allowed an infinitesimal amount of grief to show. She blinked, and the mask returned to its fixed place and his mind was gone again.

"Go to sleep."

His figure, though tinged with a semblance of defeat, remained proud, donning only his coat jacket and slipping through the front entrance in such a measured manner, as if there were a place for him when he returned. It happened so languidly that she wondered if it were a mere specter of him that her drowsy mind had conjured. Perhaps if she just waited a little longer, he may walk through the doors and greet her a good morning…

When the sun rose, her eyes fluttered open with the intrusion of the few early rays of light, limbs sore as they pressed against the stiff stair railing. A soft glow came from the room where he came last and she rose, drawn to the softness–perhaps he returned, lounging peacefully upon the sofa? She pushed the door, and its newly oiled hinges opened as noiselessly as he had left. The sofa faced the still low burning fire, and with a beating heart she dragged her feet towards it, half-expecting him to lift his treacherous head, his playful eyes gleaming, a long whistle drawn from his tender lips.

He was not there.

In his place, a bible, and she nearly dared not touch it, lest she wipe away the uncertainty and reveal the truth that had long been known to her:

The ink had dried, Rhett was gone, and Stephen did not renege his fateful decision.

The news of Rhett's disownment was known by all of Charleston gentry by the eve of the coming morning. Scarlett wondered how it could have spread so fast if not chartered by Stephen himself. By proximity to the Old Guard, she heard the stories—dramatic imaginations of physical violence, hostility, brutality, but the reality lay solely in the opposite realm. His banishment was surgical, encised by Stephen's strict hand, to rid the body of the malignant mass. Quiet, swift, and composed was how Stephen sent Rhett away.

And with him gone, Stephen felt no need to continue to entertain his unwanted guest, making true of his threat of kicking her out in the same cold-hearted manner. Eleanor offered no opposition. Scarlett was thus sent off to her aunts' home where the two women ground their teeth at her close association to the subject of scandal, in turn tainting their own reputation. It was only a matter of time before they shipped her back to Georgia.

Quickly, a week approached since that night he left her at the steps of the Butler staircase. No word was sent, no reports of him seen, it was like he disappeared and wiped clean from the face of Charleston. He had said he loved her, yet she had not seen him since he left her on those steps. Growing sick of her helplessness, her profound ignorance of the scandal, Scarlett dismissed the horror of her aunts as she marched her way to Myrtle's home, having the honor of being the first (and potentially the only) guest to cross the threshold with good intentions.

She did not know what to expect. The southern belle she only briefly came across all those months ago, while naively foolish, was accepted into the social fabric from which she was weaned–the only world she knew. A buggy ride later, she had been cast aside, cut off by those only a minute prior she would call acquaintances, friends, family. But still, a speck of hope that it would subside, that she may one day be redeemed in the eyes of the Old Guard. But, what little hope she had before the second scandal to enter her young life, was completely smothered, reduced to ash in the face of scrutiny from polite society.

The girl who greeted her seemed aged and forlorn, though the sight of Scarlett clearly surprised her.

"Are you here to berate me too?"

The shunning from society seemed to rob the girl of all false manners. In truth, it was refreshing, for she hadn't heard such talk from any other person but Rhett Butler (funny, being he was the only connecting thread between such different women).

"No, quite the opposite. I simply want to know the truth, which every one of the old biddies have taken the liberty to embellish. I know that nothing happened, but even Rhett ran off before he could tell me the exact details."

Her face softened and she gestured for her to take a seat in one of the parlor chairs, pristine from unuse. She wrung her fingers for a moment, nervously, before taking a handkerchief from her pocket, one that Scarlett recognized too familiarly. Her overactive mind produced sickening flashes of bright red hair, bits of gold, rouged lips. She pushed away the thought as Myrtle began recalling the events from that night, reliving the shame–for the second time.

And the truth was far more irreproachable than she had imagined. Mutual frustration, a comforting gesture–she could imagine his anger, the girl's troubles acting as an excuse to air his grievances to the one other person who understood how it was to be cast aside. In a matter of minutes, she wished to get as far away as possible, from the rigidity, the rules, the faulty morality of it all. Misery, misery, misery , that was all it caused! It was for such things that she grew more and more grateful for being brought up in the laissez-faire of the country.

A girl (for in truth that's truly what she was) weeping clandestinely, far from the people who reduced her to such low depths; it was misery that Scarlett, like others who came before her, swept aside, left for future generations to ponder. Reflection, regret, guilt–it unsettled her, but still she continued.

"After I left, your husband must have said something awful for you to be in such a state."

She looked down, ashamed. "He saw me talking to you and assumed I was jealous and still sweet on Rhett. He never really liked me after we got married, but he never said anything to me until that night."

You do still love him , Scarlett thought blandly, eyeing the used handkerchief with its embroidered letters and all, ignoring how much it bothered her.

"Veiled insults, the same the Old Guard used after the buggy ride. He used them against me, and right then I knew how much he hated me. I could pretend before he said as much. Polite disinterest is much more hospitable than hatred."

Scarlett was briefly reminded of the Butler marriage.

"It was bad enough coming from others. But from him, the man I have to live with, the man I am tied to… It was awful. Everyone else was so happy, but I felt awful."

"And that's how Rhett found you." The girl winced. Scarlett didn't mean to sound accusatory.

"When I heard that he was disowned, I felt even more terrible. He was only trying to be kind," she paused thoughtfully. "I supposed he always was, in his own way. He was honest, a thing I had taken for granted."

"Me too," Scarlett let out, before she could stop herself. "He says what he thinks, does what he wants and I envied him for it." Voicing his bleak thoughts on the war, teasing her for the southern belle antics, coming and going as he pleased. Coming and going, like the sea, while she was stuck, stagnant, unmoving in a single stationary place. Waiting and waiting.

It awed her, how much she envied him more than she realized.

Myrtle shrugged. "I suppose it caught up with him though. It shouldn't have that night, but something like it was bound to come. With him being who he is… it would have happened sooner or later."

It was a relieving thought to them both, in a strange sense. No matter how she came to love him, the inexplicable rift between father and son, far beyond its boiling point, took a great precedence over all else. Her love, while refreshing, was too fresh, and his familial wounds, while briefly forgotten, were too old. And if not Myrtle, it may have been another girl, another disagreement, another scandal. A constant cycle–fighting spitefulness with spite.

She only was a distraction from the misery. As he was to her. It was only a matter of time. Waiting and waiting.

His letter came the next day.

My Dearest Scarlett,

I apologize for running out on you that night—I had too much on my mind, and I'm afraid that feeling won't leave me any time soon. I sent a letter earlier but I assume your aunts have intercepted it, so let it be known this is not my first attempt. I used all I had on me for a train headed for Louisiana. I know writing is inadequate and I have words I would like to say in person. My train leaves tomorrow early at dawn. Meet me there at 6 if you can make it past those old witches.

Yours,

Rhett

Shoving the letter in her pocket, a healthy flush colored her cheeks. He hadn't forgotten her! The words itself lacked affection, yes, but so much has happened and better to write than nothing at all!

In a discarded knapsack, she stashed anything she believed useful, thrilled to make any contribution to his journey. A water flask, leftover cornbread, spare change, old jewelry she was sure her aunts would not miss. When she had finished, a small niggling feeling interrupted her joviality, the reminder that he was leaving, leaving her in a city that she had no ties to—leaving her after telling her that he loved her. She wiped her teary eyes and stood resolutely.

Oh, she'd go with him! What use was it staying in Charleston with the people that had turned their backs on him! What use is returning to Atlanta when he'd be miles away! If she never returned to the world she knew, she might as well go, then there would be no war to deal with, no death, no suffering. And if she were there with him, perhaps it wouldn't be so bad, they would keep each other company. She didn't care if she looked like a bad woman, she would know the truth!

Underneath the gleam of a dying candle, she hastily made up a second bag and collected a sum enough for another ticket, spending the rest of the early morning sitting impatiently on the armchair beside the bed, watching the clock tick so languidly, so inconsiderate of her turmoil, she wished to scream. By the time it was five o'clock she could no longer wait and she hurriedly tied a flimsy white cap on her head, hoping it concealed enough of her face to any curious onlookers. A young, lone woman traveling was enough to draw eyes.

She wore a plain brown dress to compensate, as drab as the Charleston dirt, and an apron she had stolen from the kitchen. One quick look at the mirror, she gruffly approved of the disguise (if she had the time to be proud, she would have smiled haughtily to herself) and picked up the bags on her way out the door. Sleuthing down the stairs, she feared she would slip as her urgency challenged her cautiousness, oscillating between the ache to see him and the fear of her aunts catching her in the act, like a thief in the night. At the bottom, she sighed in relief and rushed out the back door, giving no second thought to the wretched house except a brief, perfunctory glance to check if she was in the all-clear, and an overwhelming gratefulness that she was no longer confined to those walls.

Welcoming the soothing embrace of safety, she allowed herself to smile widely, her step quickening, her fists clenched against the straps of the knapsacks, her anticipation budding, unfurling rapidly in anticipation for Rhett's reaction.

In her young mind, she couldn't think him to be anything else but happy.

He worked his ass off to get that ticket. Pawning off the little he had on him only raised half of the fare and the rest took him to a saloon where he nearly lost all his savings and then some, before miraculously, luck struck. While the thrill nearly tempted him to lose it all over again, he remembered the wretched thing he called family and got as far away from the gambling tables as he could, before a hobbling man (clearly inebriated beyond reason) stopped his departure.

A father, begging him to relinquish the money, claiming he needed it to buy medicine for his infant daughter. He had not thought about it then, but now, with a ticket secured in his pocket, he wondered about the legitimacy of the claim. Perhaps that was how they played dirty these days–bringing in fake, sick children to play at the hearts of only those who had no business being near a poker table. Rhett kept the money, of course, but if it were true…

He shook his head and scoffed. Futile to think of it now.

Rhett leaned inconspicuously against the wall of the empty half of the station, eyeing the area blandly as he waited impatiently for Scarlett's arrival. No one recognized him, he mused, and he supposed it had to do less with his lack of importance in the gossip circulation, and more with his ragged appearance–giving him no more attention than they would a peasant. Sleeping in the alleyways of saloons, picking pennies off the street–what a life for a man with the name Butler! In concept, the idea amused him, but quickly the reality had sobered his optimism. There was too much history in Charleston, and he would have eaten dirt rather than humble himself in front of its ghastly citizens–walked all the way to New Orleans for all he cared, and not begged, bartered, and dawdled as he did.

But there was Scarlett to consider and he couldn't bring himself to leave.

He tapped his foot viciously, his eyes scoping the area once more. Perhaps she failed to sneak out? Just as he began to doubt her, a woman stepped up onto the platform, two knapsacks in hand, the white cap eclipsing her face, leaving only her jutted chin in view. If he hadn't been looking for her specifically, it may have passed him, but he knew that waistline, the slope of that neck, those pursed lips. While plain in appearance, she held herself with anything but meekness, her skirts trailing purposefully behind her as she spotted him from across the station.

Her bright eyes (the color, how could he forget them?) shone up at him, in spite of his attire, and she shyly smiled.

"Found you."

The corner of his mouth turned up. "Indeed."

A hand held out the knapsack.

"What's all this?"

"Oh, you left that night with nothing so I packed some things for you. There's a coin pouch and some cornbread, if you're hungry. Have you eaten at all, Rhett? How have you been?"

He laughed, his throat coiling around the sound strangely, for he hadn't had cause to laugh for a while now. Leave it to Scarlett to be shrewd enough to bring him stolen goods when he hadn't asked.

"As well as you expect. And you look quite refined yourself. I imagine we make quite the pair."

She blushed and he tilted her chin up to see her more clearly. Her eyes flashed, appearing more thrilled than he expected. He hadn't expected her to bawl and beg and plead, but her excitement was as obvious as it was suspicious, no doubt harboring some tumultuous plan behind the mock innocence.

Their two heads turned to the sound of the rumbling tracks, the train whistle piercing the inactive platform, waking it from its slumber, and people came flooding in, drowning the couple from any prying eyes. As it pulled into the station, a gloved hand pressed firmly against his jaw, willing him to face her. Those eyes, which took permanent residence within his mind, spirited and daring, nearly made him retract it all. His hands held her own and he faltered further. Back to his father, to that accursed house, back to the slaughter, under the scrutiny of them all –only if it meant being with her a moment longer. But his pride returned in a vicious sweep, knocking any notion of romanticism from his body.

The bustling crowd huddled to the train with their luggages, shouts of the conductor, the haze of smoke. Murmured goodbyes, muffled cries, hopeful faces. Her eyes took in the frenzy wildly before turning to him again, filled with the same vibrancy, same urgency as the station. He would give her a proper kiss, if only it didn't make them so conspicuous.

"Oh, I'm coming with you Rhett."

He threw her hands from his grasp.

"Are you mad?" he uttered, yet could not help but admire the brashness of such a declaration. If not evidence of her devotion to him, it was a clear indication of her impulsive, selfish mind, and he could not bring himself to be completely angry.

She frowned. He gripped her arms, maybe he could shake the foolishness out of her.

"New Orleans is not Clayton County, Scarlett."

"Do you think I don't know that?" she paused. "You think I'm too weak. That I'll burden you."

"Hardly. But I was the one who was disowned, my dear, not you."

She stomped her foot. "I'm tired of them. I want to go away too. It'll be better–not to be alone, I mean. And I do love you, Rhett."

He laughed once more–she made it seem like an afterthought.

Oh, part of him was thrilled, ready to whisk her away into the train car, uncaring of whoever saw them (unchaperoned and unmarried, the horror!), daring them to report faithfully to his father. It would be so easy to say yes, the picture so clear in his head. But then, his stomach grumbled, starved for anything more than a crumb, and he remembered his status. Dirt poor and disowned, with nothing to rely on but sheer luck.

"No, Scarlett."

" No? " she replied, so sharply that he nearly changed his mind.

"No. You cannot come along."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't know what the hell I'm doing," he said honestly.

"Oh."

He could tell from her face that she expected flowery words, declarations of honor, cryptic denials. But, he couldn't summon any of that drabble now, not when the uncertainty loomed over him, not knowing if he'd be dead or still breathing in two weeks from then–him, penniless, starved, and possessing nothing.

He didn't want to think about it.

"Oh, I'll be back," he responded, reinvigorated. "I'll be back obscenely rich, after he kicked me out with nothing. I'll be back having survived, even when he dared say I could not. I'll see the world while he's chained to his beloved city."

She tugged at his sleeve, speaking rapidly. "But Rhett, I would be useful–I'm a quick learner. I could nurse you, and I'm not a terrible cook either. I am good on horseback, but you know that already. And whenever my Pa became…indisposed, I took care of him."

"I believe the correct term is inebriated . And don't you see, this is why you must stay? You can say such things–'I took care of him'-you have ties here, people who need you, people who take care of you. If you come with me, you'll regret it and come to despise me for it. It's not pretty, it's not like what you've known. Hell, I can't guarantee my own safety, let alone yours."

"And I'm telling you right now," she said, between gritted teeth, "I'm tired of what I've known. I can take care of myself."

"I'm very aware of that. I'd imagine if you were in my position, you would do just fine, perhaps even better than I."

"That's not true at all. I imagine that if I were a man, you'd let me go with you."

"I'd rather not imagine that, thank you."

She stomped her foot, a rare occurrence these days, but he always knew she was still capable of it.

"Rhett, do be serious."

"I am deadly serious. You're not going and I don't care if I have to bodily drag you from a boxcar to make sure of it."

Her face soured but he paid little mind as the conductor yelled out, throwing the sack over his shoulder. Most of the platform had boarded as they spoke, leaving only those waving off the departing travelers, faces and identities kept buried in handkerchiefs or shrouded in black smoke. Things were beginning to settle and if he did not hurry, he suspected he would be the poor bastard to be left behind. But, Scarlett–how to make her stubborn mind understand…?

He quickly faced her again as her hands dropped from his side. Ill-prepared was he for the vehemence in her gaze as she spat: "Fine! You always do as you please. Don't bother looking for me, I don't care if you never come back!"

He knew she was lying, but it angered him just the same. She made it sound like it was easy for him to do this–to uproot his life and leave her just as they had begun. But she had family, he did not, she had prospects, he did not. It was simple and plain–now was not the time for a romance. It was a time for survival, to prove the damned hypocrites wrong, to make something of himself from nothing.

Before she was aware, he held her in his arms and kissed her, almost cruelly, hungrily, and only spurred by the impending hum of the train engine, rushing him as it was near to take its leave. When their lips parted, he could tell they were garnering unwanted attention, and so he distanced her at arm's length (slightly from a fear that she might strike him) and wiped the tear she had yet to notice.

"I will be back," he whispered, with a confidence that eluded him, but convincing enough that her shoulders straightened, her impetuous chin held up high. She gave a minute tilt of her head, close enough to a nod, and he kissed her quickly on the cheek before jumping onto the train car, which had just begun to move, waving his hand at her—the woman he loved. Even the thought of it, left him breathless—him, scoundrel and town reprobate, in love with a society southern belle! Just a few moments ago, he was fearful, and now he felt strangely thrilled–for he had a purpose to return, a purpose to succeed.

Scarlett stepped forward for a moment and he wondered if she would ignore all he said and throw herself into one of the back compartments. Then, she stopped and turned away without another glance (as he suspected, she was stronger than him in that sense) and the distance between them grew farther and farther, until she and the platform were nowhere in sight. He sighed and slid against the wall, relaxing into the entryway of the train car, the wind blowing his hair back, the loud, efficient noise exciting him, the speed jostling him in place. In a moment, someone would urge him for his ticket, forcing him to move to the passenger car.

But for now, he took in the sights–townhouses merging into marshes right into forests– and took out a small piece of cornbread, watching the loathed city fade miraculously away, right before his eyes.

And like that, he was out.

The stashed cornbread, the packed clothes, the stolen jewelry scattered across the floor from the upturned knapsack, beneath the horrified faces of her aunts. They stood with reproach at the collection of goods, taken from their cabinets and countertops and closets, just to feed the condemned man. Scarlett was still dressed in the dreary garb and they could barely look at her, scandalized as they were.

"I cannot believe this," her Aunt Pauline began, "that Ellen's daughter would ever do such a thing."

"Why? There was Phillipe, was there not?"

At the sound of the name, Eulalie's strength left her as she fluttered back onto the couch. "Scarlett! Where have you heard such things?"

"Around." She was tired, she wanted nothing more but to sleep. "You tried to stop mother then too, and now she barely lives."

"How could you say that? You were not there, you could not understand!"

There was a sordid thrill in the contorting of their rigid faces, in their dawning realization of the viper they have nursed to their bosom. Reciting the words long known from their childhood, the words once spoken to the young Ellen, infatuated with the blackguard Cousin Robilliard, recycled and regurgitated to fit the current circumstance, so uncannily similar.

Scarlett continued her disparagement. "The same with Myrtle. A simple mistake and you and the old witches decide to ruin her life."

"They found her in his arms that night."

"Because of what you people did to her."

Her Aunt Pauline's mouth opened and closed, finding the words amongst her bewilderment. Aghast by her accusation, she took a seat beside her sister, fanning her reddening face rapidly and for a moment Scarlett feared she would need to revive one of them via smelling salts.

"Let's stop here, dear, before we exchange any more hurtful words. I must say I am disappointed that you misunderstand our good intentions–these things have been done a certain way for years. Myrtle Davidson, that Butler boy, and even your mother, they all knew this," she responded, haughtily.

Comforted by the turn of conversation, Eulalie continued. "Yes, and I do think it is for the best if you return back to Tara. These recent events have worn you out and it is only the weariness speaking, so we shall forgive anything that has been said today. Don't worry child, I will not write to your mother about this, only hope that it will not happen again. You do know that he's not the type of man good society girls marry…"

And on and on she went, in that taxing drawl; none of which Scarlett heard.

Climbing the steps to the guest bedroom, she felt aged many years, the vitality of the early morning completely drained, taken from her swiftly, leaving with Rhett as he boarded the train. As soon as he left her side, she realized he had not said that he loved her, busy as he was dissauding her from her hasty plan, and she stepped forward to call out, to demand that he say the words. But, by that time, he was too far, too far and yet so happy as he removed his cap and waved gallantly, like an eager soldier off to war. The summer breeze blew an errant lock of hair across his forehead and he seemed like a boy again, enthralled by looming adventure, overruling his words of self-doubt and uncertainty. He looked so free, so young, so at odds with that man she met at Twelve Oaks.

A few seconds later he was gone.

A result of the tiring day, the nightmare returned with all its inexplicable images, its horrific atmosphere. Merging grotesquely with the memory of him today, his smile no longer exhilarated, but tinged with its permanent stain of mockery. His eyes demanded something of her, something she did not know, something that eluded her. It overwhelmed her, assuming that enigmatic persona once more, amongst the the cawing of the crows, the soft falls of worn boots, a sea of gray. It seemed that, for a moment, he hated her, hated the world, and hated himself. She understood none of the bleary words, except for that he was leaving. His confident promise of return–usurped by the disdainful talk of death– oh why was he speaking of dying ? In the distance: angry, red skies, bright raging fire, his fading silhouette.

And then he was gone.

She bolted awake with a strangled cry to the distant sounds of cannon fire, the faint whimpering, the hellish light that seeped through the shutters, the smell of sickness. At her side, Wade's large, fearful eyes looked at her wildly and she fell back to the sweat-seeped pillow.

Atlanta!

Author's Note: Hello, I hope you enjoyed this update–I really wanted to complete it in time for Thanksgiving! 7000 words–I didn't expect it to get that long! I considered cutting the Myrtle-Scarlett conversation, but kept it in because I thought it sort of acted as the Charleston counterpart of Belle and Scarlett. I also considered holding off the return to Atlanta until the next chapter, but opted against it.

It took me a while to write the fateful conversation between Rhett and his father, so when I finally finished it, the rest went way, way faster. I really wanted to get it right, though I am still unsure if I did it complete justice. I will be honest–the next chapter will probably take a while to write as well, so here is an unedited excerpt as compensation (this is the very first thing I wrote when I started this story). This was also the start to the original ending, so you can see why I wanted to change it.

Excerpt from Chapter 10: Deperire (English Translation: to love to distraction/to waste away)

Scarlett watched as the smoke billowed in heaps of gray and black blankets that spread across the reddening sky. The fires had already seemed close from Aunt Pitty's house but now they surrounded her and towered over the dark, ransacked buildings of Marietta Street with a sickening vengeance. Melanie's low whimpers, Wade's soft cries, and Prissy's incoherent mumbling were nothing but background noises, overpowered by the powerful echoes of cannons and explosions that seemed to ripple through her very body.

Rhett was silent. He gripped the reins with such strength that Scarlett could feel his tightened muscles from under her firm grip. She squeezed tighter, as if to affirm his presence. As if he wasn't really there. Only a sliver of light traced out the outline of his profile, the rest of his face waning in shadow, and bathed in the crimson light. There was a flash of exhilaration in his eyes, as if thrilled by the prospect of death that crept up to them and leaped from every corner. Just when the fire seemed closer than ever, the wagon halted to a stop and she turned to Rhett with frightened urgency.

"Why did you stop? We must hurry!"

He said nothing and merely stared at the soldiers that trudged through the streets, an ocean of the same faces, battered and weary, and rifles drooping dejectedly from their shoulders. The noises of chaos ceased, mourning the fallen army as they walked in their tattered rags that they had once regarded with pride. She forced herself to look away as a boy glanced at her with harrowed eyes, and back to Rhett who looked at the sight with bitterness, his gaze mocking as it swept over the crowd.

"Take a look, Scarlett. One day you can tell your grandchildren about the retreat of the rear guard, dragging the Glorious Cause in the mud, beneath their bare feet," he jeered.

She felt the hatred for the man bubble within her body. She wanted to hate him. She wanted to tell him to go to the devil, for the inferno surrounding them had suited him perfectly. But she recognized a semblance of regret, or somberness, in his eyes of coal, the fire rising and falling in the faint reflection. Her hand grazed up to his shoulder and she squeezed firmly, with shaky fingers. He glanced at her with a mask of indifference, though his eyes were intense with anticipation and Scarlett sighed. She was reminded that somewhere in there was that boy that she had grown to know, hidden by the guise of mockery and shaped by the vicious whippings of life.

Calmly, she soothed her temper and said, "Go, Rhett. There isn't much time."

His gaze lingered on her for a second but soon the wagon began to move again, and the explosives resumed their onslaught. Her hand slid back to clutch his bicep, glancing occasionally to catch the distant look on his face, deep into thought.

The sky remained an unsettling crimson color as they reached the road leading to Rough and Ready, the trees marred in darkness and shadow, and her body feeling limp and weary. But the comfort of Rhett had subsided many of her fears. She hadn't once released the grip on his bicep, but it had loosened considerably once they escaped the onslaught of fire.

"Oh, Rhett," she said. "I'm so glad you're not in the army."

His body stiffened besides her and the usual mockery was wiped clean from his face, instead filled with anger and bewilderment. She had wanted his mask to come off, but the vicious emotion was piercing. Her chest swelled. Why was he so offended? Since when did he care about the Cause? She released his arm and shrunk back into the seat.

Melanie's baby let out a long cry, like a crow. Scarlett looked to Rhett, puzzled, as she found the wagon coming to a halt.

"What's the matter? Why have we stopped?"

"Let the horse rest a bit," he said with a frown. He turned to her. "Are you ready to do this crazy thing?"

Scarlett felt an uneasy feeling rile up inside of her as she stared at Rhett's side profile, completely darkened except for the gleams of light in his eyes, dangerous and volatile.

"Yes, I know we can do it. We've come this far already."

He smiled now, his animalistic white teeth shining, even in the shadows. The mocking leer was back on his face as he looked at her.

"Not we, my dear."

The uneasiness rose to her chest and into her throat. "What do you mean? Where are you going?"

"I am going, dear girl, to join the army."