Hello everyone, and thank you for your patience! Sorry, dear guest, I try to give a weekly update, but sometimes, life (and work) comes in the way.

Another guest told me John Wilkes having an illegitimate child is a bit farfetched. Maybe it can be seen like that, as he is described as honorable, and loving very much his deceased wife, as he died with her portrait with him, if I remember. Yet, there is too little information about him that I took this liberty, for I think it also gives other motivations to Ashley and India's behaviors that I wanted to explore. And, well, this is something that is not really evoked in the original book, about what could happen between master and slaves.

But to be honest, I don't like to stay with the description: "he was a true gentleman, honorable and good."

As always, I do not own Gone with the Wind, nor the Beatitudes, or Lord's Byron's works.

Thank you all for your support!

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Dark and white everywhere. Countless shades of it patterned on the walls, the people, the food. Too salty, too sweet. No spice, no color.

Yet.

As he waited in the crowd, Pierre Robillard sent a smirk to the great and scowling Mr. Langston Butler, who still hadn't forgiven his French counterpart's participation in affairs he thought only between his fallen son and himself.

As if such things could be just private these days.

The servants gossiped, the girls chattered, the women whispered, and the men pretended not to hear... Though between drinks talked all the same.

And the story that was unfolding... it smelled deliciously of scandal, and Pierre knew it. A true farce, with a bit of tragedy, and enough comedy to please him.

The doomed lover. One Rhett Butler, who certainly wanted to be joker himself, but got played too soon.

The honorable antagonist, his own father.

Heureux les affamés et assoiffés de la justice, car ils seront rassasiés.

Well, it seemed that one had not been satisfied ever since his birth, and it was probably true. There was a deep shame, a deep fear in him, with the shadow of his father still too big for him, oppressing like a jeering smile and taunting laugh.

A terrible repetition, yet that was maybe what the Indians called karma.

Then entered the queen of hearts, from his flesh and blood. All eyes on her, and even Robert Rhett and his fire-eaters seemed to cease all secession talks as she went closer.

And then, the joker (courtesy of himself).

All the roles, but one seemed to be filled.

Where was the good little soul? For surely, Scarlett could not fill that role.

In fact, he liked her better for it. She was a sly little thing, his granddaughter, and beautiful with that. The kind of rose that cut you, and you still want to smell it. And if she was anything like Solange, that smell would be quite a delightful drug.

On and on, she had defied him, changed his daily grind. Willfully defiant, when he said dark, she said light, and when he did not want to, she made him. She petted him when he growled and chided him when he was too soft. She had shaken his world, this little slip of a girl, when he expected the less.

He had been stuck in a heavy routine, one of these Scrooges when he was French, for God's sake!

But now he was awakened and determined to have fun.

She walked into the crowd and he nodded in approval. His arm raised, and she took it. For a moment, she seemed distant, and he patted her hand.

"Prête?"

She smiled.

"Amusons-nous," She said to him cheekily.

He froze.

'Amusons-nous'... The green turned dark, the small frame grew and refined itself. The atmosphere had a golden glow, diamond-shaped pieces of glass taking each spark and reflecting it in her eyes.

Solange...

He blinked and the girl came back.

Yes, she was Solange's true granddaughter, alright, and men's doom was in her blood, as sure as a tree needed roots to live.

His old hand squeezed hers, and she looked at him quizzically.

For a moment he wondered. What was the most important thing for him? The game or the girl?

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July 1860, Fairhill Plantation

Generous was the evergreen magnolia of the garden, procuring a fresh and sweetly perfumed shadow to those who sought shelter from the burn of the merciless Georgian sun. Its leaves, tender and round, fluttered like a fan, as an invitation to quiet intimacy and rest. A soft whisper, broken by the cracking of the dark branches as they swung lightly, entranced by the music of the wind.

Under it, three girls, as different as spring, summer, and autumn, and not entirely aware (at least for two of them) that the winter of their world would come soon.

One with a raven-haired crown braid maintained by an ivory comb at the back of her head was sat on the left, her eyes vibrant and alert. Her pointed chin up, she held herself with a bearing that was highlighted by the exposal of the twelve yards of delicately embroidered muslin, which made the other fabrics look cheap and common. Yet, with time, one insistent observer would have realized a hint of naked foot was slipping discreetly at the end of one wrinkle of the cloth, teasing the soft strands of grass it could reach.

One with chestnut curls, soberly gathered in a soft chignon and wearing a gown who could not hide the absence of any feminine curve, sat in the middle. Yet, the posture was naturally straight and dignified without a thought of being so, and she had a heart-shaped face lowered modestly, with a soft and shy smile. She was almost hidden by the shadow, yet the lightness of her features was pleasing to the eye for no hostility could be fond, only a softness that opened the heart.

And then, there was this auburn-haired girl, forsaking any attempt at grace as she sat with outstretched legs that moved under the linen.

No, really, Randa Tarleton was not one to care for such things. Melanie Wilkes had no thought of it, for it was carved already in herself. And Scarlett... Well, Scarlett had learned it.

Unquiet, Scarlett could not hear the music of the wind. Not like the others. She could not hear the participation of the mourning dove, who chose this moment to sing its lament.

To be sure, she was not one to appreciate Nature's gifts in general. She could not truly understand the utility of observing its course when it could not lead her anywhere. She was far more interested in her own thoughts.

Really, she did not know why Randa had insisted on inviting Melanie here. All she talked about were books and nature!

"Why, you're talking like Ashley!" She cried.

The reproach was unfair, for Melanie's words contained no quote concerning the grandiosity and fatality of Mother Nature. Hers were simple words of admiration that had no further pretense than to please herself and those who heard her. A light rambling, tainted by timidity, and a strong will to be amicable.

But Scarlett was in no mood to be amicable. In her mind was still the matter of the recent disappearance in Tara of Aren from a few nights before.

He had slipped away like that, without even a goodbye.

Slipped away like that, without letting Scarlett find a way to get rid of her debt!

Pansy's cries had been heard in the morning, her weeping rendering impossible the execution of her morning activities. She had recovered soon enough in the afternoon though, steel determination in her step as she put her attention in the newcomer that had just been accepted to the house.

Her name was Cheyenne, a spat to the name Wilkes, to make them remember whose earth it had been before it became theirs.

Mammy had looked at her with wary eyes, suspicious at that new head she hadn't shaped herself. Yet Mammy was now too occupied with the comings and goings of her lamb, especially with so many suitors coming to her. Big was her pride as she saw them, to the point that nothing else seemed to matter, and she took pleasure to bully them before they came to see Scarlett.

Now was her resting day, and Scarlett was glad. At last, she was not under her watchful glance. Though loving, Mammy could be quite overbearing.

Atlanta's child lowered her eyes, and there was almost a little glint of pleasure at this remark, the corner of her lips drawing in a soft smile.

"Well... He and I..."

Scarlett stared and came back to the present.

"Melanie, are you... Are you in love with Ashley?"

She turned pink delicately. Her hands clasped as for prayer, and she lowered her eyes.

"I... Well, we are promised to one another, we like the same books, and he can be so gentle... It's always been expected that we… you know… Everyone says we belong together, so… I... I think so."

"You think?"

Melanie hesitated, pressed under Scarlett's insistent gaze.

"It's a bit soon, I've only seen a few times, but I think..."

She was on the point to. Already, her candlelight eyes were bright from the fantasy of it.

A fantasy, though. Not the reality of the man, which was less fantastic. Yet, looking at her, Scarlett knew once she would see any weakness, her heart would melt and she would take care of him like a shepherdess would a lamb, to the detriment of her own needs. That was just how she was.

"Oh, Scarlett!" Cried Melanie, putting her fresh hands on hers with entire abandon and trust. "I do so envy you. You're so full of life and audacious. You don't have to ask yourself what you feel, you just know... I wish I was like you."

The thought innerved Scarlett, for she had once thought the same about her. The girl who was so loved, so respected and protected…

"Melanie..." Scarlett frowned, with the impression of berating a child. "You're quite a silly thing, aren't you?"

"Scarlett!" Randa cried, though it was ruined by the laughter in her tone. "You're quite a brute! Even I wouldn't have said anything like that!"

"Well, it's the truth!"

Melanie blushed prettily, her lids falling softly.

"Don't mind Scarlett," The red-haired girl dismissed with a lopsided grin. "She bites when one compliments her too much. Or not enough. Or when she's a little bit too je..."

"Enough, Randa!"

"Oh, but I am, am I not?" Melanie said, all modesty and sensitivity. "That's what everyone says. And I know they want to protect me, but..."

"Oh, you can drop the moonlight and the magnolias. ," Scarlett cut. "They're keeping you silly, that's all."

Melanie's eyes widened, distressed.

"Oh, no, I don't think so... They're just too good for me. Ashley said..."

"I don't ask what Ashley said!" Scarlett cried, the irritation making her hands shook in wrath. She clenched them. "Haven't you a mind of your own?"

Besides her, Melanie blinked, the brown melting brightly, and her small hand rising to hide a violent hiccough. She paled and fluttered, and for a moment she looked like a colorless little porcelain doll.

Randa scowled.

"Scarlett, that's enough! Can't you see she's going to cry?!"

"This is no world for indecisiveness and delusion, Randa! You were the one saying so!"

"Yes, but..."

Yes, but Scarlett was too far gone and upset to truly care for the sensitivity of one who could not bear to defend oneself.

She was about to continue when Melanie's candlelight eyes raised, and there was in them a determination that erased the soft shyness.

"No... no, that's true. The truth is... The truth is... I want to see the world and live. But also... Oh, also! I want a family of my own! A love of my own! Travels and adventures! I know I don't deserve it, and that my body is weak, and I know people think I can't bear it, but... I want it all!"

With that cry from the heart, Scarlett's squeezed and melted. She stopped, took her breath, the lids widening to clear the darkness in the green.

An impulse, far deep in her, arose. A call, a yearning she had tried to ignore.

She was just like her!

she threw her arms around the thin girl, whose cries deepened. The poor dear shook like a leaf, crying happy tears now that she was in Scarlett's arms, and Scarlett felt her mind getting back to the cold hard reality.

No, not quite like her. In some ways similar, but not quite.

She understood now Grandma Fontaine's words, for she felt them.

Her jealousy, her envy had been in vain. Melanie was not one she could hate, just like she could not hate her own Mother, and unhindered by her natural instinct of competition, Scarlett could not find in herself to make the effort to, when she had nothing to gain in the hating.

She couldn't help Mother. She did not know even if her Mother truly wanted anyone to help her. But she could help Melanie.

No, she couldn't let Melanie marry Ashley. He would never be able to protect her, and her kind, unlike Scarlett's, needed to be protected. She needed somebody to love her and cherish her. Someone to see the truth of the matter, cruel and dark as it might be, and not cower before it. Someone like...

Someone like Rhett.

She shook her head, something in her guts turning cold.

No, no, not Rhett. He'd delight in destroying every little dream she might have, she thought, with what seemed like a relief. Rhett was a devil like that.

Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God, she could hear him say with his jeering smile. However he believed in no God but himself, and in his mouth, it might only mean contempt for believing in what he wouldn't understand.

Yet, she still loved him for it, because he had opened her eyes, and it was as much a curse as a blessing. Her heart was not pure, but she could see, and think on her own.

And now, she could see the matter clearly.

First, she needed to get the girl away from Ashley. Why, he did not deserve her, with the way he was courting her!

She frowned, the mechanisms in her head working as she pondered on what she should do.

"Well, if I was expecting it... Not that I'm complaining. I like hugs," Randa smiled lazily as she joined in, squeezing them with a tightness that surprised them both. "Now, you're with us, Melly. For better or for worse."

And on Melly's face came a bright, genuine smile that lit her entire face.

.

August 4th, 1860, Tara Plantation

Proud they were, the Southerners, of their way of life and rules. Of their soft-spoken wives, their rebel-without-a-cause children, and their ranks of cotton, rice, sugar cane, worked with the blood and sweat of their slaves.

Proud and fools, dancing elegantly on a thin thread, a gun loaded in one hand with only one bullet, when the enemy had thousand of them, all filled and prepared.

News from Belle had come, brief and filled with mistakes for she insisted on not learning to, believing wrongly ladies had slaves to write for them. So, she had this little black boy, Harry, for her letters.

For all of her kindness and cunnings, Belle had such strange ideas about what ladies did, and a deep envy to be like them, just as a child looked up to angels.

He knew the woman was in love with him. It was as clear as his own love for Scarlett.

There was nothing new in the letter, only confirmation of what Rhett already knew. Yet, it hurt still the same. It hurt knowing he could not entirely run away from it.

Somehow, he knew it would have been so much simpler had he loved her back. Or, at least, some kind of love. Belle would let him do whatever he wanted with her. She wouldn't fight to keep him, and he'd be as free as if he were not bond to anyone. He'd just come back once in a while.

Scarlett bound his heart and soul. He had first loved the willful child, an innocent and pure love, such as he had never had. And when the young woman had come, she had taken him by surprise, and he had almost gone mad over it. It still lingered somewhere, like a tawny in a cage, waiting to be fed, yet knowing it might never be. Sometimes, it went closer to the bars to growl, imagining the day it might be out.

Now, he had mastered that folly. He had very much mastered it. After all, he was Rhett Butler, and nothing could resist him long if he wanted it.

… Bad formulation. He winced.

What was Gerald saying, again?

"I'm taking the family to Saratoga in a few days. It's Yankees' territory, but I thought it would change them for a moment, especially Scarlett before she goes back to Savannah. I feel she's wasted here, with everything she learned," There was something sorrowful in his face. "One of me brothers just opened a shop there. Good ol' Johnny. Would you like to come?"

"You O'Haras are such a large brood."

"A large and faine brood," Pork said with a toothy smile.

"Care to count us all?" Gerald jested with good humor, the bright redness of his cheeks accentuated by his smile which gathered the fat round about the bones, like a plump apple. "Beware, you might become one of them."

"Thank you, The Butler name is already quite a curse, no need to add another one."

His gaze went to the opened window as he leaned to it, and he stopped and frowned.

Outside, on the deep green grass was sitting Scarlett, under the shadow of a magnolia. Quiet and composed when she ought to be wild and passionate. The dog was with her, sleeping under her distracted ministrations.

Oh, to be a dog, lazy and petted, and able to bite anyone that could upset him...

When he had offered it to her, it was in a jest, a way to make her understand what he thought the felt for the disastrous gentleman: flattered by the easy devotion of melancholic eyes. With a bit too much of a fancy, maybe, for she was still a girl and entire with that. He imagined that when she loved, she loved wholly...

But no, he ought not to think about it.

Perhaps he should have offered her a cat instead.

Ashley was standing at a just distance, his head devotedly bowed over a book that he declaimed verses with an inspired voice, more vibrant when it was reading than when he was talking.

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She walks in beauty, like the night,

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes;

Thus mellowed to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

.

Lord Byron... Oh, the irony of such a weak little gentleman declaiming the words of such a controversial figure.

Well, that denoted at least some complexity in the boy, and in another time, Rhett would have been amused.

Gerald leaned on him, in an attempt at teasing which fell flat considering his companion was much taller than him.

"Oh... So, I see, me lad. Others are lurking close to yer prize."

"Stop it, Gerald," Rhett let out a sharp smile which, as it appeared, made him bite a corner of his lips.

.

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impaired the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express,

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

.

Did he dare to graze her hair as he declaimed it?

The fool. The weak-willed fool. He was as good as promised to another. Why did he keep on courting Scarlett? Why would he read poetry to her, especially seeing that she probably wouldn't care much for it?

Scarlett wanted clear words, that he knew it. Not indirect declaration through other person's verses.

As to why she allowed it, that was certainly the most painful question of all, for he knew the answer. He could still remember every word, and that faraway, hopeful look in her eyes.

.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

.

A heart whose love is innocent... Somehow, this could not entirely define Scarlett, for though her innocence still continued to lurk in some domains, she was turning as scheming and sly as a vixen.

As for days in goodness spent... Ha!

But a winning smile, she did have. A very pretty smile, with dimples and eyes dancing.

Talking of eyes dancing... The father just went closer to him, and Rhett was not sure he liked the twinkle in them.

"Ah, young love..." The man sighed heavily, almost dramatically as he patted his shoulder. "See, my boy, what my daughter wants, I'll always try to give it to her, and methinks she wants you very much, so I'm kind of tempted to serve you to her on a silver plate."

"The girl doesn't want me," He chuckled, the bitterness staying inside. Not as I want her. He dismissed the condescending hand on his shoulder and paced nonchalantly. Very nonchalantly. "I am a brother to her. She's a child. She doesn't know what she wants. One day she would want that little Stu, or maybe Brent. The other, she would want Ashley…"

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven. Indeed, the boy lived in his own heaven, afraid to live and afraid to die, stuck in a frozen world he filled with beautiful relics of the time.

Yet, Scarlett was no statue. She was moving, alive, and fiery. A flickering flame he wanted to tease over and over.

Rhett's fists clenched, and he shoved them in his pockets. Gerald grinned.

"Fine, get it your way. I'll still prepare the silver plate. She already refused a dozen of proposals, you know."

"Of course she did," He said it, for it was a matter of fact. The girl couldn't just settle with anyone. "Yet, I think you are making up your own romance. You're making it as if she did it because of me."

"Me, romance? Ha! Pork, get me some of me liquor to swallow that," The Irishman tapped on his knees as if it was a good joke, his jaw opened wide as his valet went out of the room with a grin. "No, me lad, not romance. Me ol' head can't do that. I'm just pointin' on facts. Tis true she did, 'nd I see you've already made your conclusions."

"You old Leprechaun."

"Well, if it be such, no doubt I'd be pretty rich and hoardy," A pleasant roar left his mouth, the rough jaw opening and revealing still good teeth. "Oh, well. That'd be me indeed. But me boy..." He continued with a twinkle in his blue eyes. "You haven't said you did not want her. Nor protest when I talked about young love."

The young Mister Wilkes kissed her hand a little too long, and she looked at him with too bright eyes, as if she was entranced by such a gesture. Her whole body leaned toward him, her lashes fluttering before she lowered her gaze and bit her lip.

"Because I thought you were talking of Scarlett and that young... lad."

"You sound as if you want to bite him!" Gerald laughed; "Bah! No good would come to that. She'd take a bite of him and get bored. No, no, she needs someone that can stand up to her. Someone that will be able to protect her. Someone like... you."

His big mouth widened in a teasing smile as he waggled his brows unsubtly.

"Tch. You're too much, Gerald," Rhett let out a sharp laugh, before biting hard on a cigar and lighting it. "I'll be soon going to London. Can I trust you to get Mr. Kennedy to the deal?"

"Of course, you know that," The parquet cracked as he turned back. "But will you come? To Saratoga."

"I'll try, old mate, I'll try... But I can't stay for long." His fist clenched for a moment as he continued. "I'll be leading a dangerous life, Gerald. In and out the continent, always on the run. This is no life for a girl."

"Perhaps," Gerald shrugged. "Perhaps you ought to ask her. But perhaps 'tis you who's not ready to ask her and hear the answer. Now, where's my liquor? Pork!"

Him, not ready? Rhett's chest heaved at the insult implied. He was no coward, damn the man!

Why would he seek an answer he already knew?

He continued looking until Gerald sighed, made a grandiloquent gesture of dismissal, and left with a jovial, heavy step.

A light rustle replaced it. Mrs. O'Hara.

For quite a long time, she had kept her place in the corner, with her needlework, while Pansy handed her silently the threads, her sharp brown eyes not missing anything.

He had hoped she would stay that way, and disappear at the same time as her husband, without a word. He was uneasy with her, a mixture between reluctant guilt and a strange impression that he could only define as a cold cloud numbing him as she went closer.

A dainty white hand clutched the curtain, and he smelt her sachet of lemon verbena, stinging and suffocating.

"They are quite a beautiful couple, aren't they?" She said with a soft, absent-minded voice. Her orbs were almost grey, so veiled they were by remembrances of another time. "Yet as different as night and day. Golden sun and dark moon. Death and life. Coldness and warmth. Wind and earth. Different, yet complementary."

"Talking from your experience, perhaps?" Rhett bit, before he stared again. "Wind and earth are by no mean complementary. Your logic fails here, madam."

She looked askance at him, yet did not seem to see him through these heavy lids. The hand paled on the green velvet, tight like the gasp of death.

"Mr. O'Hara thinks to be happy, one has to be with one who's alike. Yet, it is not so. Fire and fire can only burn, and too much wind makes a tempest."

A soft, short snicker rang as she covered her mouth. He looked at her, bewildered.

"Does something amuse you, Mrs. O'Hara?"

"I thought I would have to do something to reveal your true colors, something that would be the death of you. But then, I see I don't have to bother. You're going to destroy yourself sooner or later on your own. I won't let Scarlett be led into this, though. You'll not have her, mister."

There was almost a flame in her eyes as she said so, far from the thinly frozen lake they were usually.

"I don't want her."

That was one of the biggest lies he had ever uttered. Her chin raised up, her lids lowered, and he could feel all the contempt she had for him.

His instincts had been right about that.

Ellen O'Hara didn't want the bigger picture. She was one of these people who wouldn't bear to evolve and change, because she relied too much on the way of the South. She lived in a world of pretense and softness, a world she had led her entire family to be the actors of, to the point that she believed it was the truth.

And he was shaking the stage she was in. So of course, she was fighting him.

She would never survive the war, Rhett realized. She wouldn't bear to. She would let all her strength in the preservation of the world she believed in. And Gerald, good man as he was, wouldn't be able to take it. Rhett feared he would become like an actor waiting for applauds that would never come.

She looked at him and judged, and he stared back, unwilling to back down. She took a step back, horrified.

"I should never have let you in the house... You've... filed their heads with things that aren't true and proper!"

"But now I'm in, am I not?

"Until Scarlett is married. Which ought to be soon enough."

That sounded like a threat, and he remembered the deal he made with her. The deal where he promised he would get out of their life once Scarlett became a success and married.

And Scarlett did become a success... As for marrying...

Could he truly bear to leave her?

In the room, the cuckoo left his tiny home on the clock and sang, once, twice. Echoed of heels cracked against the parquet. He was alone.

There, the end of the afternoon had already rung, and still, she was on the cloth. The boy had left her, and there she was, unguarded.

Was she asleep? Had the gentleman's speech had that effect on her? Rhett mused. He left his spot, his feet knowing the way before he thought it. The grass was soft and crisp under his boots, like hair being combed over and over until it cracked.

She was lain like a child, her little body curling upon itself, a hand delicately pressed under her cheek.

He sat beside her silently, one leg tucked under the other. The cloth creased under his weight, yet she did not move.

Looking at her, he knew he would do anything for her, even at the expense of his own needs and desires. That was perhaps the most terrifying thing of all, for it could mean give the bet up and push that little gentleman into her arms if that was what she wanted.

Even if his heart might weep tears of blood from it.

But the worst of it was that he knew in himself that having that boy wouldn't make her happy.

Thus was the extent of his feelings for her, for all of his selfishness and hardness. It meant allowing her mistakes to unsettle his life, for he could not force her. Not that he hadn't unsettled it himself.

The bet was now very much vain, he admitted that. To himself, at least. But could he completely erase it? Could his pride take that blow as he admitted defeat to his father?

For a moment, he wondered what would have happened, if he hadn't met her, about eight years ago from now. Would he be the same? Or, after many other adventures and disappointments, would his heart have hardened even more?

Would she have been the same without him?

No, he realized she would have been forced in a mold too tight for her, with blinders on to prevent her from seeing beside her pretty little nose.

Would he still have cared for her? Loved her?

Somehow, he thought he would have. But respected her? Perhaps not, because he would have done so in the same way he would have respected himself, and she wouldn't have understood it. He wouldn't have understood, not entirely, for he wouldn't have known what her roots were.

Perhaps it would have been easier, he thought. That way, he wouldn't have been so reluctant to take what he wanted.

A finger grazed her soft cheek, dark against the white. It was fresh and smooth, and she shivered when she felt him. He sighed.

"Scarlett... What are you making me become?"

She should never know, no, the extent of his love. No, because then, he would become one of her creatures, and he could not bear the thought of it.

In a way, he only had himself to blame, for he was the one to encourage her. He had changed the way she had been walking on.

Damn him for a fool, for it changed his as well.

"Not one for poetry, aren't you, love?" He shook his weary head. "For all of your learnings, you haven't developed a liking to it. Nor any true softness at all from what I can see."

He kissed the tip of her nose fondly, where freckles were beginning to form, tiny golden stars glinting with the sun, and took her in his arms. She barely stirred, only the loveliest little whine, like a kitten's stammering meow before going back to sleep. Her body curled to fit his embrace, and he felt the tip of her long fingers lingering on his chest, too near.

She would not ask him for protection, not this time. But still, he would give it.

"Rhett..." Her lips moaned out his name, her brow slightly crinkling, his name through a nightmare, and he felt his heart jump.

He shook his head and hummed softly, soothingly.

"Shhh... Sweet-heart. I look after you."

With her in his arms, he headed back home.