Hello everyone and thank you for your patience and support. Know that each one of your words delighted me, whether it was in confusion at the events from last chapter, outrage and attempts at optimism. Among other things :)

This chapter was far too long, and I had to cut it in two. Many, many things happening in a very short time and confused characters. Very, very confused. I hope it stays mostly clear though. Feel free to tell me if it doesn't!

And well, there's some French parts... But don't worry, you'll find the translations for those who can't translate it.

Here, I'm going to bed now, before getting ready for another busy week...

So this chapter begins with a cruel irony, delves deep into a spiral, then ends in tragedy.

Enjoy?

...

...

"I love you… God, I love you so much…"

He whispered it in her hair, mad with her scent, mad with her warmth, and the feeling of her skin on his. A whisper, or was it a cry? He did not quite know, and at that moment he did not care, so sure that he would have her whole and forever.

It was only afterward that something crept and crawled in his mind, calling him a fool and a slave for her.

She had been a glory of fire and storm, with the taste of the sea on her cheeks. She had fought him like a fury, her eyes flashing dangerously with the wrath of jealousy.

For it had been jealousy, he was sure of it. He had delighted in it, for it meant she wanted him, wanted him with a passion that she could not resist. He was her man, and she thought he had betrayed her. She was still so very young, unknowing of the ways of men. He knew she wouldn't understand, wouldn't accept him keeping Belle by his side.

The Madam offered him precious information, the rooms of her girls being the happy confessional of many. Information was power and money, and he would be a fool not to take advantage of it. Especially in a time of war.

Would he give it all up if she asked? He feared the answer. It would be so easy to give in, and forget all he had planned, just to have her with him…

God, how could he have known that the little girl who had once thrown an apple at him would grow up and become such an important part of his life? This little girl, so precious and fiery, was now the woman he could not live without. Who would have thought? Certainly not him, and he knew his former self, had he known this, would have laughed and certainly turned away.

Could he turn away now?

Would he have met her otherwise? Or would he have missed her? Would it have been easier or harder?

Had he fallen in love because he saw her grow, led her to what she had become, or because it was inevitable?

He pressed her against him, and she let out a soft sigh, her cheek rubbing his chest slightly. His mouth turned up with fondness. His little cat had sheathed her claws, her energy subdued by the searing passion of their love-making. She lay contented on him, her head on the hollow where he knew she would hear his heart.

His girl, his lover, his woman! The names warmed him inside with satisfaction. And soon, his wife, though he needed no word from a stranger to know that she was his alone. It was a certainty he felt deep in his core, but he knew society would need it, and she as well. He knew when she woke up, there would be a little startle, a little fear, for, once the tornado of her temper came to an end, then would come the apprehension that she might have to suffer the consequences of it. It was something that came from her father, and he had never been so glad she was like him in that way. It was what had brought her to his arms, and it made him want to laugh and squeeze her against him.

Impulsive, silly darling. His fingers curled around some strands, thumb testing the silk of that hair, so often hidden in a snood or bound in a chignon. It had become wild and delightfully tangled in their love-making.

He would know how to persuade her. He would reassure her. Then, already, he knew she would have him, if it weren't for her deluded notions of propriety. And if it weren't for the boy, he added in an afterthought.

A family. God, what a thing! A family that could not disown him, which had him as a turning point! He inhaled sharply, his heart trembling. He cursed himself for the weakness, and yet… a family, with her !

Was it the right time ? Wasn't it too early ? He had so many things to do before clipping his wings… And yet, could he risk a delay? Scarlett was a woman of the instant, he feared she wouldn't understand the need to wait. And then, other things could happen, could he gamble this ?

He cursed himself. He was generally not one to overthink, and yet with her... With her! With her, it was a gamble at each turn, and so many times had he gambled, only to be proven wrong.

But now, he knew, didn't he?

She had marked him. Not a simple bite, no. He flattered himself it was not. She had wanted to claim him, just as he had. She had bitten him and licked the wound, and his comparison of her with a feline had never seemed so true when those clear and piercing eyes came to stare at him with a satisfied look.

Yet, it was far from enough. She had to give him more as well... He wanted more from her, because he knew there was more of her to have. These eyes, that seemed so clear, like a ball of green water, was it possible that they hid beneath that surface more mysteries to him? That animal instinct she had, with feelings alternating between love and hate, could he depend on it?

O love, can I depend on you?

Her wrath satisfied, the tigress became indeed a lovely, lusty, and soft cat that purred on his body, waiting for his pet. His fingers pushed the hair from her face, to see her better.

She had that little grin of contentment, yes, and limbs stretching voluptuously among his. He could feel the trace of her adorable little toes, soft and slightly cold, pressed on his feet, before curling, and stretching once again, tentatively.

And he... He was almost tame. His heart beat softly as he smelled the tender scent of magnolias. It still surprised him how each corner of skin seemed to have its own scent, sometimes spicier and languorous, sometimes minty and salty, but never boring. And by each strike, each caress, each taste he had of that skin, he left his own scent, his own taste. Something very primal in him had delighted in that, lurking out of the deep layer of cultured appreciation of pleasure he had acquired with experience. It was intoxicating, and warmer than he had thought at first. Steamy, even. It called something deeper in himself, drew his soul out of his flesh.

He had to leave.

He had to wake her up with tickling, and smother the laughter with his kisses. He had to make love to her again, softly and slowly this time, until she broke and cry her love for him. There, she could see how tenderly he could love her, how he could be as savage as her, as soft as her.

His heart pressed against his ribcage, yet his mind kept in order with a cold hard grip.

No, he had to leave.

He sighed, pressing his nose against her hair. His feet but trembled a little. Could he stay? Wouldn't it be better if he stayed? Would she impose her rules if he did?

Already, he felt the pressure of her little hand, so fragile looking yet mighty, with pointed nails clawing at him. They had drawn blood already, and he had delighted in it in his flesh. Yet, his heart was not to be handled so carelessly. He had to teach her that, without her knowing it was so sensitive to her assaults.

She had but few subtleties in her bones, his own darling, and still the frankness of a mischievous child in her actions. And yet, she was the one, and she was all the more precious with her imperfections, and all she could learn. She had learned by him, and she would learn more. No perfect beauty, neither angel nor devil, she was the refreshing breath of air and the storm, the hearth and the furnace.

She was made for him, and if he was a beast, she was an animal of the same kind. It was as instinctual as recognizing one's limb.

Mine, he thought. His own mate, a girl that could perhaps have become his equal without him wanting her to, and yet with his own help, his own game. She was his creature and she was something else entirely, and he would have preferred she was only his creature. It would have been much easier. Much easier to love her, much easier to leave her.

He closed his eyes, seeking the rest of the warrior, so sure that at least he had won the battle.

Yet when he woke up, his body was empty and cold with the loss of her. Fingers tried to grasp, arms stretched in search of that softness of hers. He turned to the other side. The pillow emitted a slight rustle, like a wave dying on a placid beach. He blinked, opened his eyes, then closed it with pain as the sun glared at him.

She was not there.

Then again she was showing the tremendous control she had over him. He could try to escape, but he had to go back. He always came back running. It had become almost like a game, this coming and going out of her life, hoping she might remark on it, hoping she asked for him. Yet he was no fool. He always had to come back.

But she… would she do the same?

If she had expected nothing of it, she wouldn't have come.

She'll come back to me. I know she will. We're unescapable , he thought tentatively, and that thought was still so very terrifying, and a relief at the same time, for it meant that if he was tied, so was she.

Poor little bird, scaredy cat. Had he frightened her with his love? All was still so very fragile, so very uncertain…

Belle's words from the other night came back to his mind, jeering him with the desperation of a jilted woman, telling her Scarlett was a frivolous girl, too guided by the others, and that she would turn away from him as soon as the situation wouldn't agree with her.

What were the limits of her affection? How long before she cast him off? These were questions he did not want to think with Scarlett, but experience told him it was something he had to. She had defended him at one moment, yes, but she had been so shy about it, and if there was something he knew about Scarlett, it was that shyness was only part of doubt and opportunity in her. Just like him, she assured herself on falling to her feet no matter what, and it was because he knew himself he was wary of what she might do.

She had left him behind. How could she have left him? Couldn't she feel as he did the loss of their connection, like having his heart pulled from his chest? Hadn't she realized how her body fit his and danced with his through the same rhythm? Kisses, caresses, words of love, did they mean nothing at all to her ?

If she loved him, she would have stayed, a pernicious voice hissed in his ears. He had done everything to erase her doubts, and that last declaration was certainly the last proof she would have needed of his affection. But what of hers?

And yet, she was gone... She had taken from him, and now she was gone.

How could she?

Rhett had always been the one to leave. It was an automatic, easy thing, done as swiftly and graciously as he could with the pity of the one who knows there will be tears when he does. Perhaps would he have acknowledged the right of it to any other bedfellow with good humor had it it any other woman. He wouldn't have cared, would have shrugged with a good laugh. But here, it was Scarlett. He was the one left behind, by her, and he did not quite like that.

His eyes fell on the handkerchief, narrowed on the offending object. If there was no money in there, the insult was still in there, and perhaps more by the absence of it.

She rejected him. She had used him. Again. This time not out of love and despair. And now, she had left, leaving him with the bitter perfume of having his love deemed worthless. In fact the fact that she could take the money and leave the handkerchief by itself suggested that she considered him so intolerable that she needed to be paid to be with him. It told him how she cared not about his feelings and needed him as much as a man could need a whore.

The bitch. The treacherous, mischievous, pretty bitch.

He embraced the pillow to catch a bit of her scent, filling his lungs with her precious perfume, then sighed. God, he should have stayed awake! He should have tightened his grip, like this, should have trapped her with his body!

Trap… yes, perhaps in fact it was what was needed to do. To trap that lovely and so, so cruel vixen.

He had the soul of a hunter. He would wait, observe her. And once she would think she is safe, he would have her. Many women had tricked men into marriage, just like many men had tricked women into their bed. Yet he would not demean himself. Not anymore. He had tried to trap her with passion, he would now try with reason. Cold, hard reason. Force if needed. It had to enter her thick, pretty head that she could not come and go in such a way.

Trapped as he was by his own passion, he could not reflect with his usual biting irony that he had almost done the very same thing.

Or perhaps would he have reflected years after that all men with superior intellect and charms had their flaws. Rhett, despite knowing and accepting (and even embracing it whole-heartedly) what he was, could lack the step back on himself, while still managing to take it cheerfully for the others.

To be true, deep, instant self-reflection was not his forte.

Only one thing remained clear though in his cruel, sinister mood, and he pondered it with a bitter smile drawing on his lips.

He had been soft, too soft.

He had to see the lawyer. And some little friends of his, perhaps.

...

...

June 30th, Tara Plantation

As Scarlett laid a foot on the dear clay of Tara, a deep madness came over her. It surged from her toe to the end of her head, swift as thunder, dizzying like magic. In front of that, she was a little girl, the same little girl that once ran down these hills.

Her mules slipped from her feet, and she ran.

It was only times after that she remembered Wade had cried for her. But by then, she was already far away, and red with the clay.

Mammy found her hours later, nestled between the roots of the great tree, from that hill where she could see the big house, and the forest of pines like a shadow over it, Mother Nature's threat.

In the tree, birds were crying in warning, and for some moment she felt like them, poor little thing calling, and soon getting caught.

….

...

...

At the same time, in Atlanta, outside a very particular establishment

The gun made a satisfying click as Rhett charged. He closed one eye and aimed.

His body was tense with the loss of her, itchy with a desperate energy that urged him to run to her and never let go. In fact, it was like her shadow was over him, her delicate hand on his shoulder and her breath on his neck.

But he would not go to her. Not yet.

She did not love him. If she did, she would not have left him with the stench of cheap perfume. She would have hoped and waited for him, begged him to explain. Her wrath had been the result of her disappointed possessiveness, the possessiveness of a girl wanting to be loved by all exclusively, without recognizing the claim he had on her.

But she would. She was his, and fighting against this natural state. Soon, she would have to admit it.

He clenched his gun, teased the trigger, and fired.

First the head, then the heart.

Bang! Bang!

Dead.

"It didn't stand a chance."

Not condescending to look, he straightened, basking in the compliment.

It was an easy target, bags of flour arranged in the form of a body for gentlemen who wanted to train, just in case.

He had drunk that night, and he would certainly drink again. But at least, he knew how to shoot straight to the center of the targets.

Dear, foolish Belle. She did know how to flatter a man, and there was something very soothing, almost motherly in the former whore.

"You've done quite the trick, Belle. Perhaps I should have better care of my words with you."

He had thought she would do something of the kind. He had wished it, in a way. What better way to test the violence of Scarlett's feelings toward him ? She had been so tame, so reserved..

It was days ago, though. He would have thought Belle would have acted sooner.

From his part, it had been a mixture between a genuine wish of sharing his satisfaction at soon having Scarlett by his side, and a calculated gamble, which he had thought would either be harmless as nothing would be done, or would have driven Scarlett quicker in his arms.

She had, in way. But she did not stay. She went, and with their child with her, showing him she could disappear in a blink and leave him with nothing when he had been so close to having it all.

"She does not want you, does not love you. I adore you. Rhett! You are a king of men, and you deserve more than her! If only you could let me…"

She does want me, he thought. Yet she does not love me. She had once said she had, but it was not it. She could use me and be done with it, and it would be alright with her.

His fist clenched, then unclenched. Then sighed.

Bah, he could not be angry with Belle. It would be like kicking a puppy, and he was not cruel enough to do that. The woman was only infatuated and wanted his good.

"Dear Belle. You're a kind soul."

He kissed her brow and patted her head, and she cried like a child. He smiled, almost tender.

"You've got the jealousy of a woman."

And he had wanted to see it in Scarlett. To see her rage and despair for him. He wanted to make her cry, if only to shed the precious tears and bring her the relief of a love returned.

How disappointed he was.

...

Tara Plantation, same night

Scarlett had run away again. Like she had so many years ago. Ran away and come back again. Mammy had always known how to find her.

Mammy had grumbled all the way, moaning about how she needed to be scrubbed through and through, yet so much that her skin seemed red like an Indian when she appeared for supper. No one remarked on it, and prayers were said quietly, but Ellen had noticed it, noticed how it seemed to itch.

The day had come and gone, busy and empty at the same time. But now that Scarlett was there, there was an agitation, and to Ellen's peace of mind, it was a trouble she did not need, especially during that time of effort for the war.

She would go to the Slatterys this night. One of the little girls had called to say young Emmy was feverish, and it was her Christian duty to come to her help.

Mammy was already mumbling about it, but Ellen had to do it.

It was her duty. It was what she was. She was needed, and she needed to do it.

There was still some light in the night, a remnant of sun. It went through the window in a ray of hazy glow, almost surreal.

Scarlett was crouched in the couch, her arms around her knees like a little girl. Her big green eyes raised to her, but Ellen was already late. She would have to wait.

"You're going?" The girl whispered, as if surprised. "Why are you always going? Always you come and go, you're always busy, and I..."

Ellen was taking her gloves, her basket's swaying lightly on her forearm.

"Oh, sorry, dear. Have I been neglectful?" She said distractively.

"Neglectful? No... I suppose you do all you can. But you're always going... Can't you just stay at least an entire evening here? Isn't there anyone else who can do what you do?"

This was the talk of a child. Ellen sighed, weary. She was about to treat it as such when suddenly Scarlett raised in front of her and cut her.

"Do you despise me that much? Does having a tainted daughter disgust you so much that you have to flee to these people? Are their problems more important to you than mine ?"

Ellen froze, then kept walking. There was nothing to reply to that, and Scarlett, like her father, would soon give it up after a few angry barks.

"Perhaps they are. More important than me. "

There was a defeat in Scarlett's voice, and she almost felt pity. But defiance soon came, as sharp as a stamp on the floor.

"Yet… it was love ! I'll not be ashamed. It was…."

Now, that was too much to bear. Ellen could not help but retort and turn.

"What do you know of love, you foolish girl ?"

What do you know of the understanding of two souls bonded to be one? Of the pain of seeing him leave and never come back ?

She dropped her basket, reminiscing...

Scarlett's voice broke, just like her body bent as if it had been stricken by a whip. There was pain in the expression, pain in the eyes...

"I love him, Mother… I love him…"

"Tu l'aimes, ma petite, n'est-ce pas? N'est-ce pas? (1)" Came a voice from beyond the grave.

Ellen stopped, bewildered, before sitting down on her chair.

It was a whisper from the past, creeping like a mist in the room. It was grey and a little cold, and Ellen had the distant and numbing feeling it was not so different than what she lived every day.

Mère... She thought. It seemed so long since the last time she had heard her...

Scarlett fell onto her mother's skirts, like when she was a little and through tears talked and talked until Ellen thought her head would explode. She was close, too close, her hold on her, though little, like a claw bringing her back to the instant when she so wanted to daze, let herself be enveloped in the mist. Her hand patted absent-mindedly the hair of the girl that was gripping desperately at the fabric of her skirt, which was better than pushing her entirely.

Darker came the cloud, and suddenly it felt so very terrifying she stopped and gasped.

And that girl, clinging to her skirts... When had she seen it? When?

The walls around her heart were dropped, and the memories escaped from it, leaving her powerless and numb. Far away, she could see herself, so young and free. She could see her great and beautiful home, with the rosy stones which had the same color as a lovely dawn in summer. She could see her parents' room, so intimate, so secret, with its floorboards pointing like an arrow, from the heavy Norman wardrobe to the rich four-poster bed, with its frieze of Cupid and Psyche. She could see her mother on her bed, looking at her with a tenderness that wasn't usual in Solange Robillard's eyes as she caressed her cheek.

(2)"Ellen… tu représentes mon innocence, ma douceur. Pas une Hélène de Troie, comme le voulait ton père, bien que ce serait tellement plus facile. Tellement d'histoires se répètent, encore et encore. Les hommes et leurs tragédies… ils pensent qu'on n'a que ça à faire, de comploter pour leur malheur. Non. Ma chérie, tu ne dois pas jouer ce jeu-là. Les femmes de ma famille ont toujours eu un penchant pour les mauvais garçons, hélas. De cela arrivent les pires calamités... Mais aussi les plus grands bonheurs. Mais pas pour toi, non, ma petite. Tu dois être celle que j'aurai voulu être, pas celle que j'ai trouvé plus facile de devenir. Tu répareras mes torts, hein, ma petite ? Tu es gentille, she would whisper. Oui… tu seras heureuse et douce, une vraie dame. Tu le dois bien à ta petite maman, n'est-ce pas? Tu penseras bien à elle dans tes prières ?"

She could see herself leaning to that hand, could feel the tears flowing down her cheek as she nodded. And then a presence, so powerful and overwhelming, which left her breathless, her heart pounding.

Papa! Papa!

He could do anything. He could cure her, she knew this. Already, she could see the tiny flame of life growing in her mother's eyes as she looked at him. Once again, they were forgetting about her, and she was left amazed by their connection which seemed to blind them to anything else. Or anyone else, for all that mattered.

(3)"Pierre…" Solange smiled slightly. She tried to raise, yet the pain made her grimace. " il semble que je sois condamnée a toujours être celle qui t'attendra, et ce, depuis le premier jour où, tout ensanglanté de ta gloire, tu ne perçus pas l'invitation dans mes yeux…"

"Tu t'es bien vengée depuis le temps…" He murmured in her memory, his hand soothing on her hair, the same calm gestures he used on an afraid horse. Ellen looked at them, at their love so deeply expressed, though in jest, as they seemed to lean on one another. "Mon amour, tu m'en as fait voir… combien de fois tu m'as envoyé au diable, malheureux et agonisant?"

A wry smile came to her mother's face. Her eyes shone, and Ellen was stupefied by their glow.

"Quel comédien ! Ainsi donc tu m'aimes? Tu m'aimes !"

Pierre Robillard's shone back, mirror of a great love that Ellen's heart wanted for herself...

One day...

"Oserais-tu en douter après tant d'années et de promesses ? Ma précieuse, tu as toujours aimé m'entendre le répéter..."

"Taratata, les promesses ne valent rien! Tu es parti tellement de fois… resteras-tu maintenant, Pierre? Resteras-tu?"

"Oui, mon amour… Jusqu'à la prochaine fois où tu m'enverras au diable..."

"Tu sais que je n'ai jamais voulu ça."

"Oui. Oui, maintenant, je le sais."

Many things seemed to struggle through Solange Robillard's aristocratic lips, so delicately shaped. And finally, her eyes came back to her daughter, and something in that little girl's face startled her back to reality. Her hands, caressing before on his face, gained a sudden urgency.

"Pierre... Pierre, mon chéri, promets-le moi…. Promets moi que tu lui trouveras un mari gentil et prévenant comme elle... Elle est si douce et délicate... Elle se briserait face à une trop grande passion."

"Oui, oui... C'est donc de cela que tu t'inquiètes? Je la protégerai, ne t'inquiète pas, je protégerai son petit coeur. Pas besoin d'un mari pour cela. Tu en as trouvé de bien médiocres pour Pauline et Eulalie. Je m'en voudrais que la même chose se produise pour Ellen" A hint of tease twinkled in his eyes, and yet it trembled with a growing, feverish and unfortunately vain hope. "Et toi, tu vas te battre, et tu vas guérir... Oui, ma battante, tu en as déjà vu d'autres, tu vas..."

"Je ne survivrai pas..."

He jumped out of her embrace as if she had burned him, and his voice was as tight as his fists as he glared at her. Ellen cowered. Oh no, why wasn't he gentle? Couldn't he see Mother was ill? Couldn't he see she was in need of love and kindness?

"Ah, alors tu veux être contrariante, comme tu l'as toujours été!" He roared. "Alors, je ne promettrais rien! Tu es à moi, tu ne peux pas... Tu ne peux pas partir!"

Silence followed and Ellen remembered him panting, full of wrath.

And then to hear him plead, softly, tearfully, breaking down in front of her on his knees. 'Solange... Mon amour, demande-moi la lune. Demande-moi de me battre... Dieu sait à quel point je me suis battu pour toi. Demande-moi d'aller au diable. Mais je t'en prie, ne me demande pas de vivre dans un monde sans toi! Ne me demande pas de donner les derniers souvenirs de toi à d'autres hommes qui ne sauront en reconnaître la valeur... Laisse-moi au moins ton ombre... Chérie, laisse-moi au moins ton ombre...'

Ellen closed her eyes. Many years passed through these eyes, and she bit her lip, feeling the cold tickle her body.

Sorry Mother, she thought one last time. But I did not love a gentle man.

And she didn't, indeed. In this memory, Philippe Robillard was handsome and adventurous, with an energy that kept her on her toes yet prevented him from being delicate and truly gentle.

And then, that fateful day, he had dropped to his knees and kissed her white little hand.

'Ellen, ma douce… I'll be coming back to you… A rich man, I will be, just for you. Pray for me, mon ange de miséricorde, pray for the scoundrel that loves you…'

She was there, and she was not, and suddenly everything fell apart, a broken mirror that pierced her soul. She was trapped, trapped in the past which went round and round, leaving her dizzy, with a cold feeling in her chest.

They came like that, these voices, like ghosts. Pleading, sad, lonely, angry, with a raging, revolted melancholy the French language knew very well to convey.

(4)'Dieu n'existe pas ! S'il existait, il ne l'aurait pas prise !'

'Tu ne partiras pas!'

"You kain do dat, Miz Ellen! You kain throw yerself away lak dat!"

'Bois... Bois... Tout ira mieux..."

That letter, that terrible letter... These words she could not read, no, not with these eyes full of tears that blinded her. Words that could not be the truth, for if they were, she would be left with... She would be left with...

'Bois... Bois...'

"Mother?" Came a voice so far away.

Who was it? Who?

(5)'L'enfer est pavé de bonnes intentions... De bonnes intentions,' Père's voice whispered. "Un jour, tu comprendras... Oui, tu comprendras...'

"Mother?"

"What am I going to do?"

'Bois… Bois…'

It all fell down. She gripped Scarlett's hand, and she felt she was hurting her, the green eyes raising on her with pain and questions. She called. Her voice was still far away, so calm and monotonous. It seemed she was still in her nightmare, and that nightmare had only one end.

She almost failed to recognize her own voice.

"Mammy… bring me some Queen Anne's lace. I know there is some the servants use."

No, it wasn't her words. It was...

"The... servants?" Scarlett stared in bewilderment.

"But, Miz Ellen…."

"Do it," The voice insisted, stern and cold.

And as Mammy hurried toward the kitchen, silence grew and hold tightened. Ellen's hands struggled, so tempted she was to push everything away, to push Scarlett away...

Oh, why couldn't she have just let it be? Why couldn't she have been a good girl and let her at peace?

'Une bonne petite fille... ma gentille Ellen...'

She stared, caught in the moment. And finally, the cup arrived, and she ignored Mammy's scowl.

Even if she did not like it, Mammy would always do what Ellen and Scarlett wanted. There was no other way for her that she could have imagined. From Scarlett, there was that numbed ignorance at the moment that gave no answer. From Ellen, it was a terrifying blank that suffered no retort.

"What is it?" Scarlett's voice finally broke through.

Ellen took the cup, filled with that fuming liquid, and it seemed her sight blurred with the vapor. It seemed so unreal. She was so far from herself at that moment that it felt the fine hands that she saw were not her own. Yet, she saw these hands putting the cup in those of Scarlett, and tightening the hold onto it.

"Drink. Trust me. It'll make it all right."

She remembered hard dark eyes looking at her, strong hands getting the cup into hers. Not so fine hands, but suddenly, it felt they were the same...

What was it, exactly? When was it? She did not quite know anymore. Her headache worsened.

Bois. Tout ira mieux, it echoed in her head, with a deep, insistent voice. L'enfer est pavé de bonnes intentions. L'enfer... pour de bonnes intentions...

It was all mixed up. Was it really him? Was it really her? She did not know, and yet...

"Bois," She whispered. "Bois..."

Scarlett raised tearful, desperate eyes on her, and Ellen trembled.

No! No!

Her heart froze.

Scarlett put her lips on the cup. The liquid began to go down.

Ellen hiccupped.

NO!

"No!"

She slapped the cup away from Scarlett's grip and took her into her arms. Her body was trembling, her heart for once in so many years bleeding, yet living, so achingly ponding in her whole being.

With a cry, the bond between past and present shattered like a veil, and she was left unsettled and trembling like a newborn. She panted for a moment, her eyes widened terribly.

She was alive! How was she alive?

And Scarlett... Oh, Scarlett! What had she been about to do?

Her shoulders fell.

"My baby..." She whispered. "Oh, my darling, baby..."

She closed her mouth for a moment and swallowed the heavy weight of distress. She forced herself to focus. Focus on that equally frightened girl who did not know what was happening.

"Scarlett... This is your choice. Not mine. Oh, forgive me!"

The eyes widened with a terrible suspicion, and something akin to fear. She felt Scarlett's body freeze, before shrinking in her embrace, trying to get out of it.

"What is it? What is it?" Scarlett cried. "Do you hate me so much that you would like to poison me?"

"Shhh... Shhh... My sweet," She tried to soothe her. "No, darling, it's no poison. It is... It is a means to… prevent any misfortune to settle in your womb... Oh, forgive me!"

Her hands cupped Scarlett's face, the thumbs drawing lightly the shape of the cheekbones. She tried to smile, yet it came a little crooked, unused for so long.

"My own mother used to say it is our body, and sometimes it is the only way we can protect ourselves. The body is a temple, she would say, and yet sometimes men are barbarous and violate it. Yet, it doesn't mean it should crumble. It doesn't mean one ought to live with the disaster forever. It's easy for men to say it's murder, yet they are not the ones who suffer the consequences, they are not the ones with the duty to love them. They think loving one's child is natural, she would say. But in fact, women having the control of their body and choosing terrifies them, for it means we can choose to erase their precious legacy by just a simple no."

Scarlett was attentive now, her green eyes piercing, and body alert in her embrace.

"Even now, such words seem strange to me, but I guess she had a point. My mother was a hard woman, and she lived terrible things."

But she left me a choice. The illustrious Pierre Robillard was more of a mind to erase the problem and forget about it. It takes a monster to turn a woman's weapon against her. And Père was such monster.

Yet among many monsters.

Ellen wanted to say it. To prevent her daughter from being so close to… Yet, the words got stuck in her throat. No, it was too late. It was far too late !

She had not been able to protect Scarlett from the men of her life, and that was where the truth hurt. And in her way, Scarlett forced her to look at these men, these men that had done so much wrong.

She continued, quickly, the words uneasy under her faults.

"She told me one should never be afraid to know it. It is men, she would say, that would want us to be afraid of ourselves, and of them. Fear paralyzes. Fear controls. She said we should never show we were afraid of something. "

"Have you ever been afraid?"

This was Scarlett's first intervention since the misunderstanding.

Afraid ? How to describe it ? Afraid was but a euphemism, a thin layer of what had been a cover of solid lead around herself.

"I'm afraid I've been many times afraid. My own mother was fearless, but not me, no. Yet, Mere… my mother was wrong… It is not only fear that controls."

"Vanity. The surest way to control someone is to make them think it was their idea."

Ellen blinked, surprised at such a direct remark, even more surprised in fact to recognize she liked it.

"I've been looking at you," Scarlett shrugged.

Her mother pondered it, before smiling begrudgingly.

"I suppose that's what I do, in a way."

Her hand continued to caress Scarlett's hair, and she surprised herself in feeling it so soft. She hummed slightly. Her daughter's lids were fluttering, and on her lips was a contented smile.

How much of her own mother was there in the girl? Ellen wondered. How much of the mixture of charms and sharpness had she? How much of the careless fearlessness?

Ellen had not been fearless. But she had been brave. She knew the fear, for fear was what prevented her from facing danger.

"Yet, she was wrong. It is so very terrifying. Motherhood is a fearful thing. Though a good thing at the same time."

Scarlett tensed again, and her grip tightened.

"Have you ever …?"

"… Only once. A long time ago."

One fateful night, she, like Scarlett, cried on her parent's lap and asked herself what she ought to do.

Scarlett was not to know it, though, and the idea did not seem to get to her.

"Pa…"

"It happened before I married him," She cut sharply. "He doesn't know any of it."

And she did not want to think of the possibility.

She bit her lip, willing to shut the bitterness from her words. She breathed it in, then out, and relief came with softness. A lullaby came to her mind, and she hummed it. The moon was high in the sky now, its light coming through the window, clashing with the warmer light of the dying fire. It was too late to go to the Slatterys. But perhaps it was better like that. What was between her and Scarlett had to be settled.

She had to be true. She owed it to herself. She owed it to Scarlett. She would answer frankness with frankness, even if it hurt.

'You've asked me once if I did not love you, and perhaps you were right, at one time. When I married, I did not want anything. I was… weary, an empty shell and I wanted to stay that way. But you were always moving so quickly even in my womb. And when you left, it seemed nothing I gave you could satisfy you. A lusty child, with a strong voice, a strong appetite and a terrible, terrible mischievousness.

"One time, you did not move. You were barely three, and you were looking at me. You were imitating all the things I was doing, the same gestures, with babbles trying to be alike mine, and I was… I was… I don't know what came to me. It was so sudden and instinctual. As if you becoming like me would be the death of me, for if you were there'll be no me at all. And there'll be no you at all..

"I slapped you. I shouldn't have, but I don't think I could have prevented myself. And suddenly you cried and glared, as if woken up, and you ran like a little devil."

She caught on her breath, remembering the first time these green eyes glinted at her with hatred, like a stone thrown against her thick armor.

"They found you at dawn, nestled on the doorstep of Mammy's cabin. When they brought you to me… I was afraid of how you would react to me. I was repentant, promising myself to be the best mother I could for you, and to show you the best model possible. But when you opened your eyes and saw me… I shall always remember it. You ran to me and cried, gripping my skirt. You clang to me all day, crying if I ever went out of your sight."

"I've learned to love you. You at least taught me that one can always learn."

Her head fell lightly like a flower without sun.

"Yet, many did not have that chance. It is unnatural for a mother not to love her child. My mother thought differently. She was one to think it was then better not to have that child at all, if one felt they could not love them. "

Something seemed to relax on Scarlett's shoulders, as if it was a question she had wanted to ask without daring. She raised her head on Ellen, so many things shining in these green eyes, and it made her remember her mother acutely.

"I think I understand you much better now…" Scarlett whispered fervently. "You've lived with it for so long. Thank you… Mother."

Understanding shone through the exchanged looks, without judgment. Relief, from one bond that had seemed strained for so long, and now with the pain of truth revealed, had only strengthened.

"I will take it."

With trembling hands, Scarlett took back the cup. It had grown cold now.

Ellen's hand squeezed around her daughter's as she drank it.

The grip tightened for a moment.

Something had changed as the words were uttered. Not only between her and her mother, though this was clear. No, something had changed within her, and she felt like a child that had finally got an answer to à question she had given up any hope in having it.

It took the loss of one love to recognize the pain of it in another's eyes, and now that Scarlett could see it, it bewildered her that she could have seen it as a gentle yet distant courtesy when it was grief. It had also answered so many things at once, questions she did not even know she wanted the answers to, that she felt as if she had let go of something heavy she had wanted to run from for so long.

When all was said, she was surprisingly not tempted to shout, to protest. She listened, and somehow it made sense. Somehow, it was what she wanted to hear.

And then, she knew... Mother loved her! Mother was no saint! She was a human, like her, and could be touched!

It touched something deep in Scarlett's heart, and she realized she was still very much a child. Ellen's child. Ellen's child, which was loved by her nevertheless.

Things remained hidden, she had felt it. But it did not matter. The past was the past, and she realized she was only part of something greater than herself. That was at once a relieving thing and a terrifying thing, indeed, but that meant she could lean on something more solid than she had before.

But now, what was she going to do? What ought she to do?

"Now, what are you going ter do, mah lamb? Ye've yer bad face, lake yer gonna do some mischief."

"I don't know, Mammy. I don't know."

But she did know. It was crazy and certainly unladylike, but it was the kind of crazy idea that would not

No, she would never be harmless anymore. Not to anyone, any man or woman. She would be her own person.

Randa's words came to her, and never once had she thought it so true before. Her fists closed, sharp nails on her skin.

She looked at Mammy's beloved face for a moment, smiled to her and kissed her cheek, and uttered a little lie to appease her worry. For once, it worked, though Mammy seemed surprised at seeing her so peaceful, so calm.

As the old woman turned her back on her, Scarlett knew there was something she ought to say, things she ought to ask and listen, but the weakness in her was whispering in a child's voice she ought not to, for her world was already shattering, and would shatter more, and she risked being destroyed in the process if she did not take care. Not now, she told herself. Not now.

She needed to raise her head again, and this, she knew, would only make her lower it harder. She had the distant feeling that such a self pity would neither serve her, nor them, and would be another one of these burdens that could only bring more spite.

Quietly, she listened to the little noises of the summer night. Outside, the wind was softly blowing the flowers of cotton. An owl sang. She raised silently and slipped in Gerald O'Hara's empty office and walked briskly to the desk.

She took Pa's old gun and went outside.

..

July 1rst, near Gettysburg

His enemies were screaming at him, their eyes filled with wrath, thirsty for blood.

He was among them, against them. He did not quite know. It was a chaos of noises, of blurred colors and smells of rust and powder. Comrades that had been at his side were now shattered, some literally, some hopefully not.

And with the guns ringing, the blades singing, something awakened in him.

His love for music was back. Epic, dramatic, each time a song he wanted to play. He struggled to focus on each of them. His body knew the rhythm though.

Drums. The sound of suspense. The sound of action.

Blades, like triangles, marking the rhythm.

And then horns. Surprise. Impending doom.

Glares among the enemies. Familiar faces. When had he seen them? Where had he seen them?

For Hetty! Cried one of them. Red hair… red hair like her, and with that light, they seemed covered already with his blood.

Oh, yes. Them.

He called in return, arm outstretched toward them. His feet dragged him to them, tapping on the soft floor with sharp sound. He aimed and missed. Recharged. It was a dance, until finally one was close enough to kick it from his hand.

There were two on him, two identical in appearance and wrath, coming at him now, and he fought them both.

Oh, if only he had his friend by his side! If only!

But now, he was far away now, and certainly happy... He roared and scratched.

A shot. A cry. One of them had been hit. The second turned, surprised, and it was the second that lost him. The dagger was out, singing, and came for his throat.

Big, dumbfounded eyes stared at him, before the strong body fell back.

He raised, exploding with a laugh that even to his ear seemed diabolical.

What had he become?

"Brent! Stuart!" Someone cried.

Then again, the blade singing... He took his gun and shot, and this time succeeded. It was a horseman, with the same red mane...

Red... Red like...

He fell to his knees, still broken by that mad laughter he could not stop.

He did not feel anything until he finally took the time to look at his body. For a moment, he did not see his own gore. And how could have, with all the blood, and unfathomable pieces ?

Then, it dropped, and he saw the great wound on his torso, and when his eyes looked right, he noticed the lack of his most precious limb.

The hand, with which he had scratched so many times his guitar, had been cut, and had dropped just aside one of the twins' head. On that face laid a grin, and he knew it was triumphant.

No matter what, Eugenio Perinski, or whatever name he had adopted during his life, was no more. He had lost.

He dropped to his knees and thought of two boys becoming brothers. He thought of these two boys becoming men, going on different journeys, different ways. He thought of a girl with red hair, that had once hummed to the sound of his music. He smiled.

As he laid bleeding, he began to sing a song. Yet, it was fated to stay unheard.

...

Translations:

(1)"You love him, my sweet, don't you?"

(2) "Ellen... You represent my innocence, my softness. Not a Helen of Troy, as your father wanted, though it'd be so easier. So many stories are repeating themselves, over and over. Men and their tragedies... They think we only have that to do, to plot their misery. No. My darling, you do not have to play that game. Women of my family always had a taste for bad boys, unfortunately. From here comes calamities... But also the greatest happiness. But not for you, no, my sweet. You must be the one I've always wanted to be, not the one I found so easier to become. You'll right my wrongs, won't you, my sweet? You're gentle... Yes... You'll be happy and sweet, a true lady. You owe it to your little mama, don't you? You'll think of her in your prayers?"

(3) "Pierre... It seems I always have to be the one to wait for you, and this, from the first day when, all bloody with victory, you did not see the invitation from my eyes..."

"You've taken your revenge since then." "My love, you drove me mad... How many times did you send me to the devil, unhappy and agonizing?"

"What a comedian! So, you love me? You love me?"

"Would you dare questioning it, after so many years and promises?"

"Fiddlestick, promises are worthless. You've gone so many times... Will you stay now, Pierre?"

"Yes, my love... Until the next time you send me to the devil..."

"You know I've never wanted that..."

"Yes. Yes, now I know."

"Pierre... Pierre, my beloved, promise me... Promise me you'll find a kind and considerate husband like her... She is so sweet and delicate... She would break with a too great passion."

"Yes, yes... Is that what you're worrying about? I will protect her, don't worry, I'll protect her little heart. No need of a husband for that. You found some quite mediocre for Pauline and Eulalie. I would be sad if it happens for Ellen as well... And you, you will fight, and you will heal... Yes, my strong one, you've seen it all before, you..."

"I won't survive this."

"Ah, so you want to be contrary, as you always was! Then, I won't promise anything. You are mine, you can't... You can't leave!"

"Solange... My love, ask me for the moon... Ask me to fight... God knows I've fight for you. Ask me to go to the devil. But, I beg of you, don't ask me to live in a world without you! Don't ask me to give your last memories to men who won't know their worth... Let me have at least your shadow... Darling, let me have at least your shadow..."

(4) "God doesn't exist! If He did, He would not have taken her!"

"You won't leave!"

"Drink... drink... All would be alright..."

(5) Hell is paved with good intentions... Good intentions... One day, you'll understand... Yes, you'll understand.'"