Hello everyone!

I just realized… We made it far past 300,000 words! Can you believe it? And I'm still not quite close to the end…

Wow. I've never thought it would go that far. To be true, when I began, I just intended to make a short story with short scenes, in which Rhett and Scarlett stayed friends until Rough and Ready, both pining for the other but being idiots about it, until finally they declared themselves. And now… so many things happened, and it is so very far from the original idea. But I like it as well, so very imperfect as it is. First version, though fun in my idea, had but very little attempt at character development and would have had but little space for me to explore all the themes.

Granted, they still are prideful idiots when it comes to the other.

To the anon that sent me brief comments and other pleasantries... (if you are still there checking if it still sucks), I am sorry you do not like it, and even sorrier that you took quite a lot of time to read a story you do not like. Your feelings are legitimate, but I do believe if you are not ready to express them in a constructive way, one that would have at least told me what actually bothers you (the themes? The writing? The characterizations? etc), then it would be better for you and for me to keep them to yourself. There is nothing to learn from that kind of comment.

To everyone else... Thank you. Thank you for still reading that story and supporting me. It means the world to me.

All my love,

Elise

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As a child, Scarlett had been described as a fearless, wild little thing, always up to trouble, or as her mother delicately put "full of life". Indeed, her memory of her younger years seemed in total agreement with this affirmation, as she could not recall a moment when she could abide to sit still without causing a fuss.

It had certainly not been said of her that she was soft, soothing, nor very tactful.

However, the situation, as Scarlett drew closer, deeper into the forest of pines, most certainly needed such qualities, in addition with the fearlessness.

She was not afraid of the woods, no. Only a ninny would be.

No, she was far more afraid of what awaited her, at the end of her mother's cry. Her eyes had gotten used to the lack of light, and if she could not quite see everything, it became easier and easier as she went on.

The moss was soft beneath her feet. She tried to avoid the tiny branches that would hurt them, and betray her presence. It was ridiculous, she knew, however it was all dark and eerie, with that freshness of summer night that here turned her cold and fidgety.

And so terribly silly!

She muttered under her breath. Hopefully, Rhett was not here. He would certainly laugh at her, and she would hate it so!

Goosebumps prickled on her now bare arms. She vigorously tried to shake them out, but they persisted. Her heart kept pounding, the only sound she could hear now, and it innerved her.

"Mother?" she called.

But no reply. She walked on.

"Mother?"

The scent of the trees was sharp and almost made her sneeze. She almost did not hear it.

A sob, faint like that of a little child. She squinted. Her heart froze.

Ellen Robillard O'Hara, who had never fully sat on a chair, never had any loose hair from her chignon, laid prostrated on the floor, and her hair tumbled in thick, messy locks all around her, a miserable mourning veil that seem to draw her closer to the ground, closer to be buried. Her delicate face was turned downcast, pale, oh so very pale like the moon. For a moment, under that light, she seemed to Scarlett one of these faeries from her father's tales, beautiful and lost, but lethal if you drew closer.

Scarlett approached her mother with caution. The tip of her fingers grazed the thin shoulder, and the head lifted, with wide eyes that did not recognize her. Scarlett wheeled back for a moment, her heart pounding with a brief horror, until she finally managed to gather the pieces of her courage back together. Her hand came more forcefully the shoulder, lightly shaking her.

The body started with animal instinct, as if either ready to pounce or to crumble.

"Shhh… It's me, it's Scarlett…"

Her mother blinked, once, twice, seeming finally to notice her.

"Scarlett?"

Scarlett took a step forward and nodded. The words seemed to fail her as she stared at her mother's eyes, so strange, and yet somehow familiar. They gathered at the back of her throat, in a ball of nerves she feared to reveal if she ever opened her mouth now.

She sat on her knees beside her, gathered the thick glory of hair and began to braid, so deep was her need to keep her hands occupied to a task. She hummed, her voice slightly trembling as slowly the knot finally unraveled, and she refrained from expressing her worry in words that could only distress her mother more.

But with what could she attach all that thick black hair? Her brow knitted with chagrin. How could she ever make it right?

"Scarlett?" Her mother repeated, more softly.

She froze and rose. It would have to do. She took her hand in hers, supported her elbow, gently inciting her to lean on her and follow. Her mother's body was cold and frail. She could almost feel the bone of her shoulder, and it somehow broke her heart even more than her cry did.

"Come, Mother dear, come. I'll get you inside."

Ellen Robillard O'Hara nodded with a placidity that wanted to deny her own fragility.

"You are sweet. It should just take one moment…"

But the moment after, she was faltering, distressed as Scarlett had never seen her.

"It is just a moment… a little moment… I will compose myself."

"It's nothing, Mother," Scarlett murmured gently as she attempted to wrap her tighter in the loose shawl, that had fallen all over the dark skirts.

It was not nothing. Her mother was generally the voice of reason, the one to manage everything and everyone in Tara. To Scarlett, if that vision had faded quite considerably, she was still aware of the power of Mrs O'Hara's soft voice.

And if she was in such a state… if she was, then the situation was even worse than she thought.

She had worried about her mother's physical state. It had not come to her she would have to worry about her mental wellbeing.

It is a curse, she found herself thinking. It takes us all!

Her heart pounded with fright.

"Lean on me, mother," She forced herself to keep her voice kind and patient, though her head was drumming with thoughts. "We're going home."

"Home?" Mrs. O'Hara tucked her cold little hands under her daughter's arm, looking at her with confused eyes."But it is so far... So far..."

On and on they went, and all Scarlett could feel was her mother's weight on her, and the bones through the clothes, to the point it seemed she carried Death itself.

She did not know how she managed to get them both home, only that suddenly, part of the weight was lifted from her by a soothing, warm hand and that when her bewildered eyes darted to the culprit, she met Pork's pained brown eyes. She opened her mouth, wanting to say something, anything. Anything was better than this silence.

Hurried, heavy steps stamped the front porch.

"Mrs. O'Hara?" Gerald called, concerned, coming as swiftly to her side as his own portly body could allow him. "Scarlett, what happened to your mother?"

"It is nothing, Mr. O'Hara," Began Ellen, until Scarlett cut her sharply, urgently.

"She needs rest, Pa. Pork and I shall take her to bed."

A vein throbbed on Gerald's brow, his hands clenching uselessly at his sides.

"Yes, yes, do so! Poor Mrs. O'Hara, she's always too good, working to the bone for good-for-nothings! And I shall…" he seemed to ponder at it for a moment, without finding any true idea. the disappointment waved over his body, sucking out his great authority. "Leave her rest then," he looked like a dejected puppy. "Yes, Mrs. O'Hara needs her rest. You know lass, tis me fault. I must have snored and she…"

"Oh, Pa…"

"Well, do go, Puss," He chided. "Your mother needs you."

She hurried as Pork put her mother delicately on the bed. The aristocratic, soft face fell on the side, the skin like wax. She had lost consciousness. He mumbled a few words, and she nodded, having only caught "Mammy" among them. Yes, Mammy would know what to do. She always did. He left, and as it happened, she took no notice of it. Her heart on a grip, Scarlett leaned toward her mother, and with shaking fingers, tried to push back the loose strands. How hollow seemed the cheeks in the candlelight! How thin the skin, as she could almost see the bones ! And the breath... Was she even breathing?

For a moment, she thought her mother was dying. For a moment, all the words she had wanted to say roamed in her mind, all the fears, the powerlessness.

Her mother couldn't die! Not when she, Scarlett, needed answers! Not when they needed to do something!

Brisk, sound steps on the floor. Mammy. She raised her head, alert. Her voice came out hoarse.

"Mammy, please she needs..." Her eyes widened.

Without even any demand, everything had been brought on a platter, the towels, a carafe of wine, and a piece of cake. Her heart filled with gratitude. Mammy always knew what to do. She never disappointed. She always took care of them all...

"Stay with her, chile," Mammy groaned, deeply focused on her task as she unlaced her mistress, swiftly leaving her in her shift. With her efficient touch, she managed so without even disturbing her. "She needs ter feel you by her side. Take her hand."

And that was indeed the only thing she was allowed to do. Mammy would not wait for any attempt at helping. She was already wiping her charge's tender brow, tenderly, as one mother would do to a sick child. Ellen's mouth opened in a small whine. She answered it patiently, lovingly.

"Twill be fine, Miz Ellen, yer Mammy is here. Here, drink it. Will warm yer soul."

She lifted Ellen easily, helping her to drink, then swallow a few mouthfuls of food until she could not. Then, she fluffed up the pillow, and continued to watch over her, as if pondering on what she could do more.

"I'll do it, Mammy," Scarlett finally said. "I can watch over her. Please, let me. I am her daughter."

Mammy stared at her for a long time with suspicious eyes, before giving in.

"Don't you make her worry, miz. She need her rest. Giv' her ros'ry when she ask it, it bring her komfort. Call me fer anythin'. Ah'll come fer her breakfast."

Scarlett nodded and brought the wet cloth back on her mother's brow, gently pressing it. The wildness had disappeared, the nightmare becoming the very fine lady she knew, if only so very fragile, vulnerable. Ellen startled at her touch, moaned, and when her eyes opened, they were for a moment unseeing, feverish. However, they soon closed again, and she murmured her name.

Ellen would wake once or twice again, her body so frail, and needing help to drink and go to the chamber pot, and Scarlett took it upon herself to bring that help. She did not think at all, and surprised herself with the automatic, efficient gestures, learned through many days helping in the hospital when she had thought they did not leave anything on her.

Mammy of course would come sneaking a head at the door despite her saying she would only come for breakfast, attentive, bringing clean water and other useful things. But mostly, she stayed at bay, not because she wanted to, but because as soon as Scarlett had told her she would do it, she left no room for protest.

Now that they were alone, without anyone else to lean on, she found she was raising to the occasion, this time identifying herself what was needed without it even was uttered. Her brow was cool.

So Scarlett continued through the day, by her side.

The light was faltering by the veiled window when her mother finally opened her eyes fully and called her name.

"Scar...lett..." She uttered, before clearing her throat. "please... do stop and sit back, dear. You... look so weary."

Scarlett startled. Her words came as scissors cutting the strings of a puppet. Gone were the reassuring, automatic gestures. Only a restless body and worrying thoughts. Her mouth trembled.

No, not again! She wanted to protest. Not again, this powerlessness! Her head shook.

She fell, kneeling to her mother's bed, took her head and cried on it.

"Oh, Mother! I was so afraid!"

Ellen weakly smiled, from that patient smile that never touched her eyes.

"Scarlett… sweetheart, everything should be alright…"

She would have wanted to believe it. She desperately wanted to believe it.

"Everything will be alright," Ellen continued, gently caressing her cheek. "As it always has…"

No, she knew she would not. She could not.

Blood rushed in her head. She went still, unseeing as the words continued to hit her, then slowly straightened, and her mother's hand fell, unnoticed, on the bed.

"You are a good daughter, Scarlett. I am already much better. You have no cause to worry. Please, give me my rosary."

As she did so, Scarlett examined her, and speculation glinted in her eyes, a speculation that would have terrified Mrs. O'Hara had she seen it. The long, fine fingers seemed like mere bones as they took on the pearls and began to count.

No, everything was not alright. Everything could not be alright. She could not fool herself into thinking so, could not dismiss it as she previously had.

She was now thinking that her mother had been as the roof of Tara, not thought of, but essential for the protection it brought. Her father had been like the furniture, practical and comfortable. But the walls, the ground, they had always been held by the slaves, and without walls and ground, no roof could survive. Without walls and roof, the furniture was left to rot, and so Gerald O'Hara was laying on his own ruins, unable to change, trying to hold a roof he never had to carry.

Mammy… oh, dear Mammy and Pork, they were the hearth of Tara. But even a hearth could break. She had to cherish them while she could.

The house was crumbling. Tara was dying, unkempt and left to starve.

Take your last fill of clay, for it might not hold long once the Yankees get their hands on it...

Yes, there were the Yankees as well, and the Yankees wanted… the Yankees wanted…

She lifted her head, alert.

Rhett had known it would come.

Tara, burning with the Yankees' laughter… no, she could not bear the thought ! And yet… it might happen.

And Tara's people leaving! That , it was still happening…

Her pulse pounded at her temples.

Even thinking it felt like a treason.

Not to mention they could not prove Rhett right. No ! They could not ! Her head shook stubbornly.

If the O'Haras were not slave-owners anymore, then perhaps… perhaps…

she could not end that thought.

Too naïve, too simplistic. It never could happen so.

It could convince Pa, maybe. But not her, could it? Not anymore. She would be stared at with pity, like a poor little fool.

If Mammy and Pork and Dilcey, and the others had to go… no, it had to be for another reason. A nobler, fairer reason.

One that you would not think of for yourself, sneakily added that infuriating little voice in her mind that seemed a little too much like Rhett.

Her eyes hurt from being so focused.

We have to change, she thought with alarm. It cannot be that way! We have to find something! Anything! We cannot do nothing and hide!

Tara was not just a house. It was a home, her home, and if the house had to crumble, so be it! She would build it anew, and with her own hands, if need be!

Yes. But to build again, you have to build on new ground, came the purring voice in her mind. Else, it might rot with all the bad weeds the past left behind.

She nodded absentmindedly. This made sense. These words were ones she could lean on to until it was over.

If her mother could not think it, she had to do it for her. She had to make her see.

"Mother…" Scarlett urged. "We need to do something. Pa is lost. He tries to hide it, but he's lost. He's waiting for you to take command, I know he does !"

"As he has always done, and will continue to do so," Ellen replied.

"But… it can't be like before. Surely, you see…"

"This is our life. We can't let that go," Ellen's voice was calm, too calm. Patient. "These are our people."

"What if they aren't ?" Her daughter persisted. "Mother… how can one own someone without it being wrong ?"

She went still, her slanted eyes shutting for a moment in pain. Then, a familiar shrug raised both her shoulders.

Pierre Robillard's shrug.

"We all are owned by something. Or someone."

Scarlett started.

"It's not like that, and you know it ! Mother…"

"Scarlett, enough."

"It isn't fair…"

"You don't know what is fair and what is not," Ellen's voice rose sharper, higher than her usual soft tones. "Freedom is an illusion. No one is truly free. Would you have us abandoning them ? Do you really think life will be fairer to them if they are free ? Fairer to us ?"

"We can't do nothing. We can't!"", Scarlett insisted, her own anger fueled by that sudden spark. "Letting them go doesn't mean abandoning them. They want to go, Mother. We can't force them to stay. If we can make our way, why can't they ? Why can't Pork, or Mammy, or Dilcey ? And Rosa and Teena and…"

Her voice cracked.

"So many are already gone, Mother, and I… I am so tired. I don't want to question myself, and to realize one day… to realize one day I had been on the wrong side all my life and done nothing to remedy it. I wouldn't be able to live with myself, knowing people stayed with me because they had to, and not because they loved me. There must be a way to solve it. There must!"

She looked, looked until her eyes hurt, trying to find it in herself to be calm and composed, but softly, all fight left her mother's eyes. She tilted her head, away from her daughter's eyes, and she seemed so much like a tired, older woman that Scarlett's heart dropped. There was no hope at all.

" In deo spes mea . That was the devise of my mother's family," Ellen said finally. "In God is my hope. So we shall pray. Pray with me, Scarlett."

And it was to be the end of it.

Scarlett could not let it be. She would not!

"Praying won't stop the war, Mother !" Cried she. "Praying won't save Tara !"

"Don't raise your voice, dear..."

"I'll raise my voice when I'll have to !" She roared, and as she saw her mother stand back, appalled, she forced her voice to be lower, yet firm. "I cannot abide this anymore! No chivalry or honor is worth it all! Mother. Grand-Père said one thing to me once. When the time comes, we act. We survive. And we raise . We are falling, Mother. And them with us. It is not fair. It can't be this way."

Ellen's lids fell over the deep black pools of her eyes, filling them with sadness.

"You've become so hard, daughter…"

She gritted her teeth, until finally she could not hide the truth anymore.

"I've always been hard. I just... never wanted to show you. I am not good, mother. But I wanted to be, for you."

Ellen stared at her daughter, her gaze lost as that of a child.

"I've paid the greatest sacrifice for this life. What am I without it ? It is a chain I cannot break."

Scarlett did not know what to say. She herself had not wanted to think of it.

And if her mother couldn't, what then? What then?

"Scarlett…"

She rose and swiftly left.

If Mother would not do anything… she needed to tell Pa!

She did not even feel her feet as she ran through the rooms, only felt the rush of blood in her veins, the beats of her heart deafening everything, echoing painfully on the too tight walls.

When she arrived at the front door, she was breathless and in disarray. Her cheeks burned with exhaustion. Her hand came to her brow, as she tried to compose herself.

She found him still on the porch, a barely noticeable shadow among those of the columns that held the big house. He was darkness lingering in front the vibrant red of the world, waiting to be burned by the triumphant sun.

She stopped for a moment, catching the flesh of her lower lip between her teeth. The taste of blood hit her tongue. Suddenly, she felt the cold.

So many things to say, but not enough words to say them. But how to even begin?

He beat her to it. With a soft, concerned voice that managed to break her heart again in anticipation.

"Scarlett, how is your mother?"

Could she do that to him?

She took a step forward, for a moment almost timid.

"Resting," Replied she, and just as her mouth finished on the word, it ended in a cry, and she swiftly sat by his side, her skirts furiously whipping the stairs. "Oh, Pa, we need to do something!"

His gray eyebrow went up, alarmed, as his daughter's emotion contaminated him.

"Yes, we should call for the doctor, Mrs. O'Hara will..."

"Not about mother, Pa! About the war!" She took his hands in hers, but failed to entwine them. "Our people are leaving... They are leaving, and we cannot stop them. And perhaps... We should not."

"What do you say?"

She gathered her strength.

"The war isn't ending anytime soon, Rhett was right about that, just like another thing. We're losing, Pa…" She said with a pleading voice, hoping to make him feel the urgency. "… I think it's time to give freedom to our people. Real freedom."

Gerald rose, and his face grew red as the outrage settled.

"Great balls of fire, if I have to hear such a thing from me own daughter… Our people are loyal to us ! We have a duty to them !"

"Those loyal to us will stay, I believe, and help us survive if need be," she added it, but could not find in her heart to believe it truly. Would she stay if she were them? "And those, very precious, will more than deserve what little we could give them," She replied softly.

"That's a heresy !"

"Believe me, Pa. If the Yankees come to Tara, they might have less incentives to hurt us…"

"Nonsense, we'll lick them…"

"Pa ! We are losing Tara!"

"You never own a house, Puss. It is she that owns us."

"it's the end of the world, Pa. It's the end of the South." She raised her voice, and her words were as full of anger as they were of despair. "We have to let go."

Her father's face grew crimson, almost purple.

"No, me lass, ye don't understand ! Ye don't know hunger, don't ye ?. Ye've always been a spoiled lil' lass that listens to no one but herself ! Ye don't know givin' what you made with yer own hands to someone who will spit on ye and trample ye first time they can. Ye don't know the rage of yer Land being taken from yerself…"

"Pa…"

"If ye did, ye would do anythin' to keep it, wouldn't ye ?" He kept thundering. "Ye would lie, steal and kill to keep it, wouldn't ye ?"

"Did you ? Oh, Pa !"

However, she could not help but secretly agree.

He suddenly sighed, and his body suddenly seemed like a puppet with cut ties, slowly faltering down. His proud, booming voice fell into a somber grumble.

"I claim lost things because I know what it is, to feel lost. I bring everything together. Tis what I am. The guardian of Tara, and its folk, am I not ? And now, you tell me everything is falling apart. That I be no master anymore. I can't believe it. I don't ! Do I…Do I…"

He seemed so weary and old it broke her heart again. He fell on the step, defeated, crouched over himself like a child.

"Tis me life, lass. I've built it so, I'll die in it. I'm too old, Puss. I can't change for your sake. I don't want to. Don't make me."

She put a hand on his shoulder.

"I don't think we have the choice."

His head dropped on his knees. The shoulders shook.

"I've lost me home, Puss. I've lost it because the defendin' was on meself, and i killed one darn Englishman who mocked me and my folk. They oppressed us, puss. And somehow, yer words make me think… make me think… it is as now am I the one oppressing people. Ye are putting it on me !

"Of course I am not !" Cried Scarlett in protest, embracing his slumbering figure with the strength of her distress. "No, my darling Pa, I did not mean... That is to say..."

She had not meant it… had she ?

"I can't bear it. I can't," He continued mumbling.

"I can't..." She prevented herself from continuing. No, she had to show strength. If she didn't, it would be even worse. She swallowed her saliva and breathed in. Her nostrils took in the scent of tobacco and leather, so reassuring. "It's alright, Pa," She found herself whispering. "We'll be alright. Look. Look, Pa, it will be alright. Tara is still there. Look up! It will always be Tara."

She relented, cajoled, until finally he yielded. His gaze grew softer as his eyes took more and more of the sight before him, that of Tara and its hills. He sighed deeply and, begrudgingly, he straightened, a little uncomfortable for his moment of sheer vulnerability, then patted awkwardly her knee.

"Tis beautiful, Tara is. Me pride."

She pressed his hand back and stared as well. Her voice was full of tears.

"Yes. Yes, it is."

And it was. The sun was laying on his final rest on the deep, vibrant red clay and it seemed to wait to be buried there, happily, relishing in the embrace of that soil he had watched over during the day, and that now was finally his to rest, his to kiss. He glowed at his fiercest, his last Swan song before giving in to this embrace he had craved for, and the burn of it was like kisses to Scarlett's skin. She sighed. She would never see a sunset so beautiful, she thought. Always, the memory of it was to fill her with longing, to be thus with Pa, the silence between them.

"Pork has scars on his back," she said softly.

"I know."

"You said every man needed to be the master of his own life."

"I did."

"He deserves it, Pa. And I think… I think you know it."

His body swayed as he tried to change his posture, before finally letting his short legs lay in front of him

"Perhaps I do, Do I?, he sighed begrudgingly.

The mockingjay sang its last song for the day, and she could hear it as she waited for him to continue. Yet, his jaw was locked, tight from all the words that threatened to leave his lips.

Were there words of anger, Scarlett thought, they would have already left. No, it could only be...

"You don't want him gone. Is that it?"

He shook his head, his chin trembled.

"I can't make that decision. I can't," A light came to his eyes, eagerness growing back. "Your Mother will know what to do. She always knows what to do."

She bit her lip, her heart dropping.

All was lost. She could do nothing.

They would do nothing.

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Words had the strange tendency to echo in a room until they could not be ignored, and such was the case with Ellen Robillard O'Hara as her daughter left the room in a flurry. They rang and rang, and she could not shake them out, no matter how hard she had wanted to.

There was no avoiding this.

She stared into the room, and it seemed so strange, so unreal. The blankets were disturbingly wrinkled, and as much as she tried to smooth them, they would form once again.

I feel like Sisyphus, she reflected wrily. But now, I can't hold it all. I cannot.

Was it in that room she had slept so many years?

No, not many nights... She had always left for one thing or another, seeking, seeking... Seeking what?

The door opening again made her startle. Mammy welcomed her with a grand, relieved smile, and a platter full of food.

God only knew where she managed to bring all of that. She had always found it a miracle by itself.

As the good woman's head turned, searching, the smile was replaced by a scowl.

"Where is Miz Scarlett? Dat girl..."

"I asked her to go," She replied, trying to maintain some quietness through her voice. "I am much better now."

An angry line formed between Mammy's brows.

"Nah, you ain't better at all. You hasn't been better fer a long time."

It was true. She could not deny it. Not when each move seemed a weary task to make. Her hands clenched on the rosary. She knew each pearl by heart, but each time, there was another scratch, another crease on them. Especially these days. She nodded.

"I admit I have pushed my limits."

A long sigh left Mammy's mouth as she caressed her cheek carefully. The big hand was rough but warm, and almost bigger than her head.

"You iz always so hard on yerself. Me chile, me own chile…"

Ellen smiled. "What should i do without you ?"

"Ye iz gettin' yerself killed. Dat wat you do. Oh, miz Solange, high in da sky ain't happy wit me, dat, ah know. She were always tellin' me, mah dotter need ter be strong. Look how thin you iz ! Ah ain't a good mammy at all…"

"You are the greatest of them all. What have you not sacrificed for us ?"

She bowed her head and took the hand between hers, examining it.

"Sacrifice… yes, you did sacrify everything."

"Ah ain't sacrifyin' anythin'. Ah iz lovin' you all. Dat ain't sacrifice," Mammy narrowed her eyes. "You iz talkin' wit miz Scarlett, ain't you ? She puttin' ideas in yer head… stubborn lak a mule ! Ah done tole her not to talk to you of foolishness lak dat !"

But Ellen could not listen. Instead, there was only this cry, her daughter's cry, haunting her. She drew the deep, used lines on her Mammy's hand, asking herself... asking herself...

"Oh, Mammy... What should I be without you? What should I be…"

A drop of water fell. She looked at it closely, wondering what it could be. Another came. She blinked. Was it...?

"Miz Ellen… you cry."

She froze and lifted her head, dumbfounded.

"Do I ? I haven't cried since…"

Mammy's eyes were moist and warm. Her generous mouth opened in a wide, relieved smile.

"Since youn Mist'Philippe died. Finally you do."

She nodded, feeling the tears raise again.

"So many years. So much pain," She whispered, letting them spill on her cheeks, almost amazed by them. She closed her eyes, and the silence did not seem like an overwhelming blanket. It had a freshness to it she enjoyed. For a moment, there was a deep feeling of peace, of being for once, for a little moment, completely free. She let out a wistful smile. "You feel it, don't you Mammy ?

"What muss Ah feel, honey ? Tell your Mammy what you be needin'. Ah doan lake to see you cry. Not too long. You, so tender. It done break my heart."

Ellen almost chuckled.

"Take my hands, press them, Mammy !" She reached out, eager for a touch, a gentle touch. Her fingers reached out for the other hand, bringing them together, these hands that had raised her, helped her through so much. They were big and warm, with some dry corners, and the roughness that had come from work. "Your hands are so weary, Mammy!"

She kissed them.

"What a long way we walked together, Mammy…"

"Ah can walk still."

"But I can't," she shook her head sadly. "I feel as I've been walking through a dream, and now I am waking up. But my feet are like that of a foal. Do you think I shall fall if I..."

A snort interrupted her musing.

"You ain't never been anythin' but a foal, miz Ellen. A sweet baby foal, raised by wolves. Ain't natural, but tis what it is. Mist' Pierre done worry about you."

"Don't talk to me about that man!" Ellen let out an abrupt cry, and her pale complexion suddenly reddened, her eyes glistening with hatred.

Mammy patted her hand.

"Tis alright, chile. Ain't nothing wrong with bein' angry."

Angry? She stared, bewildered.

"Angry? I suppose I am."

Angry? Oh, yes, she was. Anger... Oh, so red, so hot, boyant in her veins!

Scarlett, she thought suddenly. Scarlett was her anger. Her turbulent child. She had carried it, and her envy as well... BUt this anger, this envy... It had always been her own!

"I loved him, Mammy," She declared, and it felt like deliverance. "I loved him, and he went, without me... And he died. And I was... so sad! And so very angry!"

"Ah know you was, mah lamb. Ah seen you breakin' yerself over him fer so long. But you iz not dead, miz Ellen. 't ain't you dat is buried on de ground. Tis him. Ain't proper ter keep un alive lak dat."

"I know it. But I can't... I didn't know how to do it. I don't know how to let go. And I've brought you, and the others, with me..."

She stared at Mammy. "I wouldn't know how to let you go... And yet... Something must be done. I know it. But I can't… I don't know what to do!"

Mammy looked at her with piercing, measuring eyes.

"Ah think ah know… but no matter what, doan tell miss Scarlett. Dis must not come from me, in her eyes. Dis must come from you, her mudder."

"Else, she would never respect me again, you think?

"No, miss Ellen. Dat not it. Mudders always need to be strong in deir chile's eyes. She needs it. And she need you to tell her twill be alright, she can let go. Ef she kain let go, she never grow. She ain't never be happy."

"Like me, you most certainly think," Ellen sighed. "It is true. I never was happy. I never grew. Not since that day… so many days I woke up, thinking I had just received the letter of his death, only to find out so many years had passed, and I'm… I 'm still alive. I am still alive, and he is not, and this life… this life was never the one I wanted."

"Ah help you. But Ah done also want to shake her, dat minx. Puttin' ideas in yer head lak dat!"

This gave her strength. She was not alone anymore.

"Tell me… what will you do, Mammy?"

The big old woman looked at her with a challenging smile.

"It be up ter me, ain't it? Do ya trust you yer Mammy?"

"I do. Please, tell me what I must do. I am ready to let go."

.

.

.

Sometime in the following evening

Torches had been lit on the porches, and people began to look curiously toward the light, toward the call that had been relied to them of their mistress. A desk had been put on the right side, with a seat waiting. But waiting for what?

Scarlett stood, ill-at-ease, anxious for any move, any indication that would tell her the meaning of this change. She had been called with urgency, just as she was staring dumbly at Wade still sleeping, wondering if she had done him right with everything she did, everything she said. After the first rush of anger, despair had come through, making her reflect on the situation with a gray, clearer view that wasn't to please her, for it highlighted her every fault.

Mother had not gone down to eat during the day. Pa had avoided her eyes.

The way she had talked to her mother... She could not condone it. She had been so hard indeed, so mean-spirited!

Would Wade one day come to her as she did, telling her she was wrong about everything?

No, she could not accept it!

"Scarlett?"

She blinked.

Ellen stood, quiet, by the door, her body straight like a sword, and her eyes strangely a deep opaque. She took a step forward, her heart gripping with apprehension.

"Mother, what is happening?"

She took another step, hesitant. Her knees were slightly shaking.

"Mother, about yesterday... I am s..."

"Scarlett, come with me," Ellen cut with a firmness that made Scarlett swiftly come and follow at her biding, to her mother's office. "This will be quick, however I need you to understand."

They stopped in front of her grandmother's portrait, her slanted eyes glaring at them fiercely, as if she were in front of a foe. Her naked shoulder was up with an audacity and a carelessness that provoked Scarlett's envy.

"Do you know who this is?" Ellen softly asked.

She nodded, awed.

"Well… it's Solange Prudhomme Robillard. Grandmother."

"Oh, she was much more than that."

Scarlett tilted her head, intrigued by the deep nuance in her mother's voice.

"You admired her."

There was sadness in her smile as Ellen looked at her portrait, and a million of memories in her eyes.

"And feared her, a bit. I believe we all did."

"She seems so proud and strong."

"And she was. No one ever expected her to die when she did. We all thought until the end she was punishing us for not loving her better. I can still see her look at us down her long nose, measuring, always expecting us to be better. And we tried to be. But that was not enough. No matter how much we loved her, her heart had always stayed in Haiti, in the land her family's legacy had promised her. She lived with that will, that one day she would go back. But in the end, she had stopped believing it. And she had lost her will to live."

"Grand-Pere…"

"Do not expect a man to know a woman's heart wholly," Ellen cut sharply. "Men tend to expect our heart to be their property, to disregard or to worship. It's either theirs, or another's. He never could understand. And if he had noticed, he certainly thought it an unforgivable betrayal."

She turned hard eyes on Scarlett that made her shiver. Never had her mother ever had such expression in her face! She marveled.

"Our hearts are our own, Scarlett. Never let anyone tell you otherwise, or try to make you feel bad for it. It is human's nature to want to find a shelter. If your life does not offer you solace, your heart is never wrong to want something else. To dream of anything, anyone else. Your dreams are your own. Sometimes they are the only things you own."

Scarlett startled. Her mother looked at her joined hands in a moment of self-reflection.

"There is such an anger in me, indeed… I wasn't aware it was still here after all this time," she murmured, almost to herself.

Somehow, as she saw the fluster in her mother's face, Scarlett felt a relief in her heart, as if suddenly a heavy load was lifted from her. It was a balm to her restlessness and she stared, unused of the feeling.

Ellen Robillard continued.

"We come from a family of hardness and hardships, hidden behind a veil of softness and pride. Our French descent is not vain, for we are the survivors of an important family, from my mother's side, the Prudhomme, who worked for the royalty. Her family was a great representant of them in the colonies, and had finally settled in Haiti, before... Before it all went awry. The Robillards were more recent. Upstart, I would say. My father was a soldier to Napoleon, even as it became a lost cause; but when the time came, part of the family joined together to live freely, damned the consequences. And when I… lost the most important person in my life, I decided that, contrary to them, I would face the consequences, and be the most respectable lady that would tarnish the name of Robillard, for what greater insult to my father and his legacy than to take the name of that newcomer, a former Irish peasant that only amused the likes of Pierre Robillard, but who seemed too low to be a threat. Too low to be a threat? No, I soon realized your father never was. He had a dream, and a will, and that was what I lacked.

"When I left home, I was... but a shell of myself, with the resolution of throwing away everything they've told me, about passion and the strong surviving while the weak fell. I would be exactly what they affect only to be. But now I realize… I just followed their legacy anyway. They built an empire built by the lives of these people, and here I am, in Tara, and these walls are joined by slaves' sweat and blood. You're right, Scarlett. It's time to break the circle, and see what is awaiting. This is the past, and now the future awaits us, and will judge us for what we decide now. I don't want it to be said that Ellen Robillard O'Hara never gave the choice to have a life of their choosing to the people around her."

Scarlett's heart jumped. Did it mean...?

A timid knock on the door interrupted them, making the daughter startle, and the mother raise her head with alertness.

"Mrs. O'Hara, Mammy told me... Mrs. O'Hara… Scarlett's… Scarlett?

Ellen straightened and smiled at him encouragingly.

"Mr. O'Hara, good evening. Have you seen to that the people we still have are all gathered? Has Pork brought the coffer? We do need to talk to them."

His blue eyes grew wide, amazed. He blinked, as if wondering for a moment who she was, until he could not help but give her a look of pure devotion that glowed like the bottom of a dark well.

"They are waiting, Mrs. O'Hara. But what should we do then ?"

My, thought Scarlett. It almost looks like she's the Messiah, and he asks her the road home!

"We'll continue just as I always did. With grace and dignity," She said simply. "Mr. O'Hara. It's time to let our people free."

Gerald O'Hara sighed.

"If it is what ye think is right…" He finally said. "I shall follow you."

And in the faith of these big blue eyes, Scarlett knew that to him, Ellen was a moral compass, and he would be lost without her. A puppet without strings. He had invested so much of himself in her, in that dream, that if any of them was gone, he would have no purpose.

It terrified her.

It was as much terrifying as she could not help but be caught in this back herself. How beautiful she seemed, her mother, as she led the way, how graceful her steps! She followed her.

She would have followed her anywhere.

So deep in her trance, she almost jumped when she felt her father's arm timidly linking with hers, a subtle ask for support.

"She's beautiful, your mother," Pa said, full of pride. Full of love. "She's so strong."

She nodded and stayed with him behind, watching as her mother stood on the porch, her clear voice raising.

"Dear people of Tara. You know me as mistress. I've walked among you as a superior, one supposed to care for you, to guide you. Some of you saw me when I was a child, and followed me. Knowing this, the idea of me being your guardian seems all so very ridiculous. You are my guardians. you cared for me. You cared for my own. It is a debt I shall never be able to repay. But I shall try."

Her shoulders were square, prepared to bear all weight. For a moment, Scarlett reflected that she was their last rampart. However, she was so thin... And suddenly came the idea, the terrible idea...

This was her mother's last stand.

Her faith faltered, her breath catching. But Ellen continued.

"From this day, you are free. We, the O'Hara family, release you from anything that could bind you to us. You will be given money to start a new life, and papers to be able to navigate more easily. If trouble finds your way, call our name, and we shall answer. It is a difficult time we live in. I wish you the very best of luck, no matter what you decide."

For a moment, the crowd stood, silent, numb. Until...

"You think yer a savior, don't you ?" Cried a woman. Scarlett squinted. Was it that Hilda? "Yer not ! It never be enough. dis gwine never be enough".

Scarlett raised, wanting to protest. Of course, it was enough ! It had to be ! What more could be done ?

"No," Ellen said. "You are right. It will never be enough. And as you are the first to protest, you shall be the first to serve yourself."

The woman stared, dumbfounded, before huffing and turning her heels, and this was how Scarlett realized that Pork had settled at the desk, and was studiously dividing the content of a coffer between little leather bags. Hilda took her money, eyeing it suspiciously, counting it, before seeming satisfied with it. Thus she left.

It was gold, Scarlett realized. But whose gold ? Theirs ?

She met her mother's eyes as she went to her level, and found her reply in them, as they shone with a defiance she had never seen before. She shuddered.

One by one, they came and took what was offered. And the crowd fell into groups, into bits that scattered in the darkness silently.

Then Mammy appeared by the steps. Scarlett faltered. The imposing woman looked at her with such betrayal in her eyes!

"Why, mah lamb ? Why ? You do not love yer Mammy ! Ye want her gone ! You get her out ofda street!"

"Oh no, Mammy!" She ran to her.

Quietly, Scarlett took the furious hands that had raised and kissed them. They were warm and big and generous, and it made her spill some tears.

She wrapped her arms around the thick waist.

"I… I do not want you to go," she murmured. "Don't you know it? I do not. But… Will you leave ?"

Mammy's body softened bit by bit. The embrace grew fierce as she pressed Scarlett harder against her. Her eyes shut down so no one could see the tears underneath.

"Ye ain't gettin'rid of yer Mammy lake dat, chile. Did you tink you woud? Ha!"

"Mammy ?"

They both raised their head. Ellen had joined them.

"Miz Ellen…"

The lady's eyes were moist with emotion.

"So… you will stay, won't you ? You will stay, Mammy ?"

Mammy nodded, not releasing Scarlett of her grip.

"Of course, Miz Ellen. Ah kain leave my chilen. Ah ain't stopping carin' fer you all."

And they both were that, Scarlett suddenly thought. Children of that loving, irritable woman who had cared for them since the very beginning.

"Miz Ellen… ye iz crying again."

And there, Scarlett saw the biggest smile she had ever seen on her mother's face, a smile that dug at the cheeks and made the dark eyes sparkle.

"I can't stop," Ellen O'Hara murmured. "It seems I can't, indeed. Mr O'Hara ?"

"Yes ?" He hurried at her side with the look of a puppy.

"Do you have a handkerchief ?"

His nervous fingers hurried through his vest, trying to find anything that could help, and distress began to show on his face as he found none.

"I…"

"Here, Mist' Gerald."

He tripped over his feet to get it to her. She smiled at him and he visibly felt very chivalrous about it, to Scarlett's amusement, until he seemed to remember that it was Pork who had provided the precious fabric. Thus, he turned, sheepishly, taking off his hat.

"Thank you, Pork."

Pork nodded, but did not say anything. Gerald approached, with a shy, nervous smile.

"Pork…" He began. "We've come such a long way, old friend…"

"Yes, Mist' Gerald."

He waved him too widely, too strongly for it to be spontaneous.

"No, no mister between us…" he said feebly. "Does not matter anymore, does it ? Does it, old friend ?"

This seemed like an ask for permission, a hopeful uncertainty glinting in these clear blue eyes. "Here, take this. "

Eyes moistened.

"Mist' Gerald…"

"Oh, just Gerald now, tis proper. Now. Will you take it ?"

"Ah kain…"

But his answer went ignored as Gerald put it in his hands, pressing them together around his watch, pressing once again for good measure until he felt ill-at-ease and put them back, buried in his pocket. His eyes glinted with childish cunnings.

"I ain't no idea what time it is..." he said slyly, with a slightly trembling, weakly berating voice. "Ain't got no watch on me. You tell me what it is ?"

Pork stared for a moment, almost in wonder, before shakily grinning. Tears were drawing folds in his face, just like on her father's. He nodded, first shakily, then with more assurance.

"Yes, ol' friend. Ah will."

"And tomorrow ?"

"Tomorrow as well."

And Gerald O'Hara beamed.

.

.

.

Atlanta, a few days after

As a child, Rhett Butler had always thought the limits of his own body were not quite clear and had thus made it a mission to find them, and when he did, to expand them to fit the great man he was made to be.

Thus had begun a series of at first imprudent but unintentionally so misbehaviors to see how far he could go. He ran, jumped, fought like a lion, was curious of everything, everyone, and to the dismay of everyone, could actually read them like a book, not quite so innocently for a boy his age.

But the limits he found came not from him, but from others.

Then came the first indignation that people tried to curb him and put in in a mold too small for him to fit.

Of course, he resolved not to be trapped in it. No 'lower your tone dear', 'don't be too close', 'be gentle' could sway him.

Thus came the first series of mischiefs and misbehaviors, intentionally done this time.

Needless to say, he had been a terrible hellion.

But all went down when his own honorable father decided enough was enough, and that the little devil he was had to learn the consequences of his actions.

Nevertheless, he was not the one who had been harmed, no. Langston Butler, in all of his cruelty, would not have it said he beat his son. Not to mention it would have been too easy, quite ineffective on Rhett, who had already been led to a corner, been deprived of dinner and good society, and all the good things that made them privileged ones and that he seemed to despise.

Instead, he whipped the little black boy that had been a favorite of his son, and that in a recent act of defiance, he had freed without even having consulted his imminent father.

Whipped before his own eyes, until the little slave could not walk, not talk, and his bright dark skin seemed to have lost all other color than red, red like blood.

He did not remember what had happen after that. Only remained of it the memory of rage and violence that stayed with him, lingering like a scent he could not get rid of.

And now, Scarlett had done it. She had pushed her way to this.

He had known it could come to this point. When she was set on something, she could make her way to it without even thinking what she could destroy. She had run through it with the subtlety of a bull. He could almost admire her for it, if it could not lead to her own ruin.

Foolish woman, He cursed. Foolish, foolish…

Now, he felt sure she would be whipped for it, she and the ones she wanted to save.

He stretched his fingers, then clenched. The skin came out almost pale as he tried to get rid of his unwanted feelings.

This time, the whiplash would not be physical, no. It would be far more insidious.

He did not want her whipped. Not for that kind of thing, that she believed in herself to be right.

Oh, he still believed she needed to learn things the hard way. She could be quite thickheaded and obtuse when she wanted things to go her way. But not like that. Never.

He still remembered the scent of the boy's blood, the terror in his eyes. The anger, the powerlessness were still there, cold but boiling. He could understand. Yes, yes, he could understand.

He needed to take her far away before she destroyed anything else. He would protect her with all he was, if only she could not suffer any of the consequences as he had.

Needless to say, if he needed to lay the blame on Gerald so that they could be safer he would gladly. And , he would do even more. Much, much more.

To what extent, he was still ill at ease to answer. The limits of his love still continued to baffle him., for he could not seem to reach them.

As for Gerald…

After all, he reflected, wasn't it the role of a truly loving parent, to protect their children, even from themselves ?

There, he would truly know the making of Gerald O'Hara.

What greater proof of his love than to bear such a thing ? He thought with bitter irony.

A bitter irony that slowly turned into a feeling of sadness and longing, as he had to admit Gerald loved his daughter, and was most certainly already ready to carry that blame. Or perhaps would he just carry it without a thought, without realizing what may have come to turn the cordial relations into a progressive exclusion.

He was the kind of father that loved his children for who they were.

Not that it would come to that point. He would not let it.

He shrugged, taking a sip from his glass of brandy.

Well, perhaps it was for the best. He had the right incentive to marry her much, much sooner.

The waiting was infernal.

It was even more infernal that he had to bear the cackles of old crows for her sake.

He stared through his lashes, up and down, the thin body of Mrs. Whiting, feeling the spite run high in him. He had the sheer want to offend her, to reveal the greed for gossip that glinted through a veil of fake concern.

But he would not. He could not.

He could only listen to her prattle.

"I've heard… oh, I've heard they did quite a queer thing in Tara. Miss Calvert… i mean, I've heard it said now they freed their darkies and now pay those who stay."

Unbearable busybody.

Fiddle-dee-dee ! He could almost hear her ring to his ear, her voice raised in indignation. Don't they have anything else to do ?

He almost smiled, but quickly covered it with a commiserate expression.

"Oh, yes. So many had already gone. I believe Mr. O'Hara thought he would keep them if he paid them."

Mrs. Whiting opened her mouth in a circle, leaning even more to his space, and this time she could not hide her vivid interest.

He was almost amused by it. She was lapping it up, preparing herself to repeat it, and most likely deform it.

"Oh, truly ? What an idea ! I wondered what went to his head! Well, It is true he is a self made man, she said it as if it was a terrible thing. "But then, having been so close to decent people… one would have thought he knew better."

He hated she was making a hypocrite out of him.

"Poor thing. It was her father, no doubt, had that curious idea, she pried, her eyes eager on uncovering the truth. Surely, she must not have seen it, she so preoccupied with her little boy. And her poor mother ! She must not have been able to stop him !"

He played it. He leaned in, affecting an air of trust.

Ah! As if he trusted the old peahen.

"Oh, but don't say it to Scarlett when she comes back. She and her mother are crestfallen."

That meant also they would have to wait until he could meet Gerald again. The boy would suffer if he did not draw the line.

His son would suffer if he did not draw the line.

His heart gave a painful, uneasy pang as he pondered on this.

"Indeed, now poor Mrs. O'Hara have to deal with the loss of good society !" Cried Mrs. Whiting. "She, such a great lady!"

There, he could not help it.

"Thankfully, she and Scarlett have still some support. I've heard as well Mrs. Tarleton and Mrs. Fontaine, though they had very much berated Mr. O'Hara, still maintained their relationship with them. Isn't it heartening to see how we Southerners have the high values of friendship and loyalty in our heart, don't you agree as well, Mrs. Meade ?"

Mrs. Meade blinked for a moment, confused that she should be so called just as she had only thought to refill her glass. The wrinkles of worries and pain laid still on her brow, as heavy as the black taffetas of her mourning dress. Her eyes travelled from that Rhett Butler who had seemingly in a matter of a few days managed to provide to the hospital where her husband worked so diligently some precious provisions that had begun to be cruelly missed.

No one knew really how he managed it, but if the matter was suspicious enough, one would be foolish to contradict such a man so.

At least, until the young Scarlett came back, certainly more demure for her unfortunate sojourn home, and readier to help them manage this peculiar man.

Certainly so, she forced herself to say stiffly.

He gave Mrs Whiting a wolfish smile. She stared at him, baffled.

"Well, of course…"

"And I am relieved to know that Scarlett and I can still count on your illustrious guidance to keep us all in the right path. Scarlett cannot tell enough about you !"

Mrs. Whiting opened her mouth, closed it, then nodded, her mouth pursed.

Rhett's wide smile twitched for a moment, so tempted he was to sneer and mock this band of hypocrites.

"To the ladies of the South !"

The toast was answered, and he took a sip when he would have wanted to drink the whole glass in one gulp, if only to provoke them, to see how much they would take.

In his hand, he seemed to feel Scarlett's, like that day she had talked to defend him. His brow lowered in pain.

God, he wanted her to come back, at his side. He wanted his little friend.

It would not be this year then, or the other, when he would come back to Tara.

Anyway, he had not intended to go to Tara then, not until he was sure to show to Gerald how happy he made his daughter. He would not bear his look otherwise. He could still remember how he had been refused, how he said Rhett was not good for his daughter as he was.

Oh, the irony of being thus dismissed, when his own father would have dismissed the match, seeing it as a degradation due to Gerald's roots !

There was a certain anger in the reminiscence, a strong feeling of injustice, though he supposed his words had not been one to reassure a father. He should have known Gerald would not understand them. He still could not fathom how he could have lost control so, and not have the foresight to see it.

To be thwarted so, and by his own scruples ! He was cleverer than this. He should have been cleverer than this. It would have solved many problems.

You do run on! As if you would have wanted it to be easy !

No, indeed, he smiled begrudgingly.

At least, this stunt of hers gave him the incentive to marry her more quickly, if only to protect her and the boy from the scandals the busybodies of the South would cause and that would taint her family's reputation. She had acted rashly, without thinking of the long-term consequences.

Ah, Scarlett, hadn't he taught her better ?

He doubted the very few teachings he had tried to instill in her had actually left more than a veneer on that sharp little mind of hers. The irony was not lost on him that perhaps had she mostly learned from him things he had not wanted to teach her, while forgetting what he wanted her to use.

His Scarlett… always rushing without thinking, and still so very naïve. He imagined the mechanisms of her mind turning, thinking that she had removed the heart of the matter as to her the war had been declared for the slaves. She did not consider the emotional, illogical part of the human mind, that could destroy anything that was even remotely linked to the enemy that had been declared.

Southerners would pay, and pay dearly.

No doubt Gerald could not have stopped Scarlett even if he wanted to. She could bully him into anything she had her mind onto.

He could not help but smile begrudgingly. Bah, they had time and luckily for her, he was there. It might even give her even more incentive to lean on him.

He straightened, pushing back his plastron, smoothing the very few wrinkles that had formed as he was sitting. The coal of his eyes glistened with a lingering, persistent ember.

Had she received the dress ? Had her heart be softened as her vanity soothed ?

He could see her, leaning over the box like a curious little cat, her little feet stomping with excitation on the ground and her hands nervous with the need to pull the ribbon until it unknotted. to open it and reveal the treasure inside.

He knew she would be exquisite in this, knew she would see it as well. The perspective would darken her pale eyes to the most precious of emeralds. He wanted to see the her try swirling in it, to see her head slightly tilted in that way that made her créoles sway, adding a spark to the already delightful green. And then a dimple appearing on her chin, a little satisfied laugh over her beauty. She would open her arms to him and…

Or maybe did she intend on punishing him still, unaware she would punish herself as well.

She could not be angry all her life, he reasoned. Her jealousy pleased him, he was honest with himself. He intended someday to take advantage of it, most certainly. But from the previous events, he guessed teasing her about it would only feed the fuel further, and, as enjoyable as raising the fire of her wrath was, it would not serve him now. Later.

He could offer her gifts for all of that anger.

Black silk for the few strands of bright straight hair that rebelliously seemed to try to escape her net when she was enraged.

Ruby for her red, mutinous lips that pursed when dismayed.

Emeralds for the glare in her eyes.

Sapphires for the blue vein trembling under the thin skin of her throat.

The purest of diamonds for her smile, when she would finally give it to him.

And when she would finally admit her love… oh, what wouldn't he give her ? To hear these precious words, to see it in her eyes, in her smile. What wouldn't he do ?

It was a sweet fantasy, one where he was in control and he could easily sway her. But he was a fool if he thought he was in control of everything when it came to her.

It was all a foreplay, a game of anticipation, of patience. A cat spying on a mouse, waiting for her to leave her hole.

He clung to the memory of when he had held her in his arms and she had been his.

Her eyes had so many shades, he had learned, depending on her feelings.

Emeralds when she was angry or full with want. Absinth when she was triumphant. When she was at rest, they were the pale green of the balm that his Mammy used to put on his wounds as a boy.

And there was once, this time, when she had looked at him with a smile, and another shade that still stayed with him till this day. A look of utter devotion, as if she had been laying her heart on the floor for him. A vibrant shade of green, the kind he had once seen on sea, that peculiar green that can come when you are close to land, close to home, and finally you say : I am back ! I am back !

He supposed they would have that same shade when she declared her love.

It was love, or at least a bud of love, and he should have seen it. He shouldn't have left it in a ball of cotton to lay neglected like weed.

It was love, and it had been left to rot.

He would have liked to be confident. However, he knew until the deed was done, written and signed, nothing was certain.

He could not trust her. Not after everything that had happened. Not without the insurance she loved him and intended to be loyal to him. But he could not live without her even.

Perhaps he should not have let her go to Tara. Perhaps he should have worked harder to persuade her, to appease her fury…

Well, what was done was done.

A pang of sudden loneliness tugged at the strings of his black sheep's heart. A call for skin, for understanding, a haven to find after this whole farce. He wanted her arms around his neck, her cheek against his cheek. He wanted to lose himself in the scent and the welcoming softness of her hair. He wanted her to find comfort in his arms, to smooth the worried wrinkles on her brow. He wanted her full-blown laughter, the one she could not help and she was ashamed of, for she had always thought it was improper to laugh with such a high tune and a tendency to snort. He wanted her to hide her shame, her face on his chest, while he told her to him it was the most endearing thing he had ever heard. He wanted to tease her out of her dismay, and kiss her again. Lord knew she was meant to be kissed, and often.

God, how he wanted her. How he missed her. How infernal the wait. The last days. Hours. Minutes.

Absence made the heart fonder, they said. Absence made him madder. Absence scratched raw on his veins, his bones, filling him with restlessness.

Soon, very soon, he would see her angry little face again and kiss it. He would feel her little claws on his chest, scratching while she would press her lips on his more urgently, stand on her toes to make the kiss last longer. His greedy little woman, that was unable to refuse any pleasure once she had her nose on it.

He would not lay his heart at her little feet, lest she would trample it. He would wait for that moment to come again, when she would impetuously come to him, look at him with these fevered eyes, and say these precious words he wanted to hear.

He would kiss her little heart then, kiss it until she felt faint. He would kiss her eyes as well, these eyes filled to the brim with love and passion. This was the water in which these curious little fishes, the sparks of her mind, would look up at him again in understanding and trust. Then he would know she was his entirely.

For now, these little fishes were wary, perhaps afraid of the cat that was watching them so intently. He could wait. He had always enjoyed fishing anyway. It required a lot of patience, and strength, but he had it in large amount.

She must be tired now, his heart. He thought. Perhaps feeling relieved and a little satisfied with herself for having found a way out. But not for long. He knew she would soon be criticized for it.

Could she lean on the people around her ? Would she allow it ? She tended to be very stubborn when it came to demanding help.

And she needed him. She just needed to accept it.

And, in time, he would make her regret the words she had said about love, words he had once thought for himself, but in her lips presented a challenge he could not resist.

His assurance had come back as soon as he realized what advantage he could have in this new development.

Self pity was beneath him. He was a man of action and cunnings.

But how could he compromise with her without losing face ?

No, he could not. Half measures would be lost on her, she would want entire victory.

Life would be unbearable if she had it.

How could he make her accept his way was the only way ?

It was quite game of fools they were playing at .

His eyes lit up, the corner of his mouth twitching.

.

.

.

Tara, by the end of the week.

There is still some money left," Ellen said under her breath as she counted the rest and gathered them in a bag. "Scarlett, you shall bring it to the hospital in Atlanta. At least we will know it will arrive in the good hands. Who knows where the money for soldiers is going, these days, truly? Often to self-serving people."

Her eyes darted to Scarlett.

"Don't let your betrothed take it."

She took it, but could not help but reply through gritted teeth.

"Rhett already has enough money. I doubt he will be interested in this one."

"People like him take whatever they can."

Just as I do, Scarlett could not help but add in her mind. But that, Mother, you will never truly accept it.

They stared at one another.

This had come so swiftly. The letter had arrived the day before, demanding Scarlett to come back to Atlanta, for an advancement of the wedding date. They had been settled on the parlor, a moment of peace after the storm of their neighbors' reactions.

Needless to say, it had been quickly broken.

"But… but… it is far too soon!" Her mother had cried.

"I dare say it had not come soon enough," Gerald replied wryly to it. "Bring him home, lass."

Scarlett had shaken her head, protesting she could not leave. Not now. But Gerald had relented.

'You must leave. Especially now.' had been his words. She had tried to turn to her mother.

"I must agree with your father," Had replied Ellen, as she regained composure. "He is forcing our hands, but we cannot afford to oppose him. Think of your child, Scarlett. You are the guardian of his reputation, of his future."

There, Scarlett's sense of faults had risen, making her sputter quite distraughtly. However, her mother had cut quickly right through it.

"No, Scarlett," She had said. "Do not be presumptuous enough to think you made it all on your own. You could have pushed us in so many ways, but still it wouldn't have worked had we not seen any sense of it. We are your parents. It is our place to protect you, even from yourself. I may dislike your fiancé, but being with him might be the only way to preserve you. You need to go to him. Go to him and remember. A parent's love is unconditional. On that, you can be sure. And I'm… sorry I could not show it to you more."

This was distressing by itself, but the following had been even worst when his father asked her to follow her to his own office.

He had stood before her, examining her with what seemed like regret, and she had felt her heart shatter again.

"Daughter, I believe I must be true to you," He said.

"What is it, Pa?" She answered. What could be more? "You worry me."

"You could have been married far sooner, the lad and you. Oh, I knew as soon as you grew up to be a fine woman that no other man would do for you, but him. It was as clear as day. You need a strong man, one that would not be fooled by your pretty smiles. One that can stand up to you. Only then you would stop running."

"What are you saying?" She protested. "I'm not running!"

"You are, Puss. You've always been. But tis a tiresome thing to run all your life, and he does it to. Like marries like. I've watched you both, and I thought… I thought… there could not be another way. At least, that's what I thought."

He sighed, weary.

"But Rhett… as much as he and you are alike… there's something not quite right with him. And I should have known… when he said he would marry you…"

"He did?" She raised her head swiftly. "When? When?"

He sent her a glare and went to his wardrobe, from which he retrieved a box made of dark mahogany.

Scarlett went still. Pa's pistol was in there. Or was it?

"Stop fussing, lass, I'm telling you! He said so when you dishonored yourself…in my own cotton house, for God's sake!"

"Pa… if he did… then why…"

"He made me angry," He said, and gestured towards the box, that he opened before her eyes. "I wanted to give it to him when he asked for your hand, lass. Family heirloom, you know. But... He said all that nonsense about you loving another, and still… doing what you did, as if you were one to give yourself like that, out of blessed wedlock. and I hadn't taught you better! As if you were no better than a whore, to give yourself to anyone!"

"Pa…"

"Can you forgive me?"

"Forgive you? You defended my honor, Pa. "

"Well," he replied sheepishly, before reddening in remembrance. "And then he said Tara was just a farm! A farm!"

Her eyes narrowed as she studied her father.

"Pa… you're more vexed about Rhett calling Tara a farm than him doubting me, aren't you?"

He grew embarassed.

"You know the truth, and he should know too, if he's marrying you. But Tara, a farm? Me beautiful land? How could he?"

"Me beautiful land…" he bowed his head in sorrow, clenching on his pistol's box.

"Forgive me, Pa." She said again

He stared at her and shrugged.

"Well, tis what it is. Cannot be helped. The young always destroys what the old makes. But you… I could have had you married far sooner… I made him go, lass. I made him go, when he was so distraught he talked nonsense about everything, yet wanted to marry you anyway. And he wanted to take you to England… you can't go to England, lass, that's a heresy! I haven't left my the land of my father for me own daughter to go to the enemy!"

He sighed heavily.

"But you would have been married. You would have been happy. The boy would have his father's name."

For some moments, she had pondered on this, wondering what it could have changed, until it all seemed pointless.

"Pa… how long have you been thinking this?"

"From the day you came and said you would marry the young Hamilton. Tis me fault, I know, but as fate has it…"

"Oh, Pa, you should truly stop!" She urged. "Had Rhett truly wanted to marry me at that moment, he would have stayed."

"Not he, lass. His pride would have prevented him. "

"Well, it is not use, Pa!" She relented. "The past is gone, we can't change it. I don't want to think about it!"

"Oh, but the lad… he would have had his real father's name."

She froze, tried to talk, then bowed her head in defeat. What could she say to that?

Even now, as she was reflecting on it, she could not find the words.

"I knew it from the beginning, and with you loving the boy so much… it couldn't have been another man's son. I drove the father away and allowed you to marry another. I shouldn't have done that, and with you so foolish with his loss. I should have pursued him, dragged him back. But… tis my pride he hurt, lass, and I couldn't…"

She shook her head.

"Pa, you couldn't have done anything. When Rhett goes, he doesn't come back unless it suits him. And he knew you. Had he really wanted to marry me that day, he would never have talked to you like that. He wanted out, Pa, and he knew every little thing that would make you give up on him."

"I'm not quite sure. To be honest with you, Puss, now that I remember it, I think he wanted me to scream at him."

What an idea! she had thought. Rhett, wanting to be berated? Ha!

"Now, that's foolish."

"I don't think so. Tis a man that comes and goes, lass. I think he wants someone to urge him to stay. Even when he's at his worst."

She had raised her head questioningly.

"I don't understand."

"Now, you don't. You've never been forced out of your home. You've never thought one could drive you away. You've never asked yourself how far you could go. That's the difference between you, daughter."

Her hands still pained her with all the strength she had closed them that day.

"No, I have not. But I know the pain of staying behind. "

She remembered the loneliness of waking up after finally feeling so incredibly happy and complete. She remembered the touch of cotton balls on her skin, and the way it made her long for a warmer embrace. She remembered long caresses, half worded promises, and the discovery of a man she had claimed, and could not feel shame about it.

He had left her alone that day, and it was his fault. Had he cared about her at all, he would have stayed. She wouldn't have needed to ask.

So deep had she been lost in her thoughts that she had almost not noticed the wistful stare on the gun.

"Sometimes… I do have strange thoughts…"

To this day, she was glad to have been quick then, to have taken the box from him, gathered it to her chest.

She still remembered his sheepish look.

"Yes, you are right. You should take it from me," he said, and she realized he was lucid, awfully too lucid. "And you will give it to him. Then he'll know he's forgiven. But also that if he does anything I will shoot him for good this time. I know you are still angry with him. I'd be a fool not to know. Don't fool yourself to think is for my sake…"

She had replied with outrage, then.

"But he's hurt you as well!"

His eyes were hard as they darted toward her. You owe me, they said. You have to do this.

"And if I forgive him for that, you have to as well."

"He's got a mistress !" She relented, her eyes darkening with jealousy.

"God's nightgown, Puss! A man has to satisfy his needs, and he has no wife," He looked at her with shrewd eyes. "I'm sure you can make it so he doesn't do it anymore if you put enough will to it."

"Put enough will?! He can't be trusted !"

"Can you ? I love you, Puss, but you can be quite the wild card yourself. Let him come home, Puss…

"I've asked him…"

"But perhaps if you said you wanted him there." He persisted.

"He doesn't care about what I want," She retorted. "Great balls of fire, it's not my fault ! Why must it always be my fault ! If he wanted to come, he would come ! Nothing would stop him! What about me, Pa ? What about me ?"

"You've always known how to come home. Methinks even with a deep mist around the house, you would still find it. I don't think he knows. There's a loneliness in him, Puss, and so much pride… He needs us."

"You're talking as if he is your son."

A long sigh took over his body, frm his chest to his mouth. The blue grew sad, tainted with gray.

"And somehow it is as if it was. A son that should come home to his worried Pa. He may dismiss the idea, laugh all he wants, 'tis too late, foolish boy. He belonged to us the moment you brought him home, and you as small as three apples. I have claimed him, I want him back."

"Why don't he come ?" He said again, like a dejected child.

Her head bowed with defeat.

"I don't know, Pa… i'm sorry."

"I want him to come."

"I know."

"I love him. Methinks he doesn't believe he can be truly loved, and he's causing all of this mayhem to prove it. But deep down, he's in pain, and he's lost. Tis my son, and he needs me. He needs us. You have to make him come."

These words would haunt her for a long time.

"Stop, stop !" Had protested Scarlett then, a last attempt at resistance. "I can't do it!"

"I cannot do it. You have to do it."

"Rhett is a man. He doesn't need anyone, and can manage anything on his own ! He's not some weak boy, full of silly ideas!"

He conceded.

"No, he's not. He's a man. But even the most cunning and bravest of men can have his fears. But we are men. We can't afford to cry and talk about it. We have to be strong, invulnerable and powerful. Tis the world that wants it. You should know this, as you be his wife soon."

Scarlett opened her mouth, then decided otherwise. She doubted it would be taken well that she admitted that as much as she loved her father, she never saw him quite as powerful and invulnerable as he described. It was only her own dismay that wanted to crush that little fantasy of his.

"You both are alike in your ways. So willful, so full of cunnings. But he knows how to bluff. You do not. Yet you can learn to know when he is and help him. Tis a woman's work."

"Why should it be my work to guess what he is thinking and help him, when he will certainly laugh at me for trying ?"

A guffaw came out of his lips, and for a moment, he almost seemed merry.

"Know this, lass, from an old poker player. If he's laughing at you, it means you're too close to his hide for his taste. There, you will have it, your win."

She had kept her mouth shut. It all raised and raised in her until she could not hold it anymore.

First one sob. Then a torrent of tears that made her head bow to her hands like a little girl.

"Well he has been too close to mine !" She had cried before covering her face. "I can't let him! I can't, I can't!"

Gerald at her side had looked at her in dismay, his body swaying in the uneasiness of seeing his daughter cry. He patted awkwardly her shoulder, and she came to his arms like a little girl, crying so very painfully on his chest so he could feel all the things she had born, the heavy burden she had imposed on herself.

"There, there. You put up a fight for the wrong reasons. You say you won't try, but I know you, lass. You love him and you want to everything of him. Even his bad ways, that make you cry. You want him all for yourself and he's putting up a fight as well, and you don't like it. But i know when the time comes, you will do everything to please him. I know you. You are braver than him, lass. I know you can bring him back."

She shook her head, but he did not seem to listen.

"I'll shoulder all the blame on that, and even more, if only the both of you could be happy and 've always been a turbulent child. I should have known it could come to things that would force me to do something. But that's alright. And don't protest, Scarlett ! You owe me this !"

After the outburst, his whole body relaxed, as it always did. Gerald had always been easy to anger, and easy to calm. He sighed, and sent her a tentative smile.

"I'll always welcome me children home. Even Suellen, when she finally makes her mind about it. That's how good of a Pa I am. Promise me, Puss. Promise me you'll bring him home when you can. Whether it is tomorrow or in ten years."

She had promised then. This seemed enough. He seemed to breathe easier. The tears in his eyes did not seem of pain then, but of relief. He thanked her and kissed her on the brow and took her into his arms, and she felt like a little girl again.

The next morning, she was thus led solemnly out of the house, linked arms to arms with her mother, perhaps the longest she ever was. Waves of lemon verbena tickled her nose, but instead of invigorating her, they brought a sense of nostalgia of something that had made her world without she knowing, but was now fading before her eyes. She tried to hold on to it, but already its substance escaped her grip, and she was left staring at her mother's placid face, waiting for a meaning that may never come.

And now, here she was.

After the money was given to her, she counted the lashes around her mother's slanted eyes, so still, never once blinking at that moment. She beckoned her to look at her, to tell her everything would be alright. But when they turned to her, she could only see in them the sadness of saying farewell to one beloved daughter.

"Goodbye, daughter. Take a great care of Carreen. She is so delicate."

"We'll see each other again," Scarlett tried to say with an assured voice. Her mother looked at her with her tranquil sadness, and it filled her with a terrible doubt she could not help but utter. Her voice cracked a little. "Won't we ?"

"Perhaps. But you will be someone else. You will be Mrs. Butler."

Something in Scarlett's heart died a little bit as she heard these words.

Ellen O'Hara kissed Scarlett's brow.

"Don't let him destroy you," she whispered. "Protect your heart, Scarlett. Guard it fiercely."

"I do. I know it."

She looked at her daughter with sharp eyes.

"Do you, really ? I do not question your strength. Nor your hardness. But for the matter of your own heart… i do believe you are your worst enemy."

"I shall follow with your example then," she quipped.

Ellen nodded.

"You are vexed. But i know you will see it. You have Robillard's blood. Our love is hard, tempestuous, and roots deep. But we can survive it," -she took her in her arms.- "I will survive it. And so will you. I love you, Scarlett. Never doubt it. "

Scarlett melted.

"And I you."

She climbed then to the carriage, Wade by her side, playing quietly with tin soldiers.

Go and come back a woman, he had said… well, she felt certainly a bit different than the Scarlett that left for Tara. A little bit uprooted perhaps, a little more out of childhood, à little more unsure. But she had been a woman then, and was still à woman now. He could not dictate to her what à woman was and what she was not. The presumption hit her even more now that she believed he would think she had been very foolish and had bullied her way on a whim. She doubted he would ever believe whatever she had done, she had done it because she had thought it right, and that others had believed it right as well.

There was a touch of unfinished business in her heart as she stepped into the carriage, and it frustrated Scarlett to no end. She felt she was being sent away, when she should have stayed and helped them. Certainly, they needed her !

Did they ? She faltered. The truth was that she felt she had lost one purpose, without being sure it would be carried out, and she could not control it. She felt as if each time she had left Tara, she had taken strength from it, and now, for this once, it had taken something from her. She did not quite know what it was, but the loss was here like a wound gaping.

She looked once again at Tara, at its waving people, and for a moment, they seemed like strangers.

She looked, and the sight seemed so beautiful, like peace before à storm. Nothing would come back as before. Her youth would never come back. However, somehow, it felt like the order of things, as if she had needed it to be able to finally see it all. All the shades she could not see before. All the beauty and all the ugliness of the world.

Grand-Père had said she had to choose between her parents's home and building one with Rhett. However, she felt, with the words of her mother and father still ringing in her mind, as if the choice had been taken from her, the borders clearly put to draw her away now. She was in an in-between, and it was deeply uncomfortable.

A slight trembling came over her body. She was suddenly tired, terribly sad, and incredibly old. She wanted to be held, to be told that everything would be alright. She wanted soft kisses in her hair, and warmth. Someone to lean on. Someone to build a home with, that would put his arms around her body. She felt so out of it, these days… she wanted, no, no, needed, something to anchor her.

She did not even know what it would be, to live with Rhett. She had known the ease, she had known the pain. However he had always been a figure going in and out of her life, and to think they would soon be married…

It was so easy for others to say she had to build a home with him! But the truth was that she did not even know if it was possible, with such a man! He always did as he wanted! If he had been different…

If he had been different, she would not have loved him.

Wade yawned at her side, and her worry was subdued for a moment. She smiled and tucked him closer to her, and he leaned in, his little fist closing around the fabric of her skirt.

"So, my world, my precious," she murmured to him. "What do you think we shall find ?"

He did not reply, and how could he ? The little treasure was already sleeping, mouth agape. She caressed his cheek and sighed.

From Charybdis to Scylla… turning away from one, not daring to face the other. Always running. How poetic But you don't care for greek myths, don't you, my dear ? The reference came, drawling with a Charlestonian accent. She shivered and squared her shoulders. Her eyes grew sharp, and hard.

She was on her way to Rhett. She could not afford to question herself now.

.

.

The moment when Rhett's mouth is twitching is when you should say : « Rhett… no. »

Well, unfortunately… Rhett yes !

And here is a little snippet of next chapter :)

.

She tried to examine him through her cards. Had he a good hand ? Was he bluffing ? Was he just messing with her, like always ?

What was his plan ?

One thing was clear: she could not trust him.

"I take it you are enjoying the view, my dear," he drawled, and when she stared into his eyes, she could finally see something more than his usual smooth, blank expression.

He seemed very much satisfied with himself.

She could not lose ! She would not !