A/N: Some crass language and disturbing themes in this one, folks. The story's rated T for a reason, and this chapter probably falls on the high side of that rating.

"With memory set smarting like a reopened wound, a man's past is not simply a dead history, an outworn preparation of the present: it is not a repented error shaken loose from the life: it is a still quivering part of himself, bringing shudders and bitter flavors and the tinglings of a merited shame." ― George Eliot

Friday, June 5th, 1885

Cobb County, Georgia

Morning had broken like a fever – stifling, stagnant, the moist heat undisturbed by even the faintest breath of wind. By midday, shimmering waves rose from the sun-baked earth, blearing the line between land and sky. Christine had spent the afternoon slumped lifelessly in an old rocking chair, watching the horizon until her head swam from the effort. Beside her, a sweating glass of sweet tea dripped onto the wicker tabletop. In moments when the heat grew unbearable, she would allow herself a measured sip, and then smear the condensation across her neck and brow.

She barely had the energy to turn her head when the telltale crunch of tired little boots dragged up the dirt drive. It was all she could do to force a thin, strained smile when the screen door clattered open to reveal her eight year old son. Gustave's dark curls were matted with sweat, and he breathed heavily through open, parched lips. The moment he stepped inside, he immediately kicked off his Oxfords and sweat-soaked stockings, discarding them haphazardly in the middle of the doorway.

"Maman," he whined, dropping his satchel onto the pile with a thud. "Il fait trop chaud."

"In English, dear," Christine corrected him mechanically.

With a groan, the little boy staggered over to her and dropped to the floor at her feet, arms and legs sprawled out like an overheated cat. "It is too hot," he amended.

"D'accord," she said, not even noticing her own slip. "How was school?"

"Fine."

"What did you learn?"

"Nothing."

Her brow furrowed. "Is it difficult to understand the instructor?"

"No," he lied unconvincingly. Before she could open her mouth to investigate further, Gustave propped himself up on one elbow, stretching out a hand toward her iced tea. "Puis-je boire une petite gorgée?"

Too weary to insist that he repeat himself in English – particularly when she was not certain of the correct phrase herself – she simply nodded. Gustave crawled to his feet at once; of course, rather than taking only "une petite gorgée," the child drained the entire glass.

"Oups, désolé," he said with a lopsided grin, already backpedaling toward the kitchen. "I will fetch you one more other to drink."

A few moments later she heard the clink of the glass against the countertop, the patter of bare feet across the kitchen floor, and the muffled scrape of the lid to the ceramic cookie jar. When Gustave re-emerged from the kitchen empty-handed, he bore a remarkably innocent expression, despite the incriminating crumbs that clung to the corners of his mouth.

Christine eyed him knowingly for a moment, but only chose to comment mildly, "It seems you forgot my tea, mon cœur."

"Oh." Her son at least had the good grace to blush before he toppled forward, dragging his feet for the first few steps and then prancing into a jog to catch up with the momentum of his top half.

As an afterthought, Christine called after him, "And please don't forget to move your things out of the doorway. Someone could trip."

"I will," her boy called from the kitchen. The cookie jar scraped open again, and Christine gave a small shake of her head, caught somewhere between amusement and exasperation. Such a mischievous little imp! He was certainly his father's son…

Her eyes closed painfully on the thought, smothering it before it could take root.

Thankfully, a much-needed distraction arrived in the form of a second, heavier pair of footfalls lurching toward the house. Gathering what little energy the heat hadn't sapped from her, Christine pushed herself to her feet. She smoothed a few errant curls back from her face in a halfhearted attempt at making herself presentable, and folded her hands in front of her, waiting.

The overwhelming stench of liquor reached her about five seconds before the screen door creaked open a second time. There was no time to think, no time to call out a warning –

There were a few staggering steps, and then a resounding THUD as her husband hit the wood floor, hard. There was a moment's pause, a beat of terrible silence, and then…

"GOD DAMNIT!" Walter bellowed, pounding a fist into the ground with enough force to shake the house. "I'll SKIN that son of a bitch!"

Every muscle in Christine's body clenched instinctively as she took a step back, shrinking against the wall. Terror gripped her ribcage like a vise, tightening, crushing, while her heart pounded frantically against it.

"BOY, YOU'D BETTER RACE YOUR SORRY HIDE INTO THIS ROOM SO FAST—"

She heard a whimper from the kitchen. The quiet padding of bare feet drew closer, and she felt, rather than saw, her little boy come to stand in the doorway beside her. Across the room, Walter staggered drunkenly to his feet, and wheeled to face the child – chest heaving, nostrils flared, the veins in his neck purple and throbbing. His bloodshot eyes never left Gustave's face as he pointed a thick, trembling finger at the pile on the floor.

"Did I," he panted, "Or did I NOT tell you never to leave your belongings in the doorway again?"

Gustave's voice was barely a whisper. "Yes, sir."

"I didn't HEAR YOU."

"Yes, sir."

"Then would you like to explain to me WHY I just near knocked my goddamned teeth out falling over your shoes?"

"I was going to move them, I just—"

"Just WHAT? Had to stuff your face first? Don't think I don't know that you were stealing sweets before dinner again! I can see the crumbs on your face from clear across the room."

Gustave's breathing began to shake with the threat of tears. "I…"

"What, you gonna LIE to me now, boy? Well, come on, then! Try me! Just you fuckin' try me!"

The little boy swallowed hard, and took a daring step forward, raising his chin defiantly. "I don't have to listen to you!" he cried. "You are not my father!"

Christine looked away, feeling her heart hemorrhage into her chest. Oh, yes. God help him, he was Raoul de Chagny's son, through and through.

Walter crossed the room in four great strides that rattled the windows in their frames, closing in on the child with all the fury and power of a charging bull. One massive hand clamped around the base of Gustave's neck, forcing the boy to look him dead in the eyes. "We'll see about that," he hissed, spitting venom with each word.

Christine slumped against the wall as her husband marched the boy out through the screen door and across the yard. Drop by drop, she felt her blood turn to lead. She sank beneath the weight of it, sliding down to the floor.

She didn't watch as Walter tied her son to the decaying wooden post that had formerly been reserved for the plantation's disobedient slaves.

She didn't hear the whip slice through the air and catch on her little boy's spine.

She didn't see the lash break open the freshly-healed scars, cutting through nerves, muscle, and tendon.

Instead, she rocked gently on her heels, humming an old Swedish folk melody. Lost behind vacant brown eyes, she drifted away to the shores of Perros-Guirec, following the flash of a red scarf out into the rolling waves. There was no pain there… no helpless child shrieking desperately for her as his blood splattered the sun-scorched earth.

"Maman, help me! MAMAN!"

Thursday, April 11th, 1912

RMS TITANIC

Christine woke with the taste of ash in her mouth. She flung the sweat-soaked sheets off of her and reached the wash basin just as the acidic remnants of supper surged up into her throat. Clutching the rim with white fingers, she retched until she was empty, cramped and shaking. When there was nothing left, she groped her way over to the vanity chair and collapsed into it.

For a long while she stared at her reflection, studying the cold, hollow creature that gazed back at her. In the dim light, her eyes were almost black. Was that what he had seen – the frantic little child who had turned to his mother for help? Those soulless black eyes, indifferent to his suffering – watching, but never seeing?

She cupped her face in her hands, but the image was burned into her mind, unyielding even in darkness.

Superimposed on the memory of her little boy, she heard the echo of the spiteful young man she'd encountered earlier that evening. The moment he laid eyes on her, every fiber of his being had seemed to shudder with righteous hatred. Christine knew that the biting cynicism, the unbridled fury had been intended to hurt her – instead, it had done just the opposite, flooding her with unspeakable relief. After all he'd endured, Gustave could still feel. Another year in Georgia, and she knew he would not have been so lucky. The one flicker of hope that had sustained her over the years was that by sending him away, she might have saved what little was left of the child she loved. And now, it seemed that hope had not been entirely in vain.

She laid her cheek against the vanity's polished wood surface, and sent a silent prayer of thanks to the God that had scorned her long ago.

A/N: So, finally a bit of explanation to reward your patience. Not a very happy one, alas…