Disclaimer: I do not own Titanic, characters, places, etc. All rights belong to James Cameron, Paramount Pictures, Twentieth Century Fox, and their respected owners.

Summary: March 1929. He had always possessed her, the claim on her made, long before either realized the consequences derived from it. For a man like Caledon Hockley was not one to give up that which he claimed so easily—not even from beyond the grave. AU.

His Dark Possession

Chapter One

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

March 15th, 1929

'A man's real possession is his memory. In nothing else is he rich, in nothing else is he poor.' – Alexander Smith

…

The promising light of a new day brimmed over the distant horizon as the quiet solitude of the night ebbed away in a pool of retreating darkness. Silence pervaded the stillness of the moment, however, as the Hockley mansion—one surely of an imposing and most sedate structure—stood amidst the change, resilient, steadfast, and was almost as firm and unyielding as the great men it had housed for almost a century. The mansion stood as a testament to the opulence and grandeur bestowed upon it by three generations, as its current owner was no exception.

Caledon Hockley, a man greatly admired and praised and desired by many, if not a man whom many of his acquaintance wished to be, lay half in his bed, hopelessly beyond drunk. An empty bottle of brandy lay on its side in the bed beside of him, staining the sheets with its liquid, golden-amber coloring. Its potent smell was almost like a noxious perfume: both tantalizing and repugnant at the same time; as it, combined with the small ribbon of sunlight that penetrated the dark curtains, was enough to stir its master from another night of self-imposed oblivion.

Hazy, bloodshot eyes opened wearily to greet the early morning light…and closed just as wearily as the blinding pain did nothing for the mind-shattering ache that raged within his head. He groaned at the pain, muttering a curse as he, after a few moments of hesitation, pulled himself out of bed.

His eyes adjusted to the light, his senses, albeit somewhat impaired and dulled by the previous night's drinking, returning to him. He gave a passing glance at the bottle that lay on his bed before turning to the glass on his nightstand. His left hand reached out and touched the cold glass, which had assuredly been placed there not half an hour before. He almost snorted at the kind gesture of his head maid. Mrs. Bridgeton, ever the faithful servant, had left it, just as she always had in times such as these.

Cal looked upon the horrid concoction she had made with grim distaste. The pale, yellow liquid was a sickly rendition of the orange juice he'd had the previous morning. It was bound to make him vomit—perhaps even more so than it would if he did not imbibe in it. Either way, he felt the effects of the brandy he had taken in the previous night, the sweltering taste of it still heavily laden upon his tongue, which was now, almost like a leaden weight. It was difficult to breathe, let alone swallow. He almost choked at the attempt.

Frowning, Cal ignored the drink as he stumbled, almost falling, when he made his way to the bathroom. He grumbled yet another curse under his breath when he removed his sweat-stained shirt and tie, and grimaced at the intoxicating smell of brandy, the once-crisp, white linen now a yellowed, spotted mess of idleness and drink. Splendid. Another shirt, ruined by another careless night of drinking alone. It was a wonder that his pistol had not accompanied him…

Cal shook his head. Best not think of that. Not now, anyway. It would not do to ponder such things, whilst in the middle of a blinding headache. And besides which, he had no wish to die in a similar fashion, as the great Bard himself had, albeit his death had not been self-inflicted. Cal snorted at the thought. Oh, yes, today, of all days, was his birthday—his forty-seventh, in fact. It was nothing that he wished to acknowledge, let alone celebrate. And yet, all the same, he considered it, considered everything that had led him to this point in his life. He briefly thought of his childhood, of his days at Harvard, of his mother's death, of his marrying and taking over the company, and of his father dying several years later. But, more importantly, he thought of the whirlwind affair that had knocked him on his heels at thirty, he thought of Titanic, and yes, he even thought of…

But he cast the thought abruptly aside when he felt his composure crumble and he vomited in the sink. He disregarded what lingered at the depths of its basin, its porcelain white length now tainted by what little he had consumed the previous evening. In truth, he had very little resting on his stomach, his desire to eat somewhat lacking in its enthusiasm of late. Cal almost sneered at the knowledge of his forced abstinence of food, though thought better of it as another wave of nausea overcame him.

His shoulders shifted and his stomach heaved, the solid remainder in his gut surging through like a current in his already blistered throat. A sickening stream of bile erupted from his mouth. Cal groaned in pain, almost collapsing against the sink. He leaned against it, half-attempting to regain some of his strength. He breathed slowly, deeply, until the weakness passed, his skin covered in a thin layer of sweat.

He turned the faucet on, a wealth of cold water gushing from its tap. He washed his face, gently padding away the sickness and vomit that had rendered him so helpless only moments before. God, he had been such a fool, to indulge himself in so much. What ever had possessed him to lose control of himself? He had never been so careless in his youth. But then, that was before I took over that thrice-damned company. But then, again…that is not completely the truth, either, he thought darkly.

He shook his head. He knew why, but would never admit it, not even unto himself. But the truth remained, if only underneath the surface of his consciousness. For the truth plagued him even worse when he was sober than it did when he was drunk, as he was presently, halfway in between those two aforementioned states. He was coherent, his mind slipping away from the dark recesses of drink. He looked down at his hands; he drank for various reasons—most of which he never allowed himself to acknowledge, not even to his friends.

Friends.

What a joke. In all actuality, he had no friends, only colleagues. He never confided in them any more than what was expected of him, and certainly never disclosed anything of a personal nature. No, Cal would keep his inner demons to himself, if not carry them to the grave with him. It was what every man of his acquaintance did, after all, and was what, he knew, was to be expected. And, as per usual, a man like Caledon Hockley towed the line, just as any other good patron of society did. He could do no less. In fact, he could do no more. For in the eyes of society, he was a pillar of all that was deemed perfection, his reputation and the family name kept pristine, and showing none of the blemishes or burdens he might secretly bare from within.

Cal was perfection itself—if only on the surface. Inside, however, he was an absolute wreck, and he knew it. He knew it just as he knew the sun rose in the east and set in the west. It was a part of him that was as deep and intrinsic as the blood that flowed through his veins. Hockley blood.

Another wave of sickness overcame him, but he refused to succumb to it, refused to pass-out again, as he had the morning before. For a man of Caledon Hockley's caliber could never, in any form or circumstance, appear weak or vulnerable. It was simply not done. For had his father not taught him as much? His father had taught him many things, of course, and Cal had listened like the trained disciple he so inherently was to his father. He glowered at the thought of it as he righted himself, standing as a man of his position should as he faced the man in the mirror before him.

For there, before its silver surface, was a face he had seen, since long before he could remember. Cal frowned at his appearance, his eyes dark and baggy and bloodshot as a pair of shadows hung heavily underneath them. He looked old. He even felt old. He shook his head at the sight. Years of managing Hockley Steel had taken their toll on him, his face dotted over in wrinkles and deep-set lines. His once-thick dark hair was thinning as a smattering of grey lingered near his temples. He was certainly not the same man whose airy confidence could have boasted any number of girls at his side. Those days were, well and truly, over.

Cal made a face. Not that such mattered, of course—not anymore. He had no need to catch the interest of a potential bride, for having been for years long divorced from that unfaithful harlot of a wife who had granted him three beautiful children. He sometimes wondered if they were even his. They looked so much like their mother, with her dark-red hair and turbulent green eyes, that he could never prove anything to the contrary.

If he could, however…

He doubted he would have turned them out, despite his god-given right to. No one of his circle would have blamed him for it if he had. He would only have Charlotte to look after then, and even she was not of his own blood.

He looked away from the mirror at the thought of her, his Charlotte, his adopted daughter. He almost grimaced, when he recalled the day after everything that had happened, that day after…He shook his head. It was of little importance now, for the child that he had saved from the cold, icy waters that night had ultimately found a place in his home. He could not understand what had possessed him to take her in. Perhaps it had been the fact that, deep down, he knew that she had lost her family and had been orphaned, since no one had come to claim her, wretched, lost, lice-ridden little thing she had been then.

He then recalled her from that night, hiding behind some obscure piece of machinery, for which he had no name. She had obviously been left—abandoned or misplaced, was anyone's guess—by those who had, assuredly, once loved her. It would have grieved the most sublime and tender of hearts to see such a pitiful creature, if not move them to wipe away those frozen tears, and take her in.

Conversely, though, Cal himself had held little regard for her, crying and left abandoned on the ship's decks, her simple, tattered, peasant's clothing and dirty golden ringlets giving her station away. She had only been a means to save him from a cold, watery fate. She had mattered little else to him then. And yet, upon finding that Charlotte—or rather, Moira, as had been her name before he legally changed it—had found no one else, and none of his acquaintances would take the child in, since most had sneered at her, disregarding her existence completely, he found a semblance of compassion amidst his own, inner turmoil.

For it was in that moment, upon seeing her standing alone in a crowded room, so accompanied by those of his own caste and yet so completely alone, that the truth of his careless words the previous night struck true: he was all that she had in the world. He had decided then and there to take the child in, no matter his own grief in losing the one thing most precious to him. It was the only decent thing a gentleman could do, given the circumstances.

Most had hailed him as a compassionate hero, a philanthropist of the highest degree. It was all a façade, however, a clever pretence made, since most of his association would not have even had the thought to take the girl in. They would say they had, of course, since such was expected of them to say, considering the uproar Titanic's sinking had ultimately caused. Damn it all, but even inquests had been made, concerning who had truly been at fault for the great liner's sinking.

Cal nearly rolled his eyes, since he himself had failed to follow the headlines, for he had no care for whether Ismay and the others were held accountable or not. The fool could have hung for his stupidity, with his head held low in shame, for all Cal cared. He is certainly living with being deemed a coward every day as it is, he thought dryly, as he frowned at the thought of Ismay.

For never again would Cal ever travel by a vessel of the White Star Line. He despised the company and all associated with it, including those who had perished that night. He had held them wholly responsible, no matter the Senate's ruling that an iceberg—and not the damned crew—had been at fault. Apparently, they had little power to fault any of those who survived, those who might have been responsible. Ismay had barely escaped with his reputation intact, albeit even that had been tarnished; for Cal knew, as those who had survived; or, at least, knew of the matter, that Ismay had been branded a coward. And from what Cal knew, the man was forced to recognize such every day since.

It mattered little, however, since Cal himself had managed to successfully escape from that self-same condemnation, and live a life beyond that night. Adopting Charlotte had been the first sign of his already complex and complicated life. His marriage to Felicia Delaford and the three children that resulted from it had been a true turning point in his life, certainly, since his taking over the company soon afterward had been the final indication that his life and future had already been set in stone—there was no escape, no iceberg to change his present course. For in the eyes of society, Caldeon Hockley had become everything his father had intended him to be. His children: Marcus, Alexander, and Celia—ranging from the eldest to youngest—represented the assured future of the Hockley dynasty, as they continued in the family's traditions.

No, Cal would not denounce them as bastards, spawned by the Italian lover with whom their mother had cavorted and lived with after their divorce had been finalized, just as that same, errant lover left her in turn not a year later. Cal had taken full custody of the children as a form of revenge, punishing his former wife by stripping her of all of her rights—maternal and otherwise—to them. He had acknowledged them without a hint of suspicion, and he had been praised for his conduct, since he was deemed justified in his handling of an unfaithful whore.

Cal frowned. He could not claim them illegitimate after such a spectacle, anyhow; it was already, much too late for that.

He had his heir, useless and stupid as the boy was, for all the good it did him. Though regardless, the Hockley legacy was set for the next generation, both legally and financially. The only real concern left was to rein the boy in, and make him as competent and mindful as Cal's father had taught him to be. He would settle for no less. He could not afford it. One day, Caledon, when I die, all of this will fall upon your shoulders—the entire Hockley fortune and name will be your burden to bear.

And it had been—down to the last banknote. He closed his eyes. It had been as if by overnight that he had become Atlas, world-weary and broken, instead of the adventurous Pursues he had so foolishly yearned to be in his youth. For the family legacy was one of great responsibility, and one, Cal knew, that required sacrifice. Just as Marcus will soon learn, in time, now that he and the others have returned.

He looked again at the face in the mirror. Forty-seven years. Forty-seven wasted years. And what had he to show for them? This mansion, which had been extended and added with a layer of lavishness during his tenure of it? An accumulation of wealth to an already wealthy name? The continued fortitude of Hockley Steel? It had all been a heavy price for that which he truly wanted; he had even sacrificed his sight, having now been made dependent on a pair of spectacles to actually see. Spectacles! Cal shook his head. For when he looked in the mirror, he imagined himself the way he was before…

But there was no use in thinking about it—not now, since it was too late. Seventeen years too late, in fact.

Cursing himself, he turned away from the mirror and summoned his valet.

…

Going through accounts and checking the latest on the New York Stock Exchange had already taken up half his morning before Cal noticed that the time for breakfast had already passed. Not that he needed it, anyway. The very thought of food made him ill, not to mention that it would do nothing to ease his splitting headache. In fact, he believed it would only worsen his condition, should he indulge in anything before his hangover dissipated. Cal mentally shook his head, and pulled his spectacles away from his face. No, it would not do to think of anything, save for the mountain of work that lay before him.

He barely glanced at one of the company's tax statements before a timid knock at the door interrupted him. Cal did not even acknowledge it with the turning of his head, for he knew her knock all too well. "You may come in, Charlotte," he said, in the most pleasant tone he could muster.

The door opened not a moment later, as a subdued Charlotte entered, closing the door quietly behind her.

Cal barely took notice of her, his eyes never leaving the statement in hand. "I assume that you wish to speak with me on a matter of some import?" he queried, his mild expression causing her to flush, and he almost scoffed at her childlike innocence. Still ever the naïve and trusting child he had taken in. But one, he knew, that was so incomparably different from the rest of his ungrateful brood. It was almost a mercy that she was so innocent, since Cal himself had long been hardened with the knowledge of the cruelties of the world in his youth. He had failed to instill those self-same qualities in his poor, adopted daughter—a failure, in which, he knew his father would surely scorn. If the bastard were still here, that is, he amended, thoughtfully, knowing well how much his father had despised the beauty a child from poverty-stricken Ireland would inevitably become. Money, not good breeding, had insured that.

For indeed, Charlotte Isabella Anne Hockley was a vision to behold. With her warm blue eyes and wavy, long blonde hair, she was quite a beauty among the upper reaches of society; and Cal knew, from almost when she had made the transition from child to woman, that Charlotte would become a marvelous temptation for all of the eligible bachelors, even though everyone knew that she was not a Hockley by blood.

Cal almost glowered at the sharp, stinging reminder of it. A few of the Old Guard had remained, to his present irritation, dead-set against the idea of any man of good family considering in aligning himself with such a woman, no matter if Caledon Hockley himself claimed her a daughter and heaped a sizable dowry on her. Most, however, Cal could only grant, albeit grudgingly, were accepting of Charlotte, given the tragic events of that night, when the largest ship in the world sank. Some had even commended him for taking Charlotte in, and raising her as one of his own.

Turning away from his work, he looked up at Charlotte, finally acknowledging her and that uncertain face—so full of patience and understanding—which reminded him so little of his other children, so little of himself and his own shortcomings. He retrieved his spectacles and looked at her, clearly, expectantly, and she had the grace to smile. Some had claimed her touched, almost belonging to another world entirely. It was, of course, expected, if not accepted, given how young she had been and having seen so much tragedy over the course of a single night.

She claimed to see those dead, as she heard them, and even spoke to them on occasion. Good God, once she had even claimed to have seen Cal's father, wandering aimlessly about the mill, mere months after his death. It had almost driven Cal to locking her in her room for three days, since all of such had transpired over dinner—in front of a few of his business associates, no less—when he had least expected it. It had taken only a sharp look and thinly-laced threat to cease her prattle. The threat of sending her away later that evening had only finished the job. Charlotte never spoke of it again, but the damage had already been done—long before that night.

For even before Nathan Hockley's death, a few in Cal's circle already knew of Charlotte's ability. She had been quite popular during the war, when so many of society's matrons lost their sons to so a valiant and noble a cause. Cal had been wholly embarrassed, if not mortified, by their asking to host Charlotte at some of their parties, since he refused to have her shown off like some sort of…freak show, and yet he also refused to have her committed to an asylum. To have even a hint of madness in the family was something not to be publicly acknowledged, let alone be tolerated. It was one of the reasons for his having sent her away to a boarding school with the others, for he could not bring himself to accept her ability, could not ask her to see if she could find…

Setting the thought aside, he instead considered the young woman before him. "What is it, Charlotte?" he found himself asking again, those obsidian eyes resting upon her, questioningly.

Charlotte hesitated, though for only a moment, before finding her voice. "I wanted to see you before you left for the mill today," she said, almost inaudibly, and then took a step forward. Her light-blue skirt ruffled slightly by the movement, her plain white blouse complimenting her ivory-toned face. A single strand of gold escaped from her perfectly contrived bun, as her hands rested, rather furtively, behind her back, her eyes alight with some unnamed sentiment.

Cal almost frowned, for he noticed her hands' absence. Never had he seen them behind her back—not for so long, anyhow—since she always spoke with her hands. "Charlotte?" he began, almost losing his patience, but she silenced him when she placed a tiny box, wrapped in navy-blue paper and tied with a gold ribbon, in front of him.

She smiled again. "Happy birthday, Daddy!" she exclaimed, no longer able to hide her amusement. She almost laughed at the slight surprise she saw resting on his face. "I had wanted to give this to you sooner, but you were still in bed this morning, during breakfast," she said by way of explanation, as she rambled on about his gift. "But I do hope you like it, since I could think of nothing else to give you, even though I gave it much thought."

Cal almost ignored her, finding her soft-spoken words close to the mindless chatter he so despised of women. He vaguely considered the gift before him. It was no bigger than the size of an eggcup, and yet was beautifully composed of his favorite colors. Knowing Charlotte, she had probably wrapped it herself, as well. How thoughtful. He doubted his other children would be so considerate, since he could not recall a time when they had gotten him anything for his birthday. Celebrating it had only been a front, as were the holidays, which Cal often found himself footing the bill for most of his gifts his children had given to him. Only Charlotte had made it a priority to remember him; and for that, Cal knew that she would be the only one who truly wished him a very happy birthday.

He took the box in hand, holding it, considering it, before untying the gold ribbon with his daughter's encouragement. He tore at the paper, the navy-blue shreds falling atop his desk and papers as a small black box was all that remained. Curiously, he noted how it fit in the palm of his hand. It could not be a pocket watch, surely; Charlotte had already given him one at Christmas only a couple of years before. No, that which the box contained was something else entirely, as Cal could scarcely guess its contents.

Its back hinge opened slowly, the darkness within giving way to the light from without. Cal's eyes narrowed, his curiosity overcoming his silent discernment. For there, as the last of the morning light penetrated the window, lay a pair of gold cufflinks, their luster enhanced by the light. He took both in hand, examining each. There was nothing special or wonderful about them. They were a simple pair of cufflinks with his initials engraved on their flat, rounded surfaces. No diamonds. No clever embossing. No intricate detail. They were completely lackluster, if the truth were told. And yet, when Cal looked up from the cufflinks to see Charlotte's smiling face, he knew the gift had meant something—to her, at least.

"They are lovely, Charlotte," he found himself say to her, though was unsure how he managed to sound so appreciative. His soft-spoken sincerity was almost hollow to his own ears. But he had somehow convinced her of it regardless, just as he promised her that he would wear them that very day.

"I am so happy you like them!" she said. "I was honestly afraid that you would not, since you enjoy your diamond ones so." She then drew close to his side and took one of them in her right hand. She turned it so that its back was facing her. She then allowed Cal to see for himself what had lain hidden without his notice. "I had the jeweler to engrave a sunrise, since I believed it would serve as a reminder that you still have many sunrises before you." She dropped the cufflink in his hand, and kissed his cheek. "I love you so much, Daddy. I hope you have a wonderful birthday today."

She left soon after, with a promise from Cal that he would return early that evening to celebrate—that was, after sharing a few drinks with some colleagues at their respective club—with all of his family. For it was expected that he come home, and thus be wholly taken aback by the surprise birthday party he would unknowingly come upon. Charlotte was almost as bad as his mother had once been, with her surprises and good-natured gestures of love and affection. For, after all, Charlotte was the only child of his who had ever willingly voiced such in the privacy of his study. None of the others had been so forthcoming.

He thought of her for a moment, before his thoughts shifted to another—to another, whose face was a little younger than Charlotte's, as such would forever, unfortunately, be—before he looked down at the cufflinks, the sunlight almost turning them to molten gold in his hand.

…

It was late when Cal departed from the club. He muttered a rather ungentlemanly curse when he almost stumbled over his own feet. God, how many drinks had he had this time around? Several at least, he knew. He had certainly lost count after Raymond Moore whose sadly, now-deceased father had once been a business associate of Cal and his father's, had offered to foot the entirety of the bill, given that it was Cal's birthday and all. And Cal had not begrudged the fellow of his generosity, no matter that most in his company had only—since most of his companions were, shamefully enough, a generation younger than Cal—were eager to merely enjoy themselves for the sake of it.

And yet, he had not intended to stay with them for as long he had, since he recalled, if only faintly now, that he had told them—by way of an excuse, of course, since he had no desire to do what he told them he intended to do—that he had to be on his way, that his family were planning a little surprise for him back at home. His fellows had only offered him their congratulations, as well as their fond farewells, by buying another round—or was it three?—of drinks. And Cal, of course, had been unable to resist another drink, which had turned into another and another as the night progressed…

He shook his head as he made his way to where his chauffeur awaited him, and nearly cursed himself with every step. Already he felt the sickening effects of his already intoxicated state, which did nothing but hinder his senses.

It was a shame, really; indulging himself as he did. He had done so for the past seventeen years, as he slipped, more and more, into the comforting arms of drink. His love affair had been the Green Faerie, at first, but then she had been banned from the States. Not that such had stopped Cal from enjoying her company, now and again. He had friends in the Motherland, after all, who happily supplied him with his nocturnal lover, whenever he called for her. Absinthe had been her name, and was one, Cal found, that reminded him of another word entirely. For it was the absence of another that had driven him down a course of desolation and drink. No, he had never desired a green faerie but a red one. Or rather, if he were to be more precise, one that had red hair.

He glowered at the thought of his mental correction, and quickly shoved it to the back on his mind. He was terribly late, he realized. Though exactly how late he knew not—well past midnight, was his guess. He had failed to bring his pocket watch; but even then it would not help him, considering how blurred and hazy his vision presently was—even with his sorry excuse of spectacles, which he had also left. He had stayed out late on purpose. In truth, he had no wish to celebrate his birthday any more than he already had. It was already late as it was, and he knew that his delay only marked an end to an uneventful evening.

Charlotte would be disheartened, certainly; whereas his other children would only feel inconvenienced by the whole affair, in having to wait for him and with nothing to show for it when he failed to make an appearance. It had almost been worth staying out, since he could well imagine their chagrined expressions—Charlotte's, of course, being the exception. He vaguely glanced at the cufflinks she had given him, for he had worn them; he had not broken his promise to her on that, at least, since her gift had been the only true gesture of kindness shown him that day—the many rounds of drinks excluded—since everyone benefited from such a thoughtful gift. But no, Cal knew that Charlotte had been hurt by his failure to show, as she eagerly waited to surprise him, that crushing disappointment growing with each passing moment of anticipation, before it consumed her and she retired, defeated and heartbroken, for the night.

He would have to apologize to her, albeit in his own way. A man like Caledon Hockley never apologized to anyone lesser than he, not even to one he considered family. No, he would find a way to make up for hurting her, though he had no intention in doing the same for his other children.

As he considered this, he soon realized that he had passed by his chauffer. Though strangely enough, he cared not; his servant could wait. He thus continued forward, walking, thinking as the dull, sickeningly-yellow colored street lamps and the darkness of the night consumed every conscious and unconscious thought he had. He looked up to the night's sky, finding, rather oddly, that he could actually see the stars. He gave pause at the sight of them. He could not recall the last time he had actually looked up to see them. As a boy, perhaps. He shook his head.

Actually, he knew exactly when he had last seen them. For the last time he had willingly looked up to see them, had been that night. Where amidst the screams and stifled, dying cries for rescue had he looked up when the last of those muffled pleas had been silenced by the cold, icy waters that had taken a thousand lives and more. He had looked up, despite his companions' in the lifeboat attempt to retain some semblance of warmth as they tried to distance themselves from the many silent figures of death floating listlessly around them. A woman had held Charlotte, trying to keep the girl warm whilst Cal, still very much awake and full of denial, paid no heed to the child's welfare as he thought of another, his eyes searching more than the stars themselves—they searched in the darkness of the waters beyond. He had searched his soul that night, and realized, by the cruel light of day, the mistake he had made.

Cal almost stopped at the memory of his searching for her, his inconstant Rose, recalling how he, in a last, vain attempt, tried to find her among the wretched souls who toiled in the steerage side of the Carpathia. He had not found her, although he had accidentally mistaken another for her. But he had been sure that she was there. Almost. He would have found her if she had been, he often reasoned to himself. He believed his instinctual knowledge in her survival had been wrong, as he grudgingly reminded himself of such every day since.

Forcing the thought of Rose from his mind, he continued on, walking aimlessly down the street. He knew not how long he walked, his drunken gait almost retaining a semblance of its former bearing, though his mind was still far from acquiring its sobriety. He glanced down at the black pavement, and knew that his present behavior would shame his father.

His father.

Ha!

Nathan Hockley was dead—deeply entombed and left moldering in the Hockley family mausoleum. It was where every Hockley was entombed: a private shrine to former gods of industry who realized their mortality only all too late, and was where Cal himself would one day be laid to rest, when he discovered that his own immortality had been a farce. It was what was expected for a noble son, after all, to follow in his progenitor's footsteps. It was what he was expected that he do—what he wanted to do—or should want to do.

But then, such was, of course, however, a lie, since Caledon Hockley was nothing like his father. Nor that of his grandfather—not at first, anyhow. The company flourished under his direction, certainly, but the firm head that Nathan Hockley had been for business had not produced a carbon copy likeness in Cal, who had taken the company in another direction entirely. Whereas such, Cal would, if only by his will after death, be buried elsewhere—over three hundred miles away, if he had his way.

He almost laughed at the irony of it, if not at the terrible burden he would haply place upon his family. Charlotte would understand, of that he was certain, though the others…Can certainly go to Hell, for all I care, since the next forty-seven years of mylife will be as dull and uneventful as the first, he thought morosely, as it was then that something—or rather, someone, by the size of its silhouette and shape—caught his eye in the alleyway before him. His eyes narrowed in a half-attempt to clear his hazy vision, for what stood before him was certainly a most welcome sight indeed.

For truly, the pensive creature before him was a beauty to behold. Long, white-blonde hair cascaded like a waterfall down her shoulders, clashing heavily against the river of black that swathed her curvaceously slender figure. Her eyes were as deep and fathomless as the darkest part of a starless sea, as her face—dear God, her face!—was perfection itself. Cal could not discern a single flaw, despite the illumination, albeit dim and a poor substitute for real sunlight, cast upon it from a nearby streetlamp. But regardless of his obvious impediment, he could still see that this woman was one who rivaled that of the most known and sought-after beauties in his circles and beyond, since her beauty had left him utterly speechless.

As such, he afforded the silent woman before him a most congenial smile, before stepping forward to address himself properly.

The nameless beauty only smiled, however. "A pleasant evening, is it not, Caledon? Or would you prefer Cal, as everyone else appears to call you?" she offered instead, before he had the chance to introduce himself.

Cal shook his head, as if sharply surprised by her acknowledging him so intimately—a woman he had, surely, never before met, for he would have surely remembered such beauty, even whilst drunk—as she had blatantly addressed him by his given name. Her accent was one of the Old World—Eastern European, he surmised, but could not be sure. It put him on his guard, however, for this was no ordinary street whore, desiring to be bedded for a cheap thrill. He vaguely thought of what had happened in Chicago only a month before—a massacre on Valentine's Day—but then shook his head, finding his sense of worry that to be of a weak-willed woman's.

Straightening himself, he summoned every ounce of his composure as he addressed this most strange and alluring creature with that of a gentleman's regard. "Madam, I do not profess to know how you know me, but if you could, perchance, tell me how you do, then I should gladly appreciate it."

The lady in question merely laughed in return. "Oh, but everyone knows of you, Mr. Hockley, even I. And no, we have never met until this night," she confirmed, as if reading his thoughts. She stepped forward then, the alley's shadows no longer obscuring her. "But indeed, I must say that the rumors were true: your beauty precedes you. I have been waiting for you to leave your gentlemanly companions all night."

Blinking in surprise, Cal found himself mentally taking a step away from her. She was tempting him, to be sure. He openly smirked at her at her audacity; it was a proposition, of that he had no doubt, and was one, he acknowledged, to be gladly accepted. He was almost half-inclined to accept her offer, no matter his not even having the pleasure of knowing her name. He had bedded European women before—French, Russian, Italian, and yes, even the occasional English slut, as he often found English girls to be absolutely deplorable in bed—but never one as beautiful and inviting as this.

He very nearly accepted. Almost. For when he ventured to say yes, something else inside of him declared the contrary—shouting it to the highest levels of his subconscious. Cal frowned. Whether it was a sudden stroke of guilt or just a memory, conjured at the most inopportune moment, he could not be sure, but he did know for a certainty that he envisioned Rose, with her lovely face and stormy-blue eyes, standing before him instead. He looked away from the imaginary sight. For even whilst drunk, Cal knew he was deluding himself, recognizing the beauty before him to be a thousand times more enticing than Rose could ever hope to be—but, God, he wanted Rose instead; for if he could have a choice, he would choose her—damn all of the other beautiful women in the world, who threw themselves at him as thus.

He failed to notice the sharp of look of anger glitter in his companion's eyes before he set all thoughts of Rose aside. He was on the verge of declining her offer until he, finally looking upon her, saw Rose instead. Without thinking, he stepped forward, a strange mixture of disbelief and surprise on his face.

"Rose?" he whispered, frowning as he tried to clear his mind of the alcohol clouding it. He shook his head, half in doubt, his dark eyes locking with her blue ones. He almost fell to his knees, almost uttered her name a thousand times over, which he so often did during the many nights since losing her. He instead took another step forward, half-taken by the face which had not aged in the seventeen years since he had last seen it. She had not aged with time, wholly untouched by the hand of Time itself. He took another step forward, inexorably drawn into her dark embrace, before taking her into his arms and kissing her. Kissing her! Rose. His Rose, come back from beyond, warm and alive, and having defeated the cold, icy waters of death.

He felt her arms coil around him, sliding against his back, cold and serpentine, her sharp nails digging into it, urging him out of the light, and into the darkness beyond. And Cal relented, since he could want or do little else. He almost groaned when she broke the kiss, her lips lingering across his face and chin until continuing down his neck, before resting at the base of it. Cal closed his eyes in unbidden ecstasy, all thoughts of the other woman gone. Perhaps she had not been there at all. Perhaps he had imagined her there, since he held Rose instead. His precious, precious Rose. He did not feel the sharp sting of pain at his throat until it was too late.

Gasping, his eyes opened in silent shock, his voice failing him as he could not speak or cry out. A sudden onslaught of liquid pain coursed down from the wound upon his throat, running across his chest, staining his shirt and waistcoat with the crimson darkness of his own blood. He tried to free himself from the arms that held him, but was unable. It felt as if he were bound by a pillar of stone, cold and resolute, as a cold, merciless tongue lapped at the blood drawn from his throat. He closed his eyes, distantly hearing the bitch of a siren that held him. She had not been Rose; it had all been an illusion—one that he had foolishly allowed him to believe in!

And now, he was paying the price—whatever such may be—for his stupidity. If only he had returned home, when he should have…Now, he was not so sure that he ever would return home. He vaguely felt her lift her mouth from his neck, her lips resting close to his ear. He nearly shuddered when he heard her speak.

Smiling at her work, his nameless assailant turned his face and met his fading gaze. Blood marred her otherwise perfect countenance, an equally scarlet-stained hand tracing over his paling face in mock comfort. "You may be a little old, Lubirea mea, but your beauty is worth saving for an eternity." She then took and bit her own wrist as she placed it against his mouth, and bade him drink.

Cal almost gagged as the crimson coldness drew down his throat like a poison, the metallic taste bitter upon his tongue. He tried to reject the foreign taste, almost spitting it out before she closed his mouth with her hand. He heard her command that he swallow, as her voice—that damned voice!—seemed to echo in his thoughts. He heard her utter Rose's name, elucidating that, in her native tongue, the name would be something, most unappealing to Cal. He retorted with an insult to her beauty.

She only smiled in return, promising him that, "The next forty-seven years will surely not be as dull and uneventful as the first, of that I can promise you."

"Damn you to Hell," he muttered, knowing well that her words were a mockery to his previous thoughts. The bitch had read his mind! He almost grabbed for her lovely, pale throat, so that he could squeeze the life out of it, but felt only the cold night air between his fingers instead. Cal closed his eyes, utterly defeated. She had disappeared within the shadows from whence she came. He shivered, the wound at his throat almost searing in its intensity. He groaned, the entirety of his body aching. He felt as if he were dying. He probably was, given the amount of blood the bitch had taken from him. But then, he half-wondered, why had she given him hers? It made no sense. But then, nothing made sense. Not anymore.

Either way, Cal reflected silently, it had been a hell of a birthday present. "Beware the Ides of March," he murmured ironically, choking back on his own blood as it threatened to escape him. He cried out then, a new sensation of pain overshadowing his current agony. God. He was going to die; he knew it from the moment she had left him on the ground, her cryptic words still echoing in his thoughts. The next forty-seven years. What a joke. His father would not find it funny, surely, although Rose certainly would.

Rose.

If he were to die, then he would damn well at least think of something other than the one who had left him to die. He conjured every memory he had of her: from when they had first met, to, unfortunately, the last time he had held her out of love and not out of anger or frustration. He would not think of their last meeting, when he had pursued her into the waters flooding the Grand Staircase. He could not. He had never come to terms that it had, perhaps, been he who had killed her that night. He could never bring himself to consider it, let alone acknowledge it.

Instead, he thought of the day when she had accepted his proposal. She had been so formal with him then, so cold, like a rose frozen in the midst of spring, as if their engagement were a mere business transaction than anything, and perhaps it had been—at least to Rose. He had known all along that she had never loved him, but he at least had her. She had been his. His. And then that boy had come into their lives. No. He would not think of Dawson. Not now. The bastard's death had been his one consolation in losing Rose, since neither of them would have her completely.

He whispered her name, in spite of his shuddered breathing. It would not be long now; he could already feel the darkness already upon him, his heartbeat slowing to a crawl. He would be dead before morning. He would be dead, and his children—his eldest son not yet even eighteen—left with the estate and family fortune. They would squander it all in a matter of years, if not months. Cal almost smiled; his thoughts no longer with his children, but with the one who had eluded him, even in death. Now, at least, if there was some form of universal justice, he would find her.

"Rose," he voice shuddered, his heartbeat slowing, almost faint now as he thought of her. Of Rose. Thump, thump. Of her lovely blue eyes. Thump, thump, thump. Of that fiery red hair. Thump, thump. Of her face, as pale and as cold as ice. Thump. Of her lips—which he had first kissed, when she had agreed to marry him—as they would, never again, draw breath. Thump, thump, thump. Of her engagement ring that she had left, next to the safe that night. Thump, thump. Of the ring, which he now grasped in his waistcoat pocket. Thump.

He smiled as though in triumph when he felt it, for he had kept since that night and beyond, always by his side, for the past seventeen years. It had been a mercy that he had put it in his waistcoat pocket and not in his coat that night. Otherwise, he would have had two things to make a claim on, although the Heart of the Ocean had been nothing, compared to the ring he had given her; for she had worn it—his ring—upon her finger, even when she had assuredly felt herself loathing its cold, binding presence, since such, had assuredly, reminded her of him.

He almost allowed a single tear to fall at the thought of her rejecting him for that loathsome…gutter rat. But he would not cry. He had not cried since the day he had lost her, and that had been in the privacy of his own, makeshift cabin. He had not shed a tear for a single human being since, since his heart had died, long before tonight. It had died along with Rose.

He uttered her name once more; where, with his final breath, he cried out to her, as it was with her name—still so timeless and treasured upon his lips, no matter his hatred of her betraying him and leaving him in death—that his heart, one that had beat only as a muscle and nothing more for seventeen years, stopped.

…

Author's Note: Well, this is the first chapter to what will probably be a fairly lengthy story. I just wanted to get this first chapter out, so that I could see where it goes. But indeed, judging by it already, it is going to be a long one, to be sure.

I hope everyone has enjoyed what I have of it thus far. I also apologize in advance for any grammatical errors. I honestly looked through this only once, so there may be something that I missed. I shall correct it if I see anything.

But indeed, this is going to be a story predominantly about Cal, as well as those who are/were a part of his life. I think everyone shall soon see what I mean by that soon enough! ;D Oh, and I will, also, confess that this is probably the first time I have ever written about anyone vomiting in such detail. I actually had to think about it. But it appears that Cal is going to go through quite a bit of torture before this story is over. Don't get me wrong: I love Cal. Indeed, I prefer him over Jack, since, as this opening chapter suggests, as well as the summary itself, may hint at a certain relationship later on.

And Cal is rather nasty in this first chapter, isn't he? I feel sorry for Charlotte, honestly, as well as Cal's thoughts on women in general. I decided to keep his repulsion of the English, since he seemed not to favor them when Titanic was sinking. Really, he can be quite crude sometimes. But then, he would not be Cal if he was not, I suppose…

Also, some of what was mentioned, about Cal mistaking another girl for Rose, is taken from the film's deleted scenes. James Cameron also made mention in his commentary of the last deleted scene that Cal realized his mistake all too late, since he realized that he still cared for Rose, and could not make amends. I also plan to make references to a few other scenes in future chapters.

Now, onto some things to note:

On the mysterious woman who, assuredly, was a creature of the night, hails from, what I am sure, many now suspect, Romania. Cal fails to discern which country, but at least he was dead-on with her being Eastern European. I chose a Romanian vampire, mainly for my love of Dracula, but also for the folklore surrounding the Strigoii. Such shall also be addressed in a later chapter, I promise. Also, if I got the translation right, Lubirea mea, means 'My dear' in Romanian.

Absinthe was a very popular alcoholic drink in both America and in Europe, though mainly in Europe, at the turn of the Nineteenth Century. It was soon banned in most countries by the beginning of the Twentieth. America banned importation of Absinthe in 1912, although it was never officially banned in Britain. Actually, from my understanding, Britain has never banned the distribution of Absinthe, hence, Cal's ability to acquire it from there. It also may be interesting to note that the 1992 Francis Ford Coppola version of Dracula features the drink, as well as the mention of the Green Faerie. Absinthe was also mentioned in From Hell, but that is an entirely different story altogether…

Oh, and lest I forget, my choosing the Ides of March for Cal's birthday and posting such on the aforementioned date, was done entirely on purpose. Shakespeare…Gotta love the Bard! But then, it also gives me the edge needed to tell part of this story in the months preceding the Crash of '29.

But again, I hope everyone enjoys this very dark and twisted story. I realize that the last bit may have been a little rushed, for which I greatly apologize if such is the case, and that this idea may have been done before. I hope not. The idea of a vampiric Cal is just very tantalizing to me for some strange reason. o.0;

Well, until the next chapter!

— Kittie

March 17th, 2010: I also wanted to make a note that this chapter has been updated and revised from the original I had posted. It seems that I missed some errors during my first revision—quite a few, actually. I apologize for any inconvenience they may have caused. Hopefully, everything is now complete and corrected.