This story is a work of fiction based on the movie version of Titanic and the movie representations of several genuine historical figures. This story is in no way representative of the personalities or actions of the real people upon whom the characters were based (in particular Thomas Andrews and Herbert Lightoller) or anyone connected with them, and is in no way intended to cause offence or misrepresentation. The other characters belong to 20th Century Fox and Paramount Pictures, except Julia and Harry, who are my own.

Phoenix

Rose's fingers tightened around the strange, heavy thing she held in her hand, unable to look away from its iridescence in the gently falling rain, spattering its surface like a thousand mirrors.

Given the horrors she had experienced, it somehow seemed odd to her that she should now be thinking more clearly than she ever had in her life. She had experienced something so traumatic, so tragic, so horrific, she knew that for many it would feel like the end. Yet all she felt now was the realisation that the unhappy, monotonous existence she would have had married to Cal was now a fading dream; a nightmare which would now never come true. Her entire mapped future gone in an instant; her whole purpose in life altered forever.

Jack seemed like a dream. She had known him for a matter of days; this time two days ago they had not even shared their first kiss. Perhaps he was an angel, she thought … an angel who danced and sketched his way into her life, taught her how to live; how to love … and then was gone. She would love him until the day she died; there was no doubt in her mind about that. She would grieve later, when the numbness wore off, she knew that. She would cry, she would wake in the night still feeling him in her arms; his fingers entwined with hers … yes, she had lost the man she would gladly have given herself to for eternity.

But he was with her for eternity. Nothing would ever part them now. He was safe in a place where no poverty, pain or sorrow would ever reach him. And as long as her promise to him lived, she would go on living … and he would live in her. It seemed quite straightforward when thought of like that.

She didn't have an idea where she would go or what she would do; where she would sleep after they docked in New York tomorrow or how her life would continue after today, though she did not feel worried. After all that had happened, nothing seemed particularly daunting any more.

She had seen her mother and Cal since boarding the Carpathia, but had taken care not to be noticed by them. From now on, she must be dead to them; there was no other way. She had also seen Molly Brown, Madeleine Astor, Mr Guggenheim's mistress, Madame Aubert. Also, perhaps unsurprisingly, Mr Ismay, both of the Duff-Gordons, Colonel Gracie … rank, it seemed had its advantages.

She could not regret their survival, even Cal's. Any lives saved must surely be something to be thankful for, yet at the same time, what right had they to live when so many others had not, simply because of their rank or wealth? She wondered how many of those happy, welcoming, lively Irish third-class passengers at the party had survived. Probably very few. So far she had seen no third-class survivors she recognised. Jack's friends Fabrizio and Tommy … no sign. The sweet little girl, Cora, whom Jack had danced with; her father Bert … not there. There were, of course, others missing from what had, two nights ago, been her social circle. Captain Smith, it seemed, had not been saved, nor J.J. Astor, Mr Andrews, Mr Guggenheim, Cal's valet Lovejoy …

She had had so much more in common with what Cal would have called 'scum'. Had he only opened his eyes, he would have seen happy, fun-loving, free-spirited people making so much more of their lives than he did. Certainly there were those within her circle whom she had liked to a degree; Madeleine Astor had a slightly rebellious streak that Rose approved of; Molly Brown was obviously well grounded and not one to stand for snobbery; Mr Andrews was extremely kind and Rose had felt something of an affinity with him. The unbearable agony she had seen in his eyes as he stood with corpse-like stillness beside the clock, watching his own creation die around him, still haunted her.

She drew a deep breath, trying not to think too much. At the moment, that was the best defence she had. She ran the tip of her tongue over her lips; they felt cracked. An effect of the salt water, she supposed. Eating and drinking had seemed unimportant, but now her body's basic needs were beginning to come back to her and she was, she realised, incredibly thirsty.

She walked slowly across the deck, glancing around at the scattered groups of dishevelled people; mostly women and children, many with blankets draped around their shoulders. Some looked as numb as she felt; some cried openly; some seemed to be carrying on as if nothing had happened, on auto-pilot, looking after their families; in some cases looking after those whose families were gone forever. Her family, too, was gone forever, though by her own choice, she thought suddenly with a pang of guilt. So many among her were wishing with everything in them that their fathers, mothers, children, friends could be with them again … her mother and fiancé had lived and it would be so easy to walk up to them and be greeted with open arms and tears of relief. But it could not be. For Jack, but more importantly for herself, it could not be.

Upon reaching the door, her vision blurred slightly. She shook her head to clear it, then made to push the door open, but it seemed unnaturally heavy; all her strength seemed to be deserting her. Her mind suddenly snapped back to a locked gate; Jack trying to force it, water rising fiercely around them, death possibly mere seconds away …

A man standing inside nearby moved to pull the door for her, but as she stepped inside, the room began to blur in front of her; she suddenly became aware that she was breathing too quickly.

Total blackness …no air, surrounded by flailing limbs, grasping hopelessly for Jack's hand …

Everything was going dark around the edges; it was too much …

As she faltered, the man who had opened the door moved swiftly beside her and caught her before she could fall. Then she could hear a woman's voice asking if she was all right, but far away, hazy ... Then more movement; she felt weightless, like she was being carried, as if in a dream … she was so tired, no strength left …

"Here," the nurse said, offering Rose a large glass of water. "Small sips at first, now."

Rose awkwardly levered herself up on one elbow and looked groggily around. She was lying on a narrow, rather hard bed in what was obviously the Carpathia's medical bay. She could see three curtained-off cubicles opposite her own, each with a mint-green and white striped curtain around it, and a sink against the far left hand wall. The main door must be around the opposite corner where she couldn't see.

"Thank you," Rose murmured, taking the glass. Her hands trembled as she gripped it; she felt shivery and was aware of perspiration on her face. "I think I just needed a drink." She sipped rapidly at the cool, pure water, it made quite a difference. "That's better, thank you."

"Don't you worry," the nurse said, gently. "Nothing to be ashamed of; you've been through enough." You have a rest here and I'll get you some more water if you finish that. I'll be back soon.

"Thank you," Rose said again, as the nurse left the cubicle and pulled the curtain across. She took a few more sips of water, closing her eyes as the refreshing liquid cooled her burning lips and cleansed her throat. A few more sips and it was gone.

Another glass was definitely needed. The nurse could be a while, and obviously had more important things to do. The sink was in sight; the room had stopped moving; she was fairly sure she wouldn't faint again, as long as she went slowly.

She sat up fully now, and swung her legs off the bed, planting her feet on the floor. She did feel a little nauseous, but surely all the more reason to refill her glass with water. Just give it a moment, she thought. Breathe. Breathe.

She turned her head slightly as she heard a male voice from somewhere to the left, speaking with a slight northern English accent, obviously educated. "It'll need an X-ray, of course, to determine the extent of the damage. I would say it looks like a fairly clean break, though; so hopefully it will heal nicely. Apart from that, the damage to your shoulder seems fairly superficial, and none of the cuts and bruises should cause you any long term damage. As I say, there will be an ambulance on standby as soon as the ship docks.

She heard a soft, very quiet, "Thank you," in response, which struck Rose with the faintest trace of familiarity. It barely registered; the voice had been so quiet it could have been anyone's, there was just something …

She heard a curtain being opened, then closed, then the doctor walking past her cubicle to speak with a nurse. "I'm still concerned about Emily Taylor," he said quietly but clearly, "the hypothermia has taken its toll and in a child of six, well, she could deteriorate at any time. Mrs Pryor's condition has stabilised, but given her age and medical history, a more severe attack is not out of the question. I've just reassessed Mr Jenkins on the end there; he still seems in deep shock, but his injuries are not life threatening. Right tibia-fibula fracture, dislocated shoulder now replaced, cuts and bruises … so those three are my priority for removal to hospital as soon as we dock."

Jenkins. The name didn't ring a bell. He must just have a familiar sounding voice. Cautiously, Rose stood. She kept a hand on the bed to steady herself until she reached the curtain, then opened it slightly and glanced out. The doctor and cockney nurse had obviously just left the room and there was no sign of the other nurse. Still gripping the glass with slightly trembling fingers, Rose stepped out into the room and walked towards the sink. She felt a little more stable now; one more long drink and she would feel much better.

She reached the sink, refilled the glass and took several sips, breathing slowly. She looked up into the mirror, which was set at eye level. She saw a mass of matted, damp red hair surrounding an ashen face which looked more like a mask; its cheeks and forehead shining slightly, giving it an almost porcelain-like glimmer. The eyes, though, were alive; despite their owner's bedraggled appearance, they glowed with fierce determination which said I am alive. What would Mother say if she saw me looking like this, she mused.

She glanced to the left; the curtain around the end cubicle had not been fully closed and out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw a slight movement. A man lay on the bed inside, propped up on several pillows, his face turned almost completely away from her. He was dressed in an off-white medical gown, his right leg immobilised in a long splint; his left arm in a sling across his chest and a recently stitched gash on the right side of his forehead.

Something made her take a tentative step closer and glance around the side of the curtain for a closer look. He appeared to be breathing deeply and evenly, and though his position indicated that he might be asleep, for some reason he did not seem restful; in fact something suggested that if Rose could see his face, his eyes would be open and troubled. Unsurprising really, she thought, whoever he was.

Perhaps she exhaled audibly, or perhaps he had merely sensed her presence. The man raised his head slightly, then slowly turned it to face her, obviously expecting to see a doctor or nurse. His face looked like that of a condemned man; his half-closed eyes almost dead, as if his soul were gone; as if every reason for his existence had been drained from him; as if he silently longed for death.

Suddenly, in a moment of stark realisation, she knew why.

What little colour there was in Rose's cheeks left them. The half-full glass of water dropped to the floor and shattered. She drew a short, sharp gasp and her hands flew to her mouth in stunned disbelief.

It was Thomas Andrews.