"Have you ever been on a ship? A cruise, possibly romantic in nature?"
He had spent a century trying to forget it.
When Lucas asked him that question in that typical prying way of his, Henry hadn't expected the memories to flood his mind. Nor were the memories flooding his mind the ones he would expect.
"I won't let go, I won't let go."
He tried to shake the words from his mind. They repeated like a broken record, over and over, slower and slower as he fought the memory, hoping for it to fade but his determination to forget making it persist all the more.
He should have never taken that job. Nothing could be worse than being shot and mysteriously becoming immortal, he'd thought. And it had been almost a century by then; sailing was safer and the crew actually had some knowledge as to what they were doing. He himself had sailing experience, after all. Just one quick trip across the Atlantic to cover the trail after his latest and most public death to date, he would arrive in New York, become Henry Morgan again, all would be well.
Icebergs sinking the unsinkable were not part of the plan.
"Can anyone hear me? Is there anyone alive out there‽"
He heard no reply to his frantic cries save the endless echoing of his voice off of the waves. The saltwater seas churned against the sides of the small lifeboat as the men inside rowed toward the wreckage. At least, what wreckage hadn't sunk yet.
Henry scanned his torch across the waters, trying his best not to show the misery overtaking his soul. With every breath he took, he could feel the saltwater rushing into his lungs, that desperation that there is no more air, that there will never be more air, and the final resignation that there was never air to begin with. Henry and Henry alone knew the pain of the dead bodies floating around his tiny vessel.
"They're dead."
Henry turned from his position at the stern. One of his fellow sailors was staring vacantly into the water, his gaze fixed upon where a corpse had drifted past.
"There may still be someone alive in these waters," Henry commanded, masking his doubts and despairing empathy with the authoritative tone. The sailors nodded and continued to row into the sea of the dead.
"Be careful of the bodies," he added. If nothing else, these people deserved to be as undisturbed in death as possible.
He had to stop thinking about it.
Henry rose from the side chair and began walking circles about the apartment. Perhaps if he got his blood flowing and maybe looked at something else, he could get his mind to travel somewhere else. Like... Like that trivet. That fancy, curlicued, cast-iron trivet. A wedding gift of his and Abigail's, one of the few, seeing as how having family and friends around would complicate things over time. But Abigail insisted that this friend be a part of their simple wedding ceremony. What was her name again?
Of course.
"Rose."
The young woman was shivering, her body absolutely trembling from the frigid North Atlantic waters. Her vibrant red hair was frozen into the ringlet curls it had probably taken hours to fix that morning. Her skin was deathly pale and her lips so dark that Henry couldn't tell if she was oxygen deprived or wearing very durable lipstick, although his century of medical knowledge vied for the former.
"Rose," he began, feeling as though he needed to confirm the young woman's identity. She nodded vigorously, her movements jerky from the spastic chill coursing through her veins.
"I have a blanket for you."
He offered out the plaid fabric, given to him by one of his first boat's survivors. Rose stared back at him, her eyes wide, lips slightly parted as though she wanted to protest the dry, warm wrap.
"Go on," Henry spoke as though trying to convince a bashful child, with a kindness interlaced with insistence. "Take it."
Rose slowly reached forward. Her fingertips brushed against the fabric and she quickly pulled her hand back, as if startled by the reality of the blanket. When she reached out for it again, she ripped the blanket from Henry's grasp and clung to it so tightly that had her knuckles not been as pale as humanly possible, her grip would've been described as white-knuckled.
"Do you... Do you mind if I undress?" She stuttered, in a whisper so delicate and fragile, it seemed as though she would shatter from the effort of those six words. Henry gave no reply, simply turning his back and allowing her to remove her waterlogged wardrobe and wrap her dripping body in the warmth of the blanket. She sat down on one of the wooden planks designated for seating, all the while pulling the blanket tighter upon herself.
"Th... Thank you, sir."
Henry turned back to again face the young woman who, so far, was the lone survivor of the shipwreck who hadn't been aboard a lifeboat. She looked up at him, her eyes so wide with fear and vulnerability and utter shock, and murmured the words, "Have you ever felt as if you're surviving because you've lost your only reason to live?"
Henry slid down from his seat on the ship's outer frame to the open bench next to Rose. He picked up her sopping wet clothes from the bottom of the vessel and, one by one, rang them out over the side and neatly folded them into a pile.
"Only every day of my life." He sighed, folding in the sleeve of her long coat, a man's jacket, now that he was studying it closely. He felt a lump in the front left pocket but, curious as he was, let it be.
He dried his hands on his own coat before pulling Rose to himself. Exhaustion was overtaking her, he felt her muscles relaxing in his embrace. Her weary head found rest on his shoulder and before he knew it, Rose was asleep in Henry's arms. He didn't want to disturb her slumber, but he had to move. Henry shifted his body slowly away, careful to support the sleeping Rose with his arms as he did so. He gently laid her down on the bench and wrapped the blanket tighter around her fragile body to keep out the arctic cold. In her sleep, the woman began quietly murmuring, her voice at first barely a whisper, then becoming strained as her vocal cords fought to stay silent but her mind triumphed to dream.
"I won't let go, I won't let go."
He wasn't going to forget again until he remembered fully. Henry acquiesced to his mind's involuntary trip down memory lane, took a seat on the couch, and let the lifeboat sail forward.
"Do you see that light ahead, sir?"
Henry peered through the fog and nodded in confirmation of what his fellow sailor had seen.
"Indeed, Lawrence! You heard him, lads; ship ahead!"
Henry leaned forward as if the hope of rescue alone was literally pulling the fleet of lifeboats toward their salvation. The sailors paddled faster, harder, churning the saltwater seas to a white froth. It was early morning, the sun just coming over the endless aquatic horizon, but for the passengers of the lifeboats it was an endless night of despair that no sunlight could remedy.
Henry turned and watched the people in his lifeboat. Six sailors, paddling hard, never giving in to the exhaustion he knew they were feeling. Six sailors and six survivors. Six lives pulled from the wreckage intact.
Six.
He'd hardly believed there would be anyone left alive when they returned to the wreck, and he remained in disbelief of hearing Rose's whistle even after having rescued the withering woman.
At the same time, he felt terrible, absolutely terrible, that he hadn't returned sooner, hadn't stayed closer, hadn't saved more. He'd tried his best, filling his lifeboats to capacity and seemingly being the only crewman to follow emergency protocol. Then again, he had a century's experience and knew firsthand the horrors of death at sea. He didn't dare to remember how many times he'd drowned after that first death before finally being rescued.
But if six were all he could save, then returning was worth it.
As they drew closer to their savior ship, the
Carpathia, Rose began to stir.
"Jack?" She murmured, looking about herself with a bewilderment in her big brown eyes. As her mind awoke and reality set in, tears began to well in her eyes, threatening to cascade down her pale cheeks. Henry saw her pain and immediately slid beside her.
"It's alright, Rose. No one deserves to shed tears more than you do right now."
And so she did just so. She rested her head on his shoulder, letting the small cascades of warm saltwater mourn the destruction of the chilled saltwater surrounding. He found himself naturally falling into the role of a comforter, slowly running his hand down the smooth skin of her arm in a soothing gesture that allowed Rose to slowly relax in his arms. His fingers fought his decency with their desire to dance through her hair; she was clearly and understandably distressed, he couldn't possibly do something as intimate as that, no matter how soothing it may be.
"He's not coming back, is he?" She murmured, not exactly asking Henry but not leaving him without the need to answer.
"I'm sorry, Rose," Henry offered with a solemnity in his tone that perfectly exemplified his heart breaking for her and the wisdom that glossing over the truth would only make it more difficult for her to handle in the long run. "You loved him dearly."
"More than anyone else in this world."
Henry's mind inexplicably took him back to London, back to the asylum, where he'd twice been spurned by the woman he loved. It was difficult enough to plea for her acceptance when she had imprisoned him, but fifty years later, when they stood on the opposite sides of the bars from before, her rejection stung all the more. And when he received the news of her passing, though he would never admit it, he had been distraught with grief, to the point of sneaking into her funeral services. But no matter how much she destroyed him, Henry had been hopelessly in love with Nora Morgan.
"I know the feeling," he feebly commiserated, his attention back again to the grieving woman in his lifeboat. Rose nether looked to him for nor asked for an explanation, she only snuggled herself closer in his arms.
The lifeboat was hitched to the side of the
Carpathia, and slowly and shakily made its way up the side to the upper deck of the ship. The lifeboats unloaded, Henry the last gentleman off, offering Rose his hand as she took her first shaky steps since her harrowing run up to the bow of the ship that lay in ruins on the ocean floor. Once safely off, Henry and Rose followed the other refugees toward the makeshift buffet of food and drink being served up by the Carpathia's tired-looking crew. Both took a mug of coffee, and only then did they notice how terribly they were still shaking, as they tried to keep the drink steady and in the cup.
Rose closed her eyes and took a deep breath, holding the mug close to her face and letting the steam warm her all-but frozen features. The warm aroma of the grounds tickled her nostrils, but she could never again associate such a scent with peacefulness and the hope of a new dawn, a new day. Beside her, Henry took a tentative sip of his own drink and shuddered at the feeling of the warmth traveling down his esophagus and radiating through his body that, until that moment, he hadn't even realized was all that cold.
They simply sat like that, watching listlessly as more survivors were hailed over the side in any and every way possible, as the deck filled with tears of joy as families reunited and wails of sorrow when, more often than not, a loved one remained missing from the crowd. By the time they had finished the coffee, it had cooled to room temperature, which after their night at sea still felt incredibly warm as it coursed through their bodies.
Rose set her now empty cup beside her and turned to Henry with an almost commonplace sort of forgetful look. "I don't believe I got your name, sir,"
"Lowe. Harold Lowe." Henry offered, his gut clenching at the lie. He knew that, with the disorganization of passenger manifests, he could easily slip into his life with his given name again without any questioning. But he couldn't have that name in the public eye, and he in his officer's uniform would be unable to avoid that for much longer. And though passenger lists might be easily lost, not so with crew rosters. Fifth Officer Harold Lowe, Henry reluctantly resigned, would have to remain longer than this mere trip to sea.
If he hadn't resigned himself to it, the appearance of one of his crewmates sealed Harold's need to exist for a few months longer. Before he left to speak with the surviving crew about how they would handle the disaster upon arriving in the city, Henry knelt beside Rose and whispered his final word of advice to the wide-eyed girl.
"Don't forget him, Rose. But don't let him be the only thing you remember."
i've had this idea for quite some time, hope you enjoyed! And not only does this feature Henry, we get what I call a deleted scene from Titanic!(: in case you didn't know, Ioan played Fifth Officer Harold Lowe in the movie, and his character actually did save Rose from the door. A few of his lines are in here verbatim, but otherwise this is entirely a work of fiction any I don't own any entertainment media whatsoever(: