This is my 20-page magnum opus of fic writing. And the third ever Hetalia fic I've finished. (It seems like I enjoy making terrible things happen to Arthur.) Standard disclaimer applies, neither the United States of America nor the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland belong to me, and other than a shared title and some use as frameworking this fic has nothing to do with James Cameron's masterpiece.
Enjoy the fruit of my blood, sweat, and tears!
September 1, 1999
The only time that Alfred invited Arthur over to watch a movie was when it was a scary movie. This didn't bode well whenever Alfred did call, because Arthur and Alfred usually had very, very different opinions on what qualified as scary.
Somehow, Arthur always ended up hopping the pond anyway.
Arthur was about to ask what movie they were watching, when he heard the plaintive strains of one of the most popular songs of the decade, saw the yellowed, sepia-toned dockside footage of the launching of a ship the size of a skyscraper. That ship. He would know it anywhere. The bowl of popcorn fell out of his hands and clattered to the floor. Alfred turned around.
"I..." Alfred started, but then Arthur was cursing lividly and getting down on the floor to pick up the popcorn, dumping it angrily back into the bowl, hiding his reddened cheeks from Alfred's gaze. Alfred got up and came around the sofa.
"Arthur," he said, but was paid no heed. "Arthur," he tried again, kneeling down next to him. Again, he was ignored. He arrested Arthur's hand and, startled, Arthur dropped the popcorn he was holding back onto the floor. "Arthur," Alfred said again, carefully, sympathetically. This time, Arthur looked at him, and he had a lost look in his eyes that broke Alfred's heart.
"How could you...You...Did you forget?" Arthur asked, wrenching his hand away. "Fucking Hollywood! I'm going home," he said simply, his voice going cold. He got to his feet and turned to leave, but Alfred was faster and scooped Arthur up into his arms. Arthur was sucked back in time, eighty-seven years prior, when Alfred had clung to him like he was the dearest treasure in the world.
Then he was dropped back into reality by the sound of a mechanical arm as it turned over a wardrobe door on the telly. He tried to pry Alfred's arms from around his waist, but with the other Nation's super strength working against him that was a futile effort.
"What do you want?" he asked peevishly.
"Watch it with me. Arthur, please," was the reply, and Alfred nuzzled the crook of Arthur's neck with his nose. Texas' frames pressed into the soft, sensitive flesh under Arthur's jaw.
"No. Alfred, if I haven't wanted to talk about it for the past eighty-seven years, what in the bloody hell makes you think I'd start now?" he asked. "Look. I don't care how good of a bloody movie it is, or how much our people liked it. Our people weren't there. I was. And I don't want to see how Hollywood has bastardized the greatest peacetime disaster the world has seen. Not...Not after I lived it, Alfred."
Silence, except for the sound from the telly, which Arthur was pointedly trying to turn into white noise. Finally, Alfred's arms unwound from around Arthur's waist, and then the TV went silent. The movie was muted, Arthur confirmed when he turned around and saw their lips still moving. Alfred was watching the screen, reading the white-on-black subtitles that appeared on the bottom of the television screen. When he looked back at Arthur, there was something old, something almost haunted in his blue eyes. For a split second, Arthur regretted snapping at him, as it sped back to him that Alfred in a way had lived it too.
"So tell me," Alfred said. "What it was really like." Arthur froze.
"What?"
"Yeah. Tell me. You haven't talked about it in eighty-seven years. You said so yourself. All of the other survivors told their stories." Alfred sat back down on the sofa and patted the seat next to him. "I think it's about time we heard yours." Arthur watched Alfred for a few minutes, wondering if he was kidding or completely daft. Apparently, the answer was neither.
So Arthur stepped tentatively around the pile of popcorn on the floor and moved to sit on the other end of the couch.
"Fine," he said, then turned and looked at the screen. "Let's watch the damn movie." The screen in front of him went black. Damn it all.
"Alfred," he said, in a warning tone. The telly didn't come back on. He groaned in frustration and glared at the offending American. "You invited me here to watch the movie, didn't you?"
"Yeah, I did, but I don't want to watch it anymore," he said. "Arthur, what is it you're so afraid of?" Arthur sputtered and his cheeks flushed pink.
"I'm not afraid of anything!" he snapped. "You can't possibly want to hear my story that badly, Alfred, now you're just trying to be a wanker." Alfred set the remote control on the coffee table, just out of Arthur's reach even if he lunged for it, unless he was looking to be as conspicuous as possible. As Arthur was pondering seizing the remote anyway, Alfred leaned forward. Arthur found his gaze intercepted by those vivid blue eyes.
"I still have nightmares," Alfred confessed. "I know, it's been eighty-seven years, I really should get over them – I mean, I wasn't even on the ship. But...in a way," he said, and met Arthur's eyes. "It was harder for the people who were the safest. I don't envy the passengers, whether they survived or not. But however horrible it must have been, I don't think you know what it's like to find out that someone you care for might be dead – all because they were on their way to see you – " Alfred's sentence broke off, and he turned away. For all that he was pressing Arthur about not talking about the disaster; Alfred had been just as bad. A beat of silence passed between them, and then Arthur leaned forward, and cupped Alfred's chin in his hand, bringing his former colony's face up so that their eyes met again.
"I...still have nightmares, too," he said to break the silence. "Mine are different from yours, I'm sure. But I still have them. I fall asleep, and then suddenly it's 1912 again, and it's so cold that I can't breathe, let alone think, and daybreak doesn't even offer a respite because –" Arthur stopped. Alfred was looking at him, into his eyes, and Arthur just...stopped. His hand released Alfred's chin, finally, and he sat back.
"...Arthur," Alfred tried after a moment, but Arthur wouldn't meet his gaze. His green eyes were empty, his mind was elsewhere, was seeing people long-surrendered to the icy Atlantic, was hearing an almost inhuman chorus fade into silence, was feeling nothing but cold desolation and the heavy realization that the ocean had just closed over the greatest ship built by men's hands. The hollow look in his eyes worried Alfred. "Arthur, I –" Cognition sparked in those green eyes again, and they snapped into focus as he met Alfred's eyes.
"I was in a first-class stateroom," Arthur said. "Its splendor was unmatched for its time – and since, really. I heard that the second-class staterooms were like first class on a lesser ship, and steerage was as high-class as one could hope for with that kind of ticket. Of course, I didn't ever get a chance to discover this for myself, being restricted to the high society."
April 10, 1912
"She's a beauty, ain't she?" the Irishman asked, looking up at the wall of riveted black steel. England shielded his eyes and looked up at the magnificent ship, as he stepped from the carriage that had brought him from the train to Southampton.
"You're sure she's safe?" he asked, and glanced at his brother.
"Safe? 'Course I'm sure! She's damn near unsinkable, that's what she is! Drove in a few of her rivets meself." The relationship between the brothers – and indeed, between their other two brothers as well – had improved vastly since the four of them were united under the flag of the United Kingdom. So when Ireland slung an arm over his shoulders and pulled him close to his side, England didn't immediately try to get away. "She's the ship o' dreams, Arty. Safest ship o' her time. C'mon, ye really don' think I'd put me wee baby brother on a ship that could kill 'im, do ye?"
The look that England gave his brother could have driven all the snakes back to Ireland if he tried. Ireland laughed heartily and pushed his brother away from him, and England stumbled and dusted himself off idly. The glare he gave his brother was half-hearted at best.
"Jes' go get on board, ye wee bastard," Ireland said. "I'll get yer trunk sent up 'n ready t'go for ye."
"Are you coming along in her?" England asked, just before he turned to go toward the first class gangplank.
"Eehh, just to Queenstown," Ireland replied. "Gotta get back home somehow, aye?" At the arch look of disbelief on England's face, the redhead laughed. "Don't ye worry none about me crashin' yer high society dinners," he said. "Me ticket's fer steerage." England's eyes widened and his cheeks flushed pink.
"Oh, I..." he said, but Ireland waved it off.
"Don't worry," he said. "Can't stand those big windbags anyway. Those're yer people." He heaved Arthur's trunk from the back of the carriage. "Besides," he added, and tapped his temple with an index finger. "I know ye think 'm not worth licking the dirt from yer pretty little shoes. Don't forget t'say hi to Alfred for me, when ye get ta the merry ol' US o' A," the elder brother added cheerfully. Before England could respond, Ireland was headed off through the crowd, merry as can be, humming a jaunty tune.
Cheeks burning red and his eyebrows furrowed, England watched until that shock of vibrant red hair was lost to the crowd before he composed himself, adjusting the lapels of his suit jacket before striding confidently through the crowd to the first-class gangplank.
At twelve noon, when the Titanic was set to depart, Arthur was up on the boat deck. He leaned against the rail, looking down with bemusement at the gathered throng. A pair of children rushed to stand next to him at the boat deck, waving enthusiastically down. He smiled faintly, and then looked back down. The low, mournful sound of Titanic's whistle blew thrice, answered by the childlike replies of the tugboats, and then she started forward with a purr that Arthur hadn't thought a ship could make (this was his first voyage on one of the sisters, since his brother had told him to wait until the Titanic was finished instead of sailing on the Olympic).
Arthur moved to one of the deck chairs, not caring to stand at the railing when there was no one in the crowd for him to wave to. He sat down carefully, and then relaxed as the lull of the ship started to wash over him. Just as he got comfortable enough to close his eyes, some of the ladies let out a cry, and the men started shouting and rushing about. Arthur jumped up and ran to the railing, just in time to see a much smaller vessel break free from its mooring and swing out toward the Titanic's hull. For a brief, terrified moment, Arthur foresaw the ships colliding, foresaw Titanic having to be towed for repairs, and he decided he would be damned if he wasn't going to get on another damn ship just as soon as he could.
But then the liner underneath their feet trembled, and ropes were swung over the smaller vessel. Several tense moments passed, as the passengers on deck watched the smaller ship swing closer and closer. Arthur was certain that she was closer than a man's arm span. But slowly, Titanic's propellers pushed her away, and the tugs were able to pull her, and a crisis was averted. Arthur breathed a sigh of relief. The passengers around him murmured amongst themselves.
"Terrible luck for a maiden voyage," one man murmured.
"A bad omen," another agreed. Arthur shuddered, and silently invoked the guardianship of the faeries for this journey. He looked at his watch, and saw that that whole affair with the smaller ship had put them nearly an hour behind schedule. But they were out on the seas now. And the bugle blew to call the first class passengers to lunch.
When Titanic dropped anchor in the harbor at Cherbourg, the sun was just beginning to set and a lovely twilight had fallen over the evening. Arthur, however, couldn't have cared less, and was down in his stateroom on B-deck, passing the time until the ship would start up again. Several of the first-class men were upstairs in the smoking room, sharing cigars and brandy and talk of politics. The women were probably watching the new arrivals come on board, gossiping amongst themselves like as many chattering birds. Arthur sighed. He really should go do something, at least. Go up to the boat deck and watch the sunset, perhaps. Yes, that sounded like a positively brilliant idea.
Finding the boat deck proved to be a mite harder than he thought. He was a sailor, yes, a skilled captain...but he hadn't served in the Royal Navy since before all of the technological advances that let ships grow to this mammoth size. In his days of sailing, ships had been made of wood, had been sturdy and dependable. And wood had a certain warmth to it that cold white iron didn't. He felt like he had descended into some desolate catacombs, and a chill of dread trickled down his spine. He was lost. There were no two ways about it, he had only been on the ship for about eight hours and now he was lost. Finding his stateroom hadn't been as hard as finding the damn Grand Staircase. As luck would have it, he passed a steward in the hallway.
"Excuse me," he said. "I'm sorry, but I haven't quite gotten my bearings yet. Could you direct me toward the Grand Staircase?"
"Certainly, sir," the steward replied, and pointed the way that Arthur needed to go (the opposite he had been going, funnily enough), with added instructions that no one could get lost by. Following those directions, Arthur soon found himself in the opulent Grand Staircase, with its ivory floors and oak wall paneling. He climbed the stairs and then briefly paused to examine the statue of Honor and Glory crowning Time.
"Arthur Kirkland?" a voice from behind him said incredulously. He turned at the sound of his name, and saw the pair who knew it. "What are you doing here, dear?" the woman asked, extending her gloved hand to him as they reached the top of the stairs.
"Sir Duff-Gordon," Arthur said, bowing regally to the gentleman. "And Lady Duff-Gordon," he added, taking her hand and scarcely brushing his lips against it. "Positively stunning as usual, my dear," he said, and she smiled.
"We're the Morgans, for this voyage," the sportsman said. "The missus has had some problems with the customs in America, you see. We're hoping to avoid the entire issue." Arthur nodded understandingly.
"Arthur, dear, you never answered my question," Lucy chided him gently, with that little half-turn of the lips that the ladies had mastered to make men feel like fools.
"I apologize, madam, it must have slipped my mind. I'm headed to America," he told them. "Same as you, I'm supposing."
"Oh?" Sir Duff-Gordon asked. "For business or pleasure, m'boy?" he asked.
"Pleasure, I suppose," Arthur replied. "I'm on my way to see a friend of mine. It's been a while since I paid him a visit, I'm afraid, and so I wanted to show up in the flashiest way possible." Cosmo, the gentleman, laughed heartily.
"Do you hear that, Lucy?" he said to his wife. "I believe our friend Arthur here is a bit of a showoff. Where are you headed, Arthur?" he asked.
"I was intending to watch the sunset from the boat deck, but I fear by now I've missed it," Arthur replied. "It's sure to be a lovely night, though."
"Well, let's go sit with him a while, then, shall we Cosmo?" Lucy asked, with her arm still through her husband's. Cosmo hemmed and hawed for a moment behind his mustache.
"I don't see why not," he decided. "Lead the way, Arthur." Arthur nodded, and, in the company of the gentleman and the gentlewoman, headed to the boat deck. They sat on deck chairs for a while, nursing hot drinks on the cool April night, and they chatted about everything from the weather, to the ship's schedule once she left Cherbourg.
"Oh, Arthur," Lucy said, when she was ready to retire for the night. "Would you be so kind to escort me to mine and Mr. Morgan's stateroom? My husband is such a silly man; he would rather smoke all night than sleep at a normal hour."
"Who can sleep, when there's so much of a magnificent ship to explore?" Cosmo replied cheerily. "After you've finished taking the lady to her stateroom, Arthur, will you join me in the Smoking Room for some whiskey and a hand or two of cards? After all, the night is for men, while the ladies are safe abed."
"Of course, Mr. Morgan," Arthur said cordially. He stood and offered his arm to Lucy, who stood and slipped her arm through his neatly. "Shall we, milady?" he asked, with all of his charm and dignity.
"So proper," she laughed lightly. "We shall, then, sir."
September 1, 1999
"In the interest of time, I'll spare you the details of my evening spent with Sir Duff-Gordon," Arthur said, perhaps a bit uneasily. Alfred shifted forward, bracing himself with hands on his ankle.
"No, Arthur, come on," he goaded, blue eyes bright behind Texas like a child being told tales of a gumdrop palace. "I want to hear your whole story."
"Well, that's just it. It's been so long, and so much has happened since, I've...I've forgotten the minutiae of that particular conversation." Arthur's face flushed scarlet and he looked away from Alfred. The American caught on.
"You mean the two of you drank too much, and you don't remember what happened," he said, with an eyebrow raised.
"Well, Sir Duff-Gordon was my brother's countryman, but as I represent the whole of the United Kingdom he was my own as well, in a way," Arthur said. "And the brandy was top-shelf, truly," he added, as if that was any defense. Alfred kept fixing him with that look. The look he'd given him multiple times in the past when Arthur had done something stupid while drunk. The look that plainly said "I believe you have a drinking problem, you poor pitiful creature."
It made Arthur want to punch that superior look off of his face, if it wasn't the same way that he sometimes looked at his middle brother. He scowled in the face of it, then cleared his throat.
"At any rate, relations between us for the rest of the trip were cordial, if perhaps not as welcoming as they had formerly been. Perhaps it was for the best, though. After the sinking, like many of the gentlemen who survived that night, Sir Duff-Gordon was ostracized as a coward for surviving when so many men, women, and children perished." He paused a moment, in silent mourning for the fifteen-hundred souls who had perished that night.
"He – " Arthur's words choked off, and he stopped for a moment, pressing a hand to his eyes to compose himself. "Sir Duff-Gordon didn't deserve it, unlike some. He was in a lifeboat because – because Lucy and her secretary wouldn't go without them. Rather than perish all three together, all three were saved." Arthur shook his head. Alfred reached out to him and put a hand over his, but Arthur pulled his hand away. Silence passed between them. Alfred could tell that speaking would only make it worse. Arthur was waiting for Alfred's no doubt tactless interruption.
"I'm off-track," he said suddenly. "I wasn't exactly ostracized from all levels of proper society, whatever transpired that evening with Sir Duff-Gordon. There were multiple circles amongst the upper class, and I could fit into most of them with no trouble. So, somewhat shunned from one circle, I didn't lack options..."
April 11, 1912
Arthur felt renewed and invigorated as he toweled his hair dry with one of the heated towels provided by the steward. The swim in the saltwater pool on board the Titanic was luxurious, and he marveled at how far the world had come to be able to swim on board a ship, but at the same time it reminded him of younger days, of his first clumsy attempts to cross the Channel in pursuit of Francis, and, later, of meeting friendly merfolk in the ocean for hours of frolic.
Back in the ruthless days of the sea dogs, when the sea was a mistress to be feared and respected, Arthur would never have imagined a ship as lavish and fantastic as the Titanic. She was even greater than her sister ship, Olympic.
But the time when men were allowed to swim for free was soon to be up, and he had to return to his stateroom to wash the salt from his hair in the washbasin so that he could look proper and dignified before the ship docked at Queenstown. Many of the first class travelers would already wonder why he had decided to skip one of the first meals aboard the Titanic.
She sailed toward Queenstown for most of the night, making leisurely time, but she had dropped her anchor in the harbor before lunchtime. Arthur was up on the boat deck when the tenders America and Ireland pulled up alongside of Titanic to take what she wanted to be rid of and to bring her new passengers and cargo. The humor in the names of the White Star tenders didn't escape Arthur.
Neither did the crop of bright red hair of one of the few passengers for whom Queenstown was the final destination. Ireland turned to see if his brother was watching for him, and even with eleven stories and some distance between them their eyes met.
Ireland grinned, and tipped his cap to his youngest brother.
England glared, but his cheeks were flushed pink as he turned away.
His stomach growled as he turned away from the railing. He checked his watch. Lunch was about to start in the dining saloon, and it wouldn't be prudent to miss another meal when he'd already missed breakfast. So he went in, after taking one last final look at his brother's land before nothing but ocean would stretch out before him until they hit New York.
He glanced around the first-class waiting lounge, looking uncertain because while he knew some of the people standing about chatting no one seemed to be noticing him. He saw two young women, and their matronly chaperone, he assumed, standing off to the side, and he made his way over to them.
"Good afternoon, madams," he greeted cordially, and the eldest of them offered her hand, which he took.
"And whom do we have the honor of addressing?" the matriarch asked, and Arthur immediately noticed that she had an East Coast American accent.
"Arthur Kirkland, ladies," Arthur replied easily, offering a charming smile. The youngest, scarcely a teenage girl, giggled, her cheeks flushing pink.
"Elisabeth Robert," the eldest lady replied. "This is my niece, Elisabeth Allen, and my daughter, Georgette Madill."
"A pleasure," Arthur said. "Pardon my boldness, but I noticed that you three lovely ladies are traveling by yourselves?"
"We are," Miss Allen replied, and her accent was softer, more Southern. "I'm returning home to gather my belongings before my wedding."
"Oh, well then, allow me to congratulate you on your good fortune," Arthur said. Georgette, the teenaged girl, giggled again. "If I may be so bold, I am traveling alone as well, and a single gentleman couldn't bear to see anyone try to take advantage of three lovely ladies without an escort."
"Are you saying you want to escort us, sir?" Mrs. Robert asked, the more worldly of the three ladies.
"If you would care to have me," Arthur replied. "I can assure you that you could not possibly be in safer hands." It was something that young gentlemen did, when traveling alone. He didn't expect to ever see any of these three women again, after they disembarked in New York. They were Alfred's citizens, anyway. It was in the name of good diplomatic relations to make sure that no harm came to them on this, a ship built by the Irish, manned by the English, but made for the Americans.
"Oh, Mama, please," Georgette begged. Arthur recognized the beginnings of teenage infatuation. "It would be ever so nice to have a gentleman escort us to New York." Mrs. Robert looked Arthur over, seeming to size him up, and he straightened just that touch more, and nodded his head humbly.
"Since Georgette has already taken such a liking to you, I suppose it wouldn't do any harm," she said finally, and Miss Allen smiled slightly, as Georgette looked terribly excited. The doors opened into the dining saloon, and they brought up the end of the throng moving through the doors.
"Will you be joining us for lunch, Mr. Kirkland?" the younger Elisabeth asked. Arthur offered his arm to her, and she took it.
"If you'll have me," he replied.
"You devil, you," she said lightly. "I see through you, Mr. Kirkland."
"I haven't the slightest what you mean," Arthur said honestly, looking abashed at the accusation. "If I have behaved untowardly, I assure you that was most certainly not my intention." Miss Allen's cheeks flushed, and she looked bashfully away.
"Oh, I...I thought..." she started. Georgette smiled widely and slid her arm through Arthur's other.
"Arthur's a perfect English gentleman, aren't you sir?" she flirted, batting her eyelashes at him, and he chuckled.
"I do try," he replied easily. When they sat down at a table, he felt a bit like the odd man out, being the only one there who wasn't American. He took an immediate interest in one of the women, who wasted absolutely no time in capturing everyone's attention with her infectious laughter and raucous stories. The men at the table were entertained by it, and while Arthur was far from scandalized he felt as if it was an improper way for women to behave. Were Alfred's women all so strong-willed? Then again, as of late his acquaintances had started to tell him that his ideas of women's roles was a few centuries behind the times.
And, well. Mrs. Brown's stories were charmingly entertaining. So he laughed along with the rest.
September 2, 1999
"You're yawning," Arthur said accusingly.
"No I' no'," Alfred defended through the hand covering his wide-open mouth. Arthur's only response was to raise one of his eyebrows and lapse into patient silence. Until the yawn flew around the room and hit him in the back of the head, and he fell victim to one himself. He picked up Alfred's cell phone off the coffee table and turned on the display. Hm. No wonder.
"What time is it?" Alfred asked, rubbing at his chin as if he needed a shave.
"Three-fourteen," Arthur replied, not taking his eyes off the phone before he reached over and put it back on the coffee table. "If you're tired, I can continue tomorrow," he said.
"Yeah right like you'll continue," Alfred replied. "You'll just pack up and run scared until I corner you about it again. Do you think I'm retarded?"
"Now that you mention it," Arthur shot back, but his lips were quirked into a smirk. He couldn't have turned that one down in a million years. Especially not after all the grief Alfred had given him over the years. The American scoffed and continued to attempt to stare through him.
"Come on, Arthur, keep going," he whined. "I can stay awake."
"Oh all right," Arthur conceded. "The twelfth and thirteenth were rather mundane, really. I went for a swim each morning, dined with Miss Allen, Mrs. Roberts, and Miss Madill for lunch..." he trailed off, having lost his train of thought. So he picked up the next one he came across.
"Human beings are creatures of habit, and even we as Nations are no different. We fall into routines and habits, no matter how long we know they will last. The Titanic was due to reach New York on Wednesday. A week's journey, for many of the passengers." He paused, and rubbed at his forehead, whether from tiredness or heartache it was impossible to tell. "But those twenty-two hundred people aboard that ship never knew that their routine would be cut so horribly short..."
April 14, 1912
Arthur sat in one of the deck chairs just after the first class Sunday service had let out. Most of the time, Nations held the same beliefs as their people. Arthur was the same, really. It was just that most citizens of England only went to church on Easter and Christmas. But on a ship like the Titanic, going to the Sunday service was like a social gathering. He had a feeling that only a few people were actually focused on the Heavenly Father during the service that had just transpired. It was that kind of faux spiritualism that made Arthur occasionally wonder if their patriotism was just as fickle. Hence why he had retreated to the quiet of the aft promenade.
A man passed by with a leather trap stuffed with all sorts of notes. As Arthur wondered what kind of hurry he was in, or whether he was always so, the man tripped on the corner of a deck chair which had been moved a touch. As he fell, his notes sprawled with him, and Arthur sprang to his feet to start gathering the notes as the man gathered his wits. Not a single slip of paper slid from the polished wood of Titanic's deck. Arthur straightened the notes he had gathered and helped the man to his feet, offering him the sheets of paper which he gratefully tucked into his folio.
"Thank you sir, you're a lifesaver," the man said lightly, in a soft Irish accent. Arthur spied the Harland and Wolff insignia on the leather of the folio, and suddenly recognized the man.
"You're Thomas Andrews?" he asked.
"One and the same," the Irishman replied. "Do I know you?"
"We've never met, no, but your reputation precedes you, Mr. Andrews," Arthur replied. "Arthur. Kirkland," he added after a moment's thought. Andrews held out his hand.
"Well, Mr. Kirkland, it's a pleasure to meet you. I trust you're enjoying your trip so far?" he asked, as Arthur took his hand and shook it.
"I am indeed. This is a fabulous ship you've built. And safe, I hear?"
"Indeed she is," Andrews replied. "The safest ship you'll lay eyes on. I'm not one to tempt fate, but...have you heard of her bulkhead system?"
"In passing," Arthur replied. Andrews sat on the very deck chair that had caused his spill, and Arthur took the hint and sat down on the one next to it. "But I could always stand to hear more. Shipbuilding has come so far in my life, it's utterly fascinating." Andrews laughed.
"I know the feeling," he said. "Titanic has sixteen watertight compartments along her bottom. She can still stay afloat and limp into port if by some stroke of ill-fortune as many as four are filled." Arthur smiled.
"Well that's refreshing to know," he said. "I was taking stock, actually, and noticed that if these are all standard 65-capacity lifeboats, then there aren't nearly enough for everyone aboard. Is that true, Mr. Andrews?" he asked, and the shipbuilder's expression changed to a butterfly just before it's pinned to a corkboard.
"That's true," he confessed. "About half, actually. There's room enough on her deck to fit a whole 'nother row, behind the row that's there. But a higher power than myself deemed that it would make the deck look too 'cluttered.' So I was overruled." Arthur got the overwhelming sense that this sensible Irishman's nemesis had come in the form of a wealthy Englishman who knew nothing of shipbuilding, or the dangers of the sea. His gaze turned troubled.
"Rest assured, sir," Andrews said. "I've built you a sturdy ship as well as a beauty. If you'll excuse me," he said as he stood and offered his hand to Arthur again. Arthur took it and shook it firmly, smiling.
"Of course," he said. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Andrews."
"The pleasure was mine, Mr. Kirkland," Thomas replied and set off once more, headed toward the belly of the ship and wondering why Mr. Kirkland's stunningly green eyes had made him so heart-sick for his home of Belfast.
Arthur turned and put his feet up, lying reclined on the deck chair, and rested his eyes. The ship was in the hands of God, Captain Smith, and the sea. And Arthur trusted a solid two out of those three.
When he awoke, it was to the strain of the bugle announcing lunch, and lunch was no different than it had been for some time. It was sumptuous and rich as usual, and as usual far too bountiful for Arthur to put away in entirety. Afterward he retired to his cabin, while the women went off to entertain themselves. He was sorely tempted to send Alfred a telegraph from the ship's wireless. Imagine his surprise at getting a telegraph from the R.M.S. Titanic! If America wasn't so busy trying to conquer the skies, Alfred had said when news of the Titanic had crossed the pond, he would so cross just so that he could book passage on the greatest ocean liner ever.
And now Arthur was the one on board the Titanic, and boy would Alfred be jealous.
But that would also ruin the surprise, to send him a telegraph. So Arthur contented himself by sitting down at the rich mahogany desk and writing a long, detailed letter of his experience so far on board the Titanic. He also wrote to his brothers, complimented Ireland on a job quite well done with the construction of Titanic, told Wales and Scotland that not only could he say with certainty that the English were still lords of the sea but they should sail on Titanic if they ever wanted to visit Alfred.
Of course, the fact that the youngest brother was the canary in the coal mine, so to speak, when it came to sending Titanic across the Atlantic didn't elude Arthur's notice. But he was above calling his elder brothers out on it. By the time that he was done making imaginary contact with his fellow Nations, it was time for dinner.
He couldn't think of going among the flock of normal humans in the dining saloon, but he was dreadfully hungry, so he dined in the a la carte restaurant instead, not caring about the price attached. After, he took a walk around the promenade deck, watching the sunset and marveling at the still calm of the water below. Near the horizon, it was like the sun was being reflected in a smooth mirror rather than an ocean. It was eerily calm. Even lakes had more waves than this. But the vibrant red tendrils snaking out from the sun, the streaming trails of Apollo's chariot lashing out one last time before their return the following dawn, set his sailor's heart at ease.
He eventually drummed up the nerve to go while away the time with the men in the smoking lounge, playing (and losing) quite a few hands of cards, and drinking only sparely. By the time he retired to his stateroom, it was nearly eleven o'clock. By the time his head hit the pillow, it was eleven-thirty.
And by the time that Arthur was just starting to doze, a dreadful groan wailed into his ears from the ship's iron hull, and she trembled as if frightened beneath him. Green eyes immediately snapped open, but when the groan and the trembling stopped and nothing seemed amiss, he closed them again and drew a deep breath. Whatever had just happened, it seemed like Titanic had weathered it.
Still, he had the sense that there was more to the situation than met the eye, and that nagging thought kept him from falling asleep until he noticed that something was quite wrong. It took him a second to realize why: Titanic's engines had stopped. She was at a standstill.
That did get him out of bed, throwing on a robe over his dressing gown and hissing and spitting as he fought to find the lamp and instead found the desk with his toe. Once the light was on, he didn't stay long in the room, heading out toward the hallway. It seemed like not a few of the other passengers had had the same idea, as heads of men, women, and even some children peered out from around stateroom doors.
"What's going on?" a woman down the hall asked, reaching out to get a passing steward's attention by grabbing his arm.
"Nothing, madam," the steward replied, and smiled at her. "We must have just thrown a propeller blade. That's all it ever is when the engines stop like this. Is there anything I can bring you?"
"No thank you," said the woman, plainly appeased.
"Sir?" called a voice right in front of Arthur, and he turned his attention to the steward – the same one who had helped him when he had misplaced himself four days earlier. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Why has the ship stopped moving?" Arthur asked worriedly, drawing his robe tighter around himself to shield him from the cold. The steward smiled.
"Nothing to worry about, sir," he said. "There was a bit of a bump there. My guess is we just threw a propeller blade. You can return to bed without a care, sir. This ship is in good hands." Arthur nodded his thanks, but as the man walked away he decided he was quite unsatisfied with that rote, stock answer. He went back inside his stateroom and moved to the wardrobe, dressing quickly in the warmest clothes that he had, feeling inexplicably like he needed to avoid the stewards milling about the hallway as he made his way to the upper decks of the ship.
He had to back against the wall as soon as he emerged on the boat deck, because Captain Smith, Mr. Andrews, and a sooty-faced boiler man rushed past him through the door he'd just come out of. Mr. Andrews saw him and paused.
"Mr. Kirkland!" he called. "Sir, please go back to your stateroom and put on your lifejacket." Arthur's brow furrowed and he caught Mr. Andrews' arm when he tried to leave it at that.
"Wait, what's going on?" he asked.
"We've struck an iceberg," Mr. Andrews replied, and the grave expression on his face said all that needed to be said about the odds. "We're on our way to inspect the damage. If you'd please..." Hastily, Arthur released the shipbuilder's arm, sinking against the wall once the man was gone. He covered his face with his hands, shaking imperceptibly.
"Oh God," he murmured. "Oh God, oh God, oh God..." There were so few lifeboats. Not nearly enough. Mr. Andrews' words came rushing back to him suddenly, from earlier that very day. "About half". About half. Half of the people on board could easily die because of a bureaucratic fallacy. Arthur sank into a deck chair. Men, women, and children. Nearly every country in the world had someone on board this ship. Nearly every Nation in the civilized world would be mourning, Arthur was certain.
"Christ!" Arthur snapped, punching the deck chair with his fist. It didn't leave a mark, but his body was trembling as if in the aftershocks. He wasn't concerned for himself. Nations were nigh on immortal. True, most of them were in no hurry to test that, but Arthur felt confident that he, personally, could survive whatever fate had in store for him that night.
Still, it couldn't hurt to put on a lifejacket.
When he got back to his stateroom, there wasn't a steward in the hallway. It was an eerie calm, knowing that all of the passengers in the staterooms lining the hall were soothed, some possibly back in their warm beds, thinking that there was no way that anything bad could happen to the magnificent Titanic. Arthur, meanwhile, was looking for his lifejacket. A steward knocked on the stateroom door next to his. He could barely hear what they were saying, but he knew what it was already.
They were issuing orders for all passengers to don their lifejackets and head to the boat deck.
"Shit!" Arthur swore, because he was in the solitude of his stateroom, and redoubled his efforts. He finally found the white lifejacket and slipped it over his head, buckling it securely around his middle. After one look in the mirror, he unbuckled it and pulled it off, shucking his long coat so that he was dressed in only his vest, shirt, and trousers before putting his lifejacket back on.
He'd never minded the cold much. And if he was going to be going for a swim, he wanted to weigh as little as possible. His eyes focused on the room around him rather than
He turned toward the door with a start when he heard a knock on it. He had been staring blankly at his reflection, his mind miles away.
"Yes?" he called.
"Sir, if you would, the Captain has ordered everyone to don their lifejackets and report topside," the steward called through the door.
"Very well," he replied. "I had a devil of a time finding the blasted thing, but I've got it now and I'll go up in a moment." On the other side of the door, the steward's lips quirked in amusement.
"Splendid, sir," he replied, and moved on to the next door. Arthur scrutinized his reflection in the mirror again, straightening his lifejacket, taking comfort in the twinkle of light just behind his left shoulder. So he had their protection after all. There was another knock at the door, this one more frantic, somehow, more delicate.
"Arthur! Arthur!" came the almost childlike cry from the other side.
"Mr. Kirkland!" the softer Southern accent came through next. The girls! Oh buggerall, Arthur had completely forgotten he had more than just himself to look after! He moved to the door and opened it. Georgette clung to him immediately, trembling like a leaf. There was something haunting, something almost ghostlike, seeing these terrified young women with their lifejackets flung on over their evening dresses. He put his arms protectively around Georgette instinctively, which only made her cling to him harder.
"What's going on, Mr. Kirkland?" Elizabeth asked, her eyes wide with fright, trusting him implicitly to tell her what the worry was.
"We've had a bit of a bump with an iceberg," Arthur replied honestly. "If they're ordering everyone topside, I'm afraid that means Titanic's going down." Elizabeth's hands flew up to her mouth, and she shook her head, suddenly pale.
"Oh God. I told my aunt's maid it was alright to go back to her cabin. My aunt is still asleep!" Arthur reached out and put a comforting hand on her shoulder.
"We'll go rouse her now," he said. "We must hurry, there isn't a moment to lose." He didn't share the heavy burden of knowledge that he bore. He didn't want to scare the ladies further with the thought that by the time they got topside, it honestly might be too late. He couldn't think that way. These women were his sole responsibility, a solemn duty that he had taken on himself to make sure that they safely reached New York.
This unexpected wrench in the plan didn't change a thing.
Arthur shut his stateroom door for the last time, and Elizabeth led the way, Georgette clinging to his hand as they ran to Mrs. Roberts' stateroom. Georgette pounded on the door.
"Mother, mother, wake up!" she called. "Arthur says the ship is sinking! We have to go!" Arthur impatiently reached over the teenager and knocked his own tattoo on the door.
"Mrs. Roberts, please, there isn't much time!" he said.
"Miss Allen! Miss Allen!" Almost comically, all three in the hallway turned to the girl running toward them. Elizabeth met her with a wide-open embrace. "Miss Allen, I went back down like you told me to, but my cabin was flooded," the girl said. Arthur blanched, and pounded on the door.
"Mrs. Roberts -!"
"I'm coming, I'm coming!" the woman replied. She appeared in the door, with her lifejacket over her shoulders but unbuckled. "I swear," she said as Arthur took it upon himself to buckle the lifejacket onto her securely. "If we end up just getting sent back down here..."
"You won't have to worry about that, Madam," Arthur replied. "Come on, now!"
The boat deck was filled with people milling about, a chilling swarm of men, women, and children all in the ghostly white lifejackets. A line of sooty-faced men filed by in front of them, calm as can be, sixteen or eighteen stokers. They tried to sneak into a lifeboat which hung in its davits ready for loading.
"Now wait just a minute," Arthur said, incensed beyond imagining at the cowardice, but he was cut off by an officer.
"Get out, you damn cowards! I'd like to see every one of you overboard!" he barked, and when the stokers saw the pistol that he was carrying they obediently filed out. Arthur made his way forward with the four women frightened and shivering behind him. "Women and children into the boat," the officer said.
"I've four women here, sir," Arthur piped up, voice tinged with military briskness. "Come along, ladies." Georgette burst into tears.
"Arthur, Arthur please come with us!" she wailed, clinging to him. Mrs. Roberts' maid was the first in, followed by Mrs. Roberts, and then it was just Elizabeth and Georgette. Arthur didn't look at the officer. He knew that he could make a compelling argument to go with them. Elizabeth climbed into the lifeboat after only a moment's hesitation. Arthur knew that by now, he would probably be allowed. But he pried Georgette's arms from around him, and saw her into the arms of her cousin.
"I'll see you later, Georgette," he said, smiling and waving at her. "Be brave. I'll meet up with you in New York, if not sooner." Georgette said nothing, just hid her face in her cousin's bosom and didn't look at him. Elizabeth met his eyes and smiled, but it was tinged with sadness and understanding. They both knew.
They would never meet in New York, or ever again.
As the boat was lowered, and his four charges disappeared below the railing, safe and away from the catastrophe he knew was inevitable, Arthur felt a rush of relief. All he had to worry about was himself, now. He pulled out his pocket watch. The time said one-thirty. There were a few lifeboats still to be lowered. Not nearly enough, he was reminded. Not nearly enough.
A distress flare exploded overhead, sending showers of crystalline white light down over the evening. Arthur walked along the deck. It was sloping distinctly, now. She was going down at the head, taking on water at an alarming rate. Distant strains of music floated through the night, and Arthur marveled at the dedication of the band to play as the world was going to hell around them. A group of crew members and assorted male passengers were trying, down the deck, to get one of the collapsible rafts off of the top of the officers' quarters.
For lack of something to do, he ran over to help, setting up a complex ramp of oars underneath it to guide it slowly to the deck.
And like all the other men, he felt a pang of hopelessness when it fell from atop the officers' quarters and snapped the oars like matchsticks. As they fought to lift it and get it to the davits anyway, Arthur heard something that was out of place amidst the sounds of panic and chaos. There was a small boy, dressed in hardly more than rags, hidden behind a deck chair. The boy could have been no more than four, hiding his face in his knees. Arthur moved to push the deck chair out of the way and kneel next to him, nearly losing his balance on the slope of the deck.
"Why are you crying, boy?" he asked. Wide, baleful blue eyes (so much like Alfred's, like Alfred's when he was this age and he still needed--) looked up at Arthur, and the boy sniffled and wiped his nose on his hand.
"Got lost," he murmured, and it became clear that the boy was Irish. "I want my mama," he said suddenly, setting up a wail. Arthur smiled, a bit sadly, and stood, bending down to scoop the boy into his arms. The child sensed that this man meant him no harm, so he put his arms around his neck and held on.
"We'll find your mum," Arthur said reassuringly, and the little dark-headed child nodded into his neck. The child was steerage: that much was obvious. And not wearing a lifejacket. Arthur moved higher toward the stern, toward where it would be driest the longest. He was concerned with keeping the boy safe. There was always the possibility of finding the boy's mother later, when they were rescued. He saw Thomas Andrews throwing deck chairs to those people who had already fallen into the water, throwing them anything that they could grab onto.
The futility of the effort would have been hilarious, if Arthur wouldn't have done the exact same thing. He held the boy closer, and continued his ascent, using the arm not holding the child to brace himself on the railing as the slope became almost too tall to climb.
"Be British, men!" came a cry, and Arthur looked around for its source. Captain Smith stood atop the officer's quarters, and Arthur suddenly understood what the order was for. He was declaring every man for himself. He was releasing them from duty, he was telling them to...to...
September 2, 1999
"'Be British...'" Arthur's eyes were glazed and faraway, and he just stopped talking. For all intents and purposes, he was back there on that ship, eighty-seven years in the past. Alfred took off his glasses and scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand.
"Arthur?" he called, after a moment of silence. Briefly he feared that telling the story had triggered some kind of psychotic break.
"...I've always wondered what the opposite of patriotism would be called." Arthur's voice was thin, monotone. Finally his eyes focused again, and bored into Alfred's eyes with an intensity that sharply reminded the younger Nation just how much longer Arthur had been alive, how much more he had seen. "When a Nation is so proud of his people that it swells inside of him until he feels like he's going to burst, when he realizes that whatever they do, however stupid they can be, they're his people and in that moment he loves them so much that he would do anything to protect them."
Alfred didn't have a response for that. A couple of times over his history, he'd witnessed things that had made him proud of his people, sure. But never anything like this. Never anything like what Arthur had experienced. The Englishman turned away, and his shoulders trembled as he clenched his eyes shut.
"And I couldn't do shit!" he snapped, out of nowhere, punching the arm of the sofa with all of his might. Tears ran down his cheeks and his shoulders tensed up. "D-damnit... I couldn't do a damn thing to save any of them! It was every man for himself, and...and...the best of those men did the noble thing." Alfred just watched Arthur as he started to sob, and tears coursed down his own cheeks. Not even a hero could save someone from his personal demons. Arthur scrubbed at his eyes furiously until his cheeks were rubbed red. His face was blotchy and his eyes were bloodshot, and he didn't look up at Alfred.
"I'm sorry, I know you lost people in the sinking too – good people, great people, even. It's just... that order..." Arthur's voice broke, but he stubbornly fought off another bout of weakness, drawing a deep, shaky breath. "'Be British'. It sounds silly, in a way, but that night, those two words were everything. You've heard of how the band played on until the end, how those heroic men each died to the last because they were trying to keep everyone's spirits up. The engineers too died to the man, brave, good men, trying to keep the old tub's lights burning until she snapped in half. And the mail clerks...the mail clerks fought to save the mail in the hopes that they would be able to save it. They lugged enormous mail sacks up from the belly of the ship when she started to flood, going back again and again until the water was too high. They died defending the mail from the cold North Atlantic, and for what? It was all lost anyway!" He stared at his hands as they trembled.
"Good men of the Isles stuck to their duties to the very end. They died doing their jobs: because they were doing their jobs. That, Alfred, was what 'be British' meant. To carry yourself to your doom with honour and dignity." He sighed, then let out a bark of inappropriate laughter. "I'm England. I'm the United fucking Kingdom. But that night...that night, I...I feel like I wasn't half as brave, like I wasn't half as British. When I found out about those last acts of heroism, I was ashamed. Ashamed that I couldn't do more. That I couldn't...die with them."
The silence hung between them for a second. Alfred's hands trembled as he fought to keep from grabbing England and shaking sense into him. The men that night hadn't been fighting and dying for their countries on foreign battlefields. They hadn't been defending democracy or justice – the first world war had been years away. But in a way, that made their sacrifice all the nobler. That much, Alfred could understand. And in a way, he understood why Arthur had wanted to go down with the ship.
But that didn't stop that selfish part of him from still being glad that Arthur hadn't.
"What about the little boy?" he asked finally, because he was genuinely curious. This was the first time he'd heard about a little boy. Arthur looked up at him in surprise, but then he nodded.
"The boy," he repeated. "I'm sorry, I was sidetracked." He closed his eyes, drew a deep breath, and Alfred held his breath until he was ready to continue.
April 15, 1912
The slope of the deck was still low enough to stand on, but only just. The boy in Arthur's arms whimpered. Arthur saw that he wasn't going to get all the way to the stern. And if he couldn't get to the stern...he was better off jumping. Even with the boy. He held on to one of the cargo cranes, detaching the boy from around his neck and setting him on one of the cables.
"Sit tight there," he said, and his hands flew to the buckle of his lifejacket, detaching it. The boy's big blue eyes watched him in fright, and then he looked down the sloping deck into the water lapping up toward them. He squeaked in fright and clung tighter to the cable. Arthur followed his gaze and swallowed hard. But he lifted the lifejacket over his head, and put it over the boy's. The unyielding cork and canvas seemed to swallow up the boy, but Arthur pulled the belt as tight as he could anyway, and prayed it was tight enough to stay on him. He gave the boy a reassuring kiss to the temple, and then turned.
"Climb on," he said. "And hold on as tight as you can. Don't you dare let go, do you hear me?" he asked. The boy nodded fearfully and wrapped his tiny arms as far as he could around Arthur's neck. Arthur looked down, and looked for a way to ease them into the water. If he jumped, he knew, the boy would let go when the cold hit them. Then he noticed the slope of the deck, and got an idea.
"Alright, lad," he said. "This will be just like going down a slide. It'll be cold at the bottom, but whatever you do, you can't let go of me," he ordered again. A tiny face nodded against the back of his neck, and he could imagine the boy's face screwed up in preparation. He smiled. "Good lad," he said, reaching back to give him a reassuring pat on the hip. He inched over to one side of the deck, walking nearly parallel to the wooden floor of the deck now. He chose a spot where it was a clear slide to the water below, and he carefully, slowly, sat down and closed his eyes, holding onto the rail with white knuckles as his other hand held the boy's leg around his waist. One finger at a time, he let go of the railing, and then all at once, clutching the boy to him, not watching as the cold Atlantic rushed up toward them.
It was like a thousand knives digging to the very core of his soul, and his lack of truly warm clothing didn't help matters much. The last thing he heard before he went under was a pitiful shriek from the boy on his back, and then they were both under water, and Arthur was just fighting for breath, fighting to get back to the surface.
When he broke water, he gasped for breath, and the first sound that he heard was the boy gasping and coughing. He had held on. God bless him, he had held on. What a good, amazing, brilliant boy. Arthur laughed with relief, and he couldn't tell if he was crying or that was just the water dripping from his hair.
"It's c-cold," the boy murmured.
"I know it is, boy," Arthur soothed, and he started swimming away from the ship, for something, anything, floating that could shelter them from the whirlpool when Titanic went under. "Talk to me, alright? What's your name?" he asked.
"A-Arthur," the boy replied.
"That's a good strong name," Arthur replied, smiling, already panting a little as the cold knocked the wind out of him. "Go on, keep talking."
"I...I want my m-mama," the boy stammered, and sounded on the verge of tears.
"Is...Is your mum pretty?" Arthur asked, because if the boy was talking then the boy was alive. The boy nodded into the back of his neck. "Answer with words, there's a good lad," Arthur encouraged.
"She's very pretty," little Arthur replied softly, and he sounded almost sleepy. "'m tired, Mister," he murmured.
"No, don't...don't sleep, you can't go to sleep until we're safe and warm, Arthur." The Nation's heart seized with worry, but he couldn't stop swimming. Swimming was the only thing that kept little Arthur mostly out of the water. No answer met him. "Arthur?"
"Mm," the little boy murmured. Arthur's heart felt like it was going to break.
"Arthur, stay awake. I know you're tired, and I know it's cold, but we'll be alright if you stay awake," he said. "Do you have any brothers or sisters?"
"Brothers," the boy replied. "Four." Good, good he was talking again. They were approaching what looked like a field of white shapes.
"Are you the...the youngest?" Arthur asked, paddling harder for a white shape he could just barely make out. Before the boy could answer, an ear-splitting crack echoed behind them, and the golden light over the water flickered and died, as an echoing groan dragged on for what seemed like an hour to those in the water. The sound was the hull of the Titanic splitting in two, as her bow broke free and the stern flopped back down to being level. The waves that the settling of the stern caused floated them away from the ship, which was good because it was nearly pitch black now. At first, it seemed like the groaning continued even after the ship broke apart. But as Arthur paddled on, through the burning ache in his arms and legs, he came to the horrific realization of what the sound was.
It was the dying screams of thousands floating in the water.
"Arthur, are you still with me?" he asked to his little passenger. Truth be told, he was glad that the boy was wearing a life belt. With him on his back, it still kept them both afloat.
"Mhm," the little boy murmured sleepily. "'m not the youngest. I was..." he said. Arthur smiled. At least the boy couldn't recognize the sound echoing across the still sea.
"You know what?" he said. "I'm the youngest in my f...amily. I have th...ree older b-brothers, too. How ab-bout that?" he asked lightly, still shivering, pulling himself and Arthur through the water, and he felt the boy's cold lips smile.
"'s funny," the little boy replied.
"Are your b-brothers nice to you?" Arthur asked his passenger. The little head shook side to side against the back of his neck.
"They're...m-meanies," he murmured, and Arthur laughed.
"M-mine too," he confessed. The boy tried to laugh, but it was more of a cough. The shape in the distance suddenly became clearer. A lifeboat! "Arthur, Arthur, look! A boat!" he said. The little head on the back of his neck lifted. "W-we'll be alright now, Arthur, just stay awake a bit l-longer."
"Mmm...okay, M-mister," the boy replied, and Arthur redoubled his efforts, not caring that it felt like his arms were going to fall off. His heart fell when he saw the boat – it was upside-down, and already there were at least fifteen men crouched on the keel.
"Go away, you'll sink us!" one snapped.
"I h-have a ch-child!" Arthur snapped back, and then the men on the boat noticed that the lifejacket on his back wasn't attached to him. One of the men reached out and grabbed the boy by the collar of the life belt.
"Why didn't you say so?" he asked. The boy was complacent as he was pulled to safety. When they noticed that Arthur didn't have a lifejacket, the same man who had snapped at him earlier offered him a hand on board.
"I guess one more won't sink us," he muttered, to hide his humane concern for his fellow man. But Arthur's arms gave out on him, and it took the effort of two men getting their hands under his arms to haul him on the lifeboat.
"How long you been swimming?" the man who had taken the boy asked incredulously. Arthur got into a sitting position and held out his arms for his little charge, who was passed to him in a bundle of cork and canvas. "The lad's half dead." In the dark, Arthur glared at the man.
"He'd be more than half if I'd left him to his own on the deck," he replied acidly, then rubbed the little shoulders of the icy boy in his arms. "Come on, Arthur, wake up," he said. Tiny, frostbitten hands rubbed at his sleepy eyes, breaking ice crystals off of his eyelashes.
"Mm...but we're outta th' w-water, M-mister..." the boy mumbled.
"Yes I know, but we're still cold and wet, Arthur." The Nation rubbed at his little charge's shoulders, patted his cheeks, tousled his mousy brown hair to brush off the icicles. "Stay awake." The man next to him uncurled the boy's legs and started rubbing them back to warmth too. The movements in attempting to warm and revive little Arthur were keeping the men warm too, anyway, and besides that he was an innocent child. The chances were already against him.
After thirty men crowded the lifeboat's keel, they did have to start pushing people away. Sometime in the dark, Arthur wasn't paying attention when, the stern of the great Titanic went under, and the screams across the water redoubled, men, women, and children screaming for help, for the mercy of God.
The only mercy that Arthur found was when the boy in his arms finally started shivering, which meant he was starting to warm. On the other side of the boat, a swimmer apparently approached their little tentative dry island, because one of the men turned him away.
"God bless you," the swimmer replied, and with a start Arthur turned to try to see who it had been. He saw a head of snowy white hair swimming away, never to be seen again. A tiny hand reached up to wipe at his cheeks, and only then did he realize that he had started crying.
Second Officer Lightoller had climbed on board at some point. He had all the men but two (Arthur, because he had to hold the boy, and a man whose feet were nearly frozen off) stand and start rocking to counter the increasing swell of the sea. And all of the lifeboat's occupants screamed when Lightoller told them to.
"Boat ahoy!" they shouted as one voice, and even little Arthur lent his voice to the chorus. They screamed at a regular interval for a while. But none of the other lifeboats came to their aid.
"All right, fellows," Lightoller said. "That's enough. It's not doing us any good."
"...Hey," one of the other voices said after a pregnant pause. "I think now's as good a time as any to pray." No one had a better idea, so they all bowed their heads.
"Our Father, who art in heaven," Officer Lightoller murmured, and the other men repeated what he said. When Arthur heard his little charge's voice stumbling over the words he'd probably been raised on, his own voice deserted him and his throat went dry. And he realized something. There was no other sound but their voices. A chill ran down his spine, cold dread seeping over his nerves. The screaming had stopped. He clenched his eyes shut, and started to say his own prayer, one that never left his lips.
The dawn that crawled over the horizon riled up the cold Atlantic. The lifeboat started slipping lower in the water as the air leaked out from beneath it, despite the best efforts of the men to counter the swell of the sea. The light illuminated what they had all realized – dead bodies floating in the water all around them, suspended by their ghostly white lifejackets. The brave little boy in Arthur's arms sat up and looked at all of the people in the water curiously.
"Why didn't they get in boats?" he asked. "Mister, why aren't they moving? Where's the ship?" Arthur didn't answer the boy's questions, merely wrapped his arms around him and held him close, and tried not to crumble to pieces.
"Boat ahoy!" Lightoller called suddenly, and the men all started shouting with him. Arthur lifted his head and turned, seeing a nearly-empty lifeboat crawling toward them. And beyond that, seemingly no more than a toy bobbing at the far reach of their vision, their salvation – a rescue ship!
"Arthur, look!" he told the boy, and pointed at the boat. "Careful now," he said, when the boy tried to move quickly to see.
"A boat!" the boy observed brightly. "Will it get us, Mister?" he asked, and Arthur nodded.
"It will, my boy," he replied, and the boy smiled, nestling down comfortably in his arms. "You've been so brave, little Arthur."
"I still want my mama," the boy replied without missing a beat, before burying his face in Arthur's chest. Arthur looked out at the bodies that floated on the water, and wondered if his young charge's mother was one of those, or if she had even made it to the boat deck at all.
The boat, it turned out, was number twelve. Slowly, the tired, half-frozen men who had weathered the night bobbing on collapsible B transferred to the security of the bigger, more solid lifeboat. Little Arthur clung to his savior as if the world would end if he let go, as they made the final jump to safety. The oars were handed to the men just rescued, so that they could get their muscles moving and warmed as they pulled for the steamship in the distance. Hope was on the horizon, haloed by the golden dawn, but all Arthur could think of as lifeboat number twelve cut through the water was the lives that had been lost.
"You're the greatest, Mister," a tiny voice piped up from his lap, and Arthur was surprised to meet a pair of bright blue eyes. And he suddenly realized that this boy wouldn't be alive if he hadn't found him behind that deck chair. This boy would be like all the other bodies in the water.
So maybe he had been British enough after all.
He held his little charge close, and rested his cheek on the child's head. His eyes met those of the man next to him, and he saw an awe and respect reflected there that made his cheeks blush red. He pressed a kiss to the top of the boy's head, the gentle swell of the sea underneath them soothing him after the hellish night he'd passed.
September 2, 1999
"That first day on the Carpathia, I didn't let Arthur out of my sight. Then it became obvious that the boy's family was gone. He couldn't remember his last name, so I gave him one. Arthur Canavan was an orphan of the Titanic, with no family. One of the women survivors had lost her two teenage sons, and she saw Arthur on the deck of the Carpathia and offered to adopt him. After that, I had my own concerns. Like getting a message to you." Alfred frowned.
"I was afraid that wasn't actually from you," he murmured embarrassedly. Arthur scoffed.
"Who the hell else would it have been from?" he asked.
"You could have been so confident you'd be fine that you gave the message to someone else!" Alfred said defensively.
"The chances they would have passed it on were slim," Arthur pointed out dryly.
"Anyway," Alfred said, turning his attention from the part of the story that he knew. "What happened to the ladies? Did you ever see them again?" Arthur went silent.
"Georgette," he said. "The one who was so taken with me, who wanted me to get in the boat with her. I saw her in 1974. She was seventy-eight years old. The clusterfuck of disasters in the first half of the twentieth century had given me a year, but I didn't look a spot different to her." Tears welled in the British Nation's eyes at the memory. "She told me that it was rude of me to come calling on Valentine's Day without flowers. She said I was her first love, and she hit me for not coming to see her when she was still young and pretty." He drew a shuddering breath. "I sent the flowers to her funeral," he said, and nothing more.
Alfred didn't say anything for a long moment. Knowing Arthur, he was understating the flowers that he had sent her. It was an amusing thought in the face of tragedy to imagine her family's faces when the immense, overflowing bouquet sent (as sure as Alfred knew Arthur) anonymously was placed next to the casket.
"What about Arthur?" he asked suddenly.
"I set up a trust for him," Arthur replied. "Fifty-thousand pounds to be released to him on his twenty-first birthday. Heaven knows what he did with the money. I saw his name on a Navy roster – Arthur Canavan, the same name that I gave him on the Carpathia. I don't know what happened to him after that."
"...Wow," Alfred said, after a moment. "I...Arthur. God. I'm sorry." Arthur rubbed at his forehead.
"Don't be," he murmured. "Christ. Eighty-seven years," he remarked in disbelief. "It seems like yesterday." But something had changed about him. He wasn't the same Nation who had balked at the sight of Titanic on the television. Like telling the story offered him an outlet, a catharsis that he'd never found before. Alfred smiled, watching him, then yawned.
"Any other scars you want to pick at until they bleed?" Arthur asked pointedly. Alfred, mouth agape mid-yawn, shook his head in the negative. Arthur seemed uncertain for a moment, looking from the blank TV and then to Alfred, who blinked back at him. "Let's do what I came here for, then," Arthur murmured, though he didn't sound excited about it. Alfred chuckled and moved to pick up the remote, hitting rewind so they could start from the beginning.
"I told you it'd make you feel better," he remarked smugly, as Arthur closed the gap between them and he put his arm around the British Nation's shoulders. Arthur thumped his fist against Alfred's chest.
"Fuck off," he replied. Alfred said nothing then, just rested his head on top of Arthur's, swearing he'd only close his eyes for a moment. Arthur rolled his eyes and took the remote, pressing play when it was done rewinding.
Both of them were fast asleep before the salvagers on the telly even discovered the safe.