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

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

His Dark Possession

Chapter Seven

Of course, in the end, Cal didn't heed Edgar Cayce's warning of some impending, financial disaster that concerned the world, as well as his personal investments. As with so many of his contemporaries, the steel tycoon had been too heavily invested in the stock market to ever consider backing out in a time of great wealth and prosperity—especially on the word on some new age, doddering psychic whose selfless ambitions made Cal question if the man was even real, or simply a figment of his own, deluded imagination. For after all, prophets and seers, for all of their biblical finery, could be wrong in their foresight regarding a very vague and uncertain future in the world of stocks and shares.

That warning had been given seven months ago, and now, it seemed, Cayce's words of doom and destruction had finally come into fruition. Cal stared down at the letter he'd received that morning, and although his eyes remained fixed on its words filtered with both formality and apology, the letter itself remained perfectly incoherent to his otherwise disinterested awareness. He cared little for its existence, having already memorized each pathetically damning draft that some equally pathetic secretary had typed out on a moment's notice. Undoubtedly, many of his colleagues had received the same, although they, certainly, were undoubtedly far more shocked by the news of their empires collapsing than he.

He almost smirked at their shared misfortune, folding the letter that foretold the downfall of Hockley Steel, as he reached into the one of the bottom drawers of his desk and retrieved a cigar. In instinct, he would've lit a cigarette, but news such as this demanded a cigar for the occasion. With a faint click of his lighter, he lit the cigar's tip and took in its absolving, latent fumes, blowing O-shaped rings into the air, simply for the hell of it. After all, it wasn't every day that a man of his standing could afford to lose well over a hundred million dollars, as well as over three-quarters of his entire wealth—all of which had been by virtue of his own folly.

And, naturally, Nathan had found out no sooner than later; and when he had, Cal knew there would be hell to pay. And there had been. As he presently relived every torturous moment of that disastrous confrontation.

"Goddamn it, Caledon! How in the hell could you have allowed this to happen?" a very wrathful Nathan Hockley demanded of his only son, circling Cal as a hyena would a decaying carcass.

Cal forced himself not to roll his eyes. What a perfect beginning to a perfectly shitty day. How wonderful. He almost allowed himself to smile in the midst of Nathan's tirade, but remained wholly impassive to merely spite the man, that pale, chiseled face completely composed in the wake of the fallen titan of a father raging before him. He waited a few minutes, watching his father move about the office like a caged lion ready to pounce on him as he took in his sixth cup of coffee that morning and wondered how in the hell he'd ever considered going to the north mill. "I'm a businessman, Nathan, not a prophet," he finally said, pyramiding his long fingers over the rim of his cup. "Many have suffered from the same fate as I. It is the natural order of things, in the world of commerce, something in which I recall you once telling me."

Nathan colored at the insult, that sickly, papery pallor darkening to a dark-gray hue of decay. "Don't you dare suggest that this was my doing, Caledon," he seethed, all righteous indignation. "If I was still heading the company, none of this would've happened. I would've known how to handle our investments, and not allow everything I'd worked so goddamned hard for to collapse around me." He cast Cal a cold, merciless glare. "You always were a disappointment," he muttered coldly. "It's a shame that I'd chosen that weak-willed sop of a woman to mother nothing but a failure, as I now wish that I had no son at all."

Nothing was said in response to Nathan's slight of his son's qualities or lack thereof, as Cal took in every word, curse, and name Nathan threw at him. He didn't even come to his dead mother's defense, when Nathan continued in his disparagement of her, for so disconnected he was to the entire scene in his office. He'd almost likened the whole thing to one of those god-awful Surrealist paintings: ugly and wholly lacking in any dedication of quality or thoughtful value. It had been a mistake in coming to the mill; he shouldn't have come at all, knowing well enough that Nathan would've heard one of the foremen muttering about the dark turn the stock market had taken. It had been a perfect storm in the making, setting it up for an inevitable confrontation that would leave one of them severely the worse for wear.

It hadn't occurred to Cal, however, that such would happen with Nathan's next blow to his already stagnant pride.

The ghost of his father loomed before him, like a mounting presence, dark and ominous. Cal had barely paid him any heed, opting instead for a cigarette to block out Nathan's ranting, which made his progenitor even angrier.

"Don't you dare withdraw yourself from me," Nathan practically snapped. "You will listen to me, goddamn it! I'll not be ignored, not this time. Do you hear me, Caledon, or have you become as deaf as you are stupid? I wish you'd been stillborn, so that I'd never have to deal with such a poor excuse of a son," he muttered, but then paused, those sallow eyes, for once, becoming thoughtful. "But then, perhaps it would've been better if you'd gone down with that ship with some semblance of nobility. At least then there would've been some means of compensation in losing that diamond, along with that ungrateful slut you would've brought into the family, although Felicia was no better. I am relieved, however, that Bukater's daughter had never been attached to our family name. A daughter of misfortune like that deserved to go down with the debt that would've been yours, had you married her."

The cigarette fell from Cal's hand, and onto the floor, with Nathan's throat in its place.

The dissembling specter cried out in startled surprise as Cal's hold on him tightened. "Caledon!" he rasped out, albeit incoherently, as he was flailed haplessly about like a ragdoll. His once empowering form faded in and out, shrinking to nothing but a pathetic shape of a powerless, middle-aged man whose outward alarm mirrored the terror he inwardly felt. For gone was the foreboding nightmare that had dominated Hockley Steel for the better part of two generations, those filmy black eyes widening in disbelief by the power and control Cal naturally exerted as he displayed a perfect sense of control beyond any human limitation. It had been then, and only then, that Nathan Hockley ever truly feared his son.

He actually felt pain, where only the numbness of death had long been present. The acute feel of it was almost too shocking to comprehend; the raw, overly potent anger in his son's eyes coming in at a close second as he endured yet another blow to the face from those claw-like hands. The elder Hockley closed his eyes then, a silent revelation filtering across their hazy depths. His son's retribution had come at last. For all the many beatings he'd instilled almost half a century ago, his son had finally revisited them upon him, matching mark for mark, the scars he'd left returned in a form far worse than those that lay upon Cal's back.

It had been a bitter realization; the acrid taste of it a desolate warning of what was yet to come as his son drug him unceremoniously from the office, and into the heart of the mill itself. He'd watched in deathly silence as those below, both the living and the dead, toiled about in their daily routine; the latter of which were seemingly the only ones aware of his presence. He almost screamed when he was pressed firmly up against the railing that prevented both him and his son from a terrible fall. "Caledon, what do you think you're doing?" he hissed, although the look in his son's eyes quelled any sense of bravado on his part.

Nathan, for all of his boldness, knew exactly what Cal intended, and he despaired in the wake of it, those cold black eyes, which very much mirrored his own, issuing a fate far worse than the death he'd suffered that night in bed, as it was then that Cal finally spoke:

"You have haunted me for far too long, Nathan," he ground out, wholly without sympathy or kindness, the light of an obscured sun cast perilously around them. Cal ignored the slight sting of it on his arms and shoulders as he held his ground—and his hold—on Nathan. He stepped forward, a fraction of an inch away from his father's quivering face, those long, frightful nails barely gracing it with their sharp tips. He considered Nathan in silence, wondering how he'd ever feared such a pathetic, cowering excuse of a man who had once held such notable prestige among so many financial giants when his own, withering mortality had ultimately claimed him in the end. And yet, he no longer feared the man who had been his father, and he smiled, although it was a smile filled with disappointment, bitterness, and resignation. It had been a smile nevertheless.

And, as such, he'd indulged his old man in one, last, final conversation between father and son. "You've long instilled fear and obedience in those whom you've always held beneath you. You never held anyone at the same level as yourself, even your own son. You were even once a fierce competitor among your competition, as you knew not what it was to fear. But you do fear, don't you, Nathan?" he queried, half-mockingly, as he whispered in his father's ear, "And I know what it is."

Nathan's murky eyes widened to two, twin pale full moons. "You…wouldn't dare," he bit out, but knew that his son would.

Cal regarded him coldly. "It is the way of any good businessman, who must make sacrifices for the greater good of the empire he's striven so hard to create. Is that not what you taught me?" he replied, a perfect carbon copy of the man whose fate he held in his hands. "After all, in the wake of an economic downfall, one must take steps to prevent his empire from collapsing entirely, even if it means taking the gentlemen's way out. And your time has come, Nathan, as I know you fear what lies beyond that threshold you dread so much to pass." He paused, as if collecting his thoughts, although the grip on Nathan's throat tightened exponentially. Cal laughed; a dark semblance of the merciless creature he had become, and the unholy wrath that came with it—an ill-fated harbinger of his final verdict—as he decided his father's fate. "You shouldn't have mentioned Rose; I might've actually shown you an ounce of leniency, and would've allowed you to dwell here in this self-created limbo of yours. But not now."

"Caledon, please," Nathan broke out in a staggered breath. "Please, don't do this. You can't do this. I am your father."

But the son he'd molded into his own likeness would not be swayed. Like the cold-hearted figure he'd once derived a distant pleasure in creating, the repercussions had been without pardon from consequence. As it was a machine, not a man, who had weighed, measured, and found him—him, Nathan Hockley, the overlord of Hockley Steel!—entirely wanting. His fate had been decided the moment he'd mentioned Rose deWitt Bukater, and now he would pay the price for blackening her name in this hellish demon he had for a son's eyes.

And yet, he made one final plea; for in spite of everything, Nathan had always been one for negotiation, even in the presence of one as tireless and as inexorable as death. He watched in growing horror as the dead—those he'd once ignored in life—draw near, gathering in a hoard underneath them. "Caledon, please, reconsider. I'll—I'll never trouble you again. If you'll allow me this one reprieve, I'll never cross paths with you or your children again. Please, son, allow your father this one kindness."

"Kindness?" Cal echoed hollowly, as if the meaning itself had eluded him. "I know not of any kindness you have ever afforded me, or anyone else. No, Nathan, you do not deserve anything less than what you offered to those who had asked the very same of you." The hand that restrained Nathan loosened only a fraction as its counterpart tilted a frantic Nathan dangerously over the railing, to where the mass of the wronged, demanding, and ravenous, awaited him. Cal barely noticed them, his attention fixed solely upon the man who had once tormented him. "Your pleas of mercy have been heartening, Nathan," he ground out caustically, "but I no longer have to answer to you, let alone to only a shadow of the man you were." He cast a glance at the lingering dead on the mill's ground floor. "As it seems that you finally have to answer to more than just me. I do hope you enjoy hell, you cowering son of a bitch, for I'm already there."

And with those parting words, he let go, releasing Nathan to those who awaited him below as the dead descended on him when he fell. Cal watched his father faltering helplessly underneath the hungering multitude, heard his screams underneath the moldering tidal wave of bodies, arms and hands grasping and tearing as Nathan fought off their advances, though in vain, as he finally succumbed to the mass that claimed his very existence.

Cal made a noise of disgust. The sight itself was so reminiscent, so similar to his own experience that he'd only faintly grasped the significance of it. How ironic it now seemed that Nathan finally had a taste of what Cal had endured on those barren black waters that had changed a part of him forever.

He'd watched it all with an apathetic stillness until he sensed Nathan's ethereal existence flicker and fade until it guttered out completely. He closed his eyes, a moment of silence accorded to the man who had left him with a failing empire and an intangible name to carry on, as the dead who'd delighted in Nathan's second demise finally made to acknowledge him, their expressions bordering on passing indecision to absolute reverence, before they, too, dissipated into the nothingness from whence they came. Cal, however, barely gave them a second thought.

The north mill had once again become a place for the living, and Cal their enduring employer, the son, at last, taking that which was rightfully his once and for all. He looked upon his kingdom of steel and iron ore for what felt to be the first time as the massive entity before him emphasized the power and authority of the Hockley dynasty. He looked up it all, and marveled, if only for a moment, how great his sovereignty was—even if such was nothing more than a crumbling ruin of a once grand and resplendent empire. It was an empire—his empire—all the same. Nathan's demise by his own hand had seen to that.

"The king is dead," he found himself mutter amidst the pipes of hissing steam and roaring furnaces, as he turned away from the guttered sunlight and returned to his office. "Long live the king."

That had been two weeks ago. As Nathan's absence from the mill was as shocking in its nonexistence as it was welcomed. For even in the midst of the company's financial situation, the ghostly apparition that had been his father was no more, and Cal no longer cared to summon the man into his memory. As Nathan—wherever he was—had finally, and without any hope of returning, moved on.

Cal crushed the remainder of his cigar into a nearby ashtray as he glanced at the letter once again. There was no hope of recovery—not this time—as everyone would, rich and poor alike, come to suffer from this economic downturn for a long time to come. And, ironically, he'd been given a hint of its coming, months in advance. He smirked at his own foolishness in not heeding some overly devout seer who'd originally hailed from the backwater reaches of Kentucky. He would more than love to say that the whole thing had been a ruse, although how Cayce—even if he were indeed a very perceptive charlatan, who'd divulged every last bit of Cal's personal history—could know of the diamond was beyond Cal.

He'd never made his possession of it public knowledge, never kept any notes or remainders of its existence, especially since he'd purchased the goddamned thing in Europe, and had kept it under lock and key until he'd shown it to Rose in an attempt to allay whatever bout of melancholia she'd had. He rolled his eyes at the tender gesture he'd expressed then. Running off in a dinner dress—without gloves or even a proper coat, no less—to see the propellers. Really! The girl had indeed been out of her mind. But, by God, that had been something that had attracted him to her, although the results proved to be fatal in the end.

He'd noticed the staff had done their daily ritual in replacing the roses near the Rossetti in his room when he'd returned home. It had been an almost welcoming sight for his tired eyes as he gazed upon the painting's likeness and imagined things that he'd imagined after the Carpathia had docked in New York. He'd tilted a glass half full of brandy to the staid lady, another face replacing her impassive one, as Cal indulged himself in his momentary fantasy of a life he could've had. For what would it have been like if the Titanic had completed her maiden voyage, and had arrived in New York instead of a heavy-laden Carpathia? The question had always made him wonder, yet never gave him a definitive answer.

It was just as well, since nothing ever came of a hypothetical situation. Only the absolute certainty of what had happened remained. And he'd accepted it. Seventeen years ago. He would consider it again, however, as he would doubtlessly dwell on all of the what-ifs and only-thens that would never come to pass.

But, in the interim, he would consider other, more pressing matters at hand, like that damned Nelson Rockefeller's interest in Charlotte. Cigar forgotten, Cal thought back on the day when he'd nearly snapped the man's neck—as well as another bastard's—in front of over half of Pittsburgh's most elite families.

Staring off into the distance of his study, Cal vaguely heard the staff prepare for the night, his mind idly comparing their work to the roar of the mill's machinery and boiling furnaces. He thought of his children then, particularly of Charlotte, and that whole nasty affair regarding her and that Rockefeller scum, which had ultimately rendered his long distance association with one of the greatest steel owners half a world away forever broken. He frowned at the reality of it. Had it really only been a month that had passed since then? he wondered, tapping his manicured fingers against his desk. It almost felt as though everything had happened yesterday, as a multitude of toasts from one collective table of fools to another could still be heard in the background of his thoughts.

Wineglass after wineglass had clanged dissonantly against one another in a listless precession of stupidity that had set Cal's rationality on end. He recalled muttering an oath under his breath as he drank the last of his wine. Dear God, it had been bad enough to have to endure another stupid event as one of Margaret Carnegie Miller's philanthropy functions, but having to tolerate such a younger generation of fools, who would surely destroy a score or more of family businesses was beyond unbearable. And yet, he could do nothing but tolerate them, since Mrs. Margaret Miller née Carnegie, being the only daughter and child of Andrew Carnegie, and the whole of the Pittsburgh steel echelon was expected to be in attendance, just had to hold one of her ridiculous little charity events. There was precious little he could do but to accept that damned invitation; though, if he had known the hell he'd receive from attending, then he would've kindly declined in going, and given the witch a very generous sum to shut her and her desire to aid those in need up.

Indeed, now that he fully reflected upon it, that would have been the better alternative, compared to what had transpired instead. His first mistake—although he refused to confess it had been an actual mistake on his part—was to bring his children along. His second mistake, ultimately, was to allow them to congregate among their acquaintances, without keeping a carefully guarded eye on each.

Alexander's inebriated state by the evening's end had been the least of his worries, in a long line of embarrassments that troubled him to this day. Even after a month, Celia was barred from leaving the house, her indiscretion in kissing in public, which had reached his ears by one of the hostess' obnoxious children, had roused him from a very intense conversation with Roswell Miller about the future of steel. He'd barely retained his rage when the child laughed about "Your pretty daughter is kissing one of the waiters by the veranda" within the earshot of those standing close by. Roswell had flushed at his child's candid behavior, although Cal caught a hint of satisfaction in the man's eyes, while a few others looked at him in question. He'd excused himself without another word, silently cursing Roswell and everyone in the room. Let them question his capability in taking his children in hand; he no longer cared, although his children would bear the brunt of their incredulity.

Closing his eyes, Cal recalled his finally finding Celia. For it was just as Roswell's impertinent little child had said: his daughter was indeed with one of the staff, their lovesick stares and hastily matched kisses turning his stomach as he watched them in silence, and remembered a similar scene he'd witnessed over seventeen years before. The young man holding his daughter had had no time to react when Cal rather nonchalantly thrust him against an adjoining brick wall. Celia's screams were mercifully drowned out by the function's orchestra as Cal commenced in beating the man to within an inch of his life.

Blood had smeared his hands and face, and he lavished in its coppery scent as he proceeded to give the young man who had touched his daughter a lesson of his own. His dirty-blond hair was barely recognizable underneath the caked blood and dirt, his white waiter's uniform torn and sodden beyond recognition. Cal, however, in spite of the grisly sight before him, had remained completely composed.

"Let that be a lesson to you, young man: a gutter rat should never try to sully something that can never belong to him," he'd muttered to where only he and the nearly-unconscious waiter could hear. He then looked down at his hands, half-tempted to indulge in their sanguine taste but refrained, instead choosing to wipe away the remnants of his anger from his hands and face with a handkerchief. He'd be damned if he imbibed in the blood of some low-class social climber, who hadn't even the tact to simply serve without tasting the riches, far beyond his meager income.

He'd left the man lying there, taking a speechless Celia in hand as he personally escorted her to the main foyer, to where his chauffer waited. "She's developed a chill, and needs to return home at once," he'd told his chauffer, although the man caught onto the obvious lie, but accepted his employer's explanation nonetheless as he was obliged in taking the girl home early, before returning to retrieve Cal and the rest of his children.

Celia, however, hadn't been absolved in her behavior—not entirely—for before she departed, with her head drawn down in disgrace, Cal had wished her well, promising her that this far from over, as he had made it a point to unleash hell on her the following night. And he had, with utmost proficiency. For the girl, in spite of her insolence, now feared him, as well as to what he would do to her if she embarrassed him again. She'd almost become a saint in a month's time since then, having little to do with anyone or anything that deserved more than the innocuous yes or no to anything pertaining toward her personally.

As Cal now considered it, what had happened that night had almost been worthwhile, since he now had all of his children kept firmly in hand. But then, Celia's affair with a nameless server ill-compared to the massive bomb he'd disarmed after dinner, since it hadn't been Alexander or Marcus who'd gained every eager and wanton eye of every unattached male of marriageable age. Charlotte, his one and only example of a perfect daughter, had been the cause for his present fury.

Although if he were to be perfectly honest with himself, she had not been at fault, since she had conducted herself as any young lady would of her caliber accordingly; it had been those surrounding her, whose poorly veiled subtlety intentions had been as scandalous as they'd been repulsive.

After reassuring himself of his youngest daughter's rather shameful departure home, he'd returned to the main foyer, as if nothing untoward had happened. His claim to those who asked of Celia suddenly falling victim to the night air had been, although a rather poor excuse for her absence, accepted it nonetheless. He and the remainder of his children had been due to linger about and made idle conversation for the better part of the night, as he would've been damned if he'd been forced to send another home—which he should have, perhaps, done, now that he considered it in retrospect. As it stood, however, he could safely say that he was no longer on friendly terms with the eldest of George Arthur Gainsborough's sons, let alone George Arthur himself, after that goddamned fiasco a month ago.

It nearly galled him to even think of it, as memories of that blight of a firstborn son resurfaced in the forefront of his thoughts. The arrogant prick had had the audacity to consider himself worthy of being in the same room as Charlotte, let alone with Cal himself. It had honestly been a sad shame that a newly-returned Albert, whose own face, Cal recalled, was thoroughly wrought with dejection when his father and brother were near, had the misfortune in bringing his horrible family along with him.

Cal hadn't seen George Arthur in the flesh for the better part of a decade—not since, if he recalled correctly, his own father's funeral—although they corresponded through telegraph or letter on occasion. George Arthur's eldest son, William, he had hadn't seen since the young man was, virtually, still a boy on the cusp of manhood. William Gainsborough hadn't been impressive, even then, although the eldest of George Arthur's brood had shown a hint of promise, while an even younger Albert had been a shadow in his brother's wake, a veritable insect quivering behind his mother's skirts as those thick, bug-eyed spectacles did nothing but magnify his own, petty insignificance of being a mere second son.

Of course, now, with all things presently considered, Cal began to wonder if it was not the other way around. After all, throughout the course of history, a younger son had, at times, trumped an older sibling in both skill and intelligence, as well as having the competence in manning a family's name and wealth successfully. Such a case had been proven, time and again; however, in this circumstance, Albert's father and elder brother were in the pinnacle of health, and showed no signs of departing from this life any time soon. As it stood, his family's respectable pedigree and his grandmother's charitable stipend were the only things to commend him financially. But then, Cal had to concede, if only to himself, that the younger Gainsborough had indeed made something else commendable of his character, insignificant and lackluster as his appearance was outwardly.

Margaret Carnegie Miller's stupid little charity auction for the poor and unfortunate had confirmed that.

As Cal considered it, however, perhaps it hadn't been the best idea to have allowed Nelson Rockefeller and William Gainsborough anywhere near his daughter; but the rules of polite society had dictated otherwise, and he'd therefore been bound by his gentlemanly obligation to oblige them when they both offered a slightly disappointed Charlotte a seat, in spite of any paternal contest that he would've gladly voiced if circumstances had permitted him. Cal had watched his daughter gingerly accept their offer, her faltering composure evident in only those cornflower-blue eyes as she reluctantly sat with each man at her side. Her incognizant gesture had only been done to appease them and to prevent from making a scene, although Cal saw the look of brotherly betrayal written all over Albert's face when she had done so, as his hand rested on the chair he'd pulled out for her when his brother stepped in and had offered her his own instead.

The younger Gainsborough had fortunately taken the slight in stride, a portion on his delight returning when Charlotte would cast him inconspicuous glances, here and there, as she dutifully smiled at whatever nonsense his brother and Rockefeller spouted. She'd had no inclination, no care, in whatever they said, as those fleeting glances to Albert—and Cal, who knew just exactly what his daughter was about, as she'd learned the art of such from him well—meant.

It was after dinner, however, that had given him provocation for such a scene.

Too much champagne—even if it had been some of the finest from 1921—had been dispensed among the crowd rather generously; that much had been a certainty. Most of everyone who'd partaken and indulged, again and again, had been well in their cups and beyond, laughing and spouting off some of the most absurd things that Cal had ever heard. Even his eldest son had not been immune to its effects, as only Marcus—sensible boy that he was—refrained from more than the customary, single flute given him, as he attempted to save his elder brother's face in front of a few gullible daughters of the Philadelphia social set, by isolating him from doing any more harm to his already questionable reputation.

And although Cal could only fault their dithering hostess for such an unremarkable oversight, he knew he could never fault her completely for everything that had happened, as even he had to accept responsibility for his own actions. Nevertheless, the night had been nothing been nothing but a nightmare from the beginning. It was a pity that he could not have simply taken his children home before any more damage was done; but then, fate, providence, or whatever the hell it was had not quite finished playing him; for while Charlotte came to Marcus' side, where both prevented Alexander from pursuing a few of the less-than-sober girls in attendance, as they placated him and his every whim. Charlotte had been up in arms in commending him for both his charm and wit, while Marcus conceded that he would do all of the paperwork Cal left them for a month if he just sat down, to which a heavily intoxicated Alexander replied with, "I'll sheet down, if I damn well wan' to sheet down, Marrcus, but I'll do'it, jus' so looong as you do that pa'erwork you pr'mised to do, an' gimme another drink!"

Marcus and Charlotte had ultimately conceded to the drink, even though both knew nothing good would come of it when Alexander eventually sobered up. And yet, Marcus' business proposal had been enough to keep Alexander seated and content; and although Cal himself scoffed at Marcus' skills of persuasion, the tactic had worked nonetheless. Alexander had been detained for the remainder of the night, an empty champagne flute tilting haphazardly in a flaccid hand as he remarked on the weather, and his aversion to snow getting into his new motorcar.

But again, it had been Charlotte, not Alexander, or even his spiteful brat of a daughter Celia and her one-time suitor, who had caused more trouble than she knew. For after all, it was always a pretty face that made men fall all over themselves and tear one another apart like a pack of hyenas. Cal grinned darkly at the overly poetic comparison; as he'd known such all too well. Personal experience, perhaps, but true nevertheless.

He should've known that her sitting with the likes of Rockefeller and George Arthur's eldest bastard would lead to nothing but trouble. And, unfortunately, he had been right. They hadn't said anything in front of her; no, that would've been completely tactless, as they waited for her to be out of earshot for only Albert to hear. Cal had dispassionately watched them take Albert off to the side, hustling the young man so much so that he nearly lost his spectacles in the process.

It had at first seemed as nothing more than a petty bout of gloating to Cal, although his interest in the two returned when he heard his daughter's named surface in the context of their drunken conversation. Rockefeller had made a lewd comment about Charlotte's new haircut—something in which she'd practically begged that he allow her to do, and he'd finally relented, though God only knew why, since he despised those short-cut bobs that flappers and the common rabble fawned so wildly over—as he brushed off his attachment to George Roberts' granddaughter as a mere financial prospect and nothing of consequence, compared to that "Fine mare of a much greater sire."

The comment about Charlotte had not upset Cal as much as the implication behind it. There was no way in hell that Nelson Rockefeller would ever worm himself into the Hockley family steel empire, no matter who that son of a bitch's grandfather was. John D. Rockefeller could shove his goodwill and his god-given sincerity up his ass, for all Cal cared. But never again, would he ever allow Nelson Rockefeller anywhere near his daughter, not after that night. And he hadn't, just as he'd equally dealt with William Gainsborough in the same, effective manner.

To think, that his father ever held any respect for the Gainsborough family, inbred, dirty, English blue-blooded bastards that they were.

"I could have the chit if I wanted, considering who my father is in the steel business and all. You, too, although you've not much of a head for it, not like your grandfather."

Nelson looked as if he'd taken offence, but had said nothing when Gainsborough continued in his crude assessment: "Oh, don't be such a pansy about it; I know you couldn't care less about the steel industry. I don't particularly care for it myself, but I'm bound to it nonetheless, no matter my desire to simply sell off the bloody business, and just enjoy life, as it were. As for that prize mare of yours, though, I have to confess that, in spite of her nationality, and her apparent interest in Albert here, she is quite a catch, isn't she?" he'd queried, mocking Albert, who glowered at him disapprovingly. William ignored his brother's displeasure, and returned his attention to Rockefeller. "Never mind that, though, she is a fine prize. Although there's one thing you seem to forget, Nelson: she isn't, precisely, Hockley's daughter, is she? Merely a piece of steerage of some bastard-born Irishman that Hockley took on as a charity case. She's nothing more than a pet to him, Nelson: a pretty, mindless, loyal bitch that will do anything her master demands of her. She's been perfectly conditioned, no matter that bog-hopping Irish taint in her blood."

It had been then that Albert stood up to his elder brother. "That's quite enough, William," the younger of the two had said firmly, boldly daring his brother to contest otherwise. "I'll not have you say anything disrespectful about Miss Hockley—not in her presence, and certainly not in anyone else's. You don't even know her."

"And you do?" William had retaliated pointedly. "Of course you do, since you've been in the lady's acquaintance…how many times now? It surely can't be any more than a handful, last I counted." He looked at Albert, a knowing smile cruelly embedded on that impassive face. "You don't know her, any more than I do, no matter her kindness in simply humoring you and your pathetic interest in her. You know that her father would never consider someone such as you, who can only play second fiddle to some like me or Rockefeller here. Face it, baby brother: you haven't a chance in hell in winning her hand, so don't even bother to try."

"You're an asshole," Albert replied coldly, his brown eyes darkening behind those wide-rimmed spectacles. "I've never seen anyone like you, William, who could derive so much pleasure in speaking so ill of others. Is it envy of something that they possess that you do not, I wonder?" He leveled his gaze with his brother's, no long the mousy scholar he'd long been perceived to be. "I understand that I could never hope to be anything close to you in our father's eyes; I do not hold such ambitions for myself, although I do happen to care for Miss Charlotte Hockley is ways that you could never fathom, whereas you could never appreciate, nor see the brilliant woman you just so callously labeled as chattel. She is leagues above you, since you could never hope to be worthy of being her presence. Even if you were to become a most pious saint among those of this earth, you would never deserve her."

William had only smirked at that. "Well played, little brother, well played indeed," he mocked, before maliciously adding, "As then there's the matter of Hockley himself. From what I've heard, the fellow isn't quite right in the head, as it were. That little topple he'd had in the streets some months ago has apparently messed with that wine-stained mind of his, although he is getting on in years. He's probably senile by now. Even so, he's wise enough not to pay you any mind, not when, from what I've heard, he's in a position that requires certain collateral to keep that steel empire of his afloat."

Rockefeller had chuckled at that, having heard the same rumor. "It's ironic that something as disastrous as the Titanic sinking couldn't destroy him, but his apparent disinterest in marrying off his children into other steel families, added with his penchant for the drink and gambling, will sink him in the end. Perhaps it is better to pursue Clark's simpering little fool of a daughter, since that will at least tie me into something other than a family with a disgrace of a prospective father-in-law."

That had done it.

Without another word to compel him, Cal vacated from his hiding place and made his presence known. He'd presented himself without preamble, his presence alone speaking volumes of his capability in commanding the three young in front of them. He gave them a congenial nod of recognition, that cool, steady dark gaze betraying nothing as he silenced the small party with a swift change in their topic of conversation. He'd given Albert a considerate glance, carefully scripting the young man's exodus, for what he had to say was solely for his brother and Rockefeller alone. As such, he granted Albert a gift that rendered William Gainsborough mystified.

"Albert, would you be so kind as to accompany my daughter in a dance? I believe a waltz is about to begin, and it's her favorite."

Albert didn't have to be told twice, although he'd expressed visible surprise at the suggestion. He'd stumbled over his gratitude for Cal giving him such leave as to attend to his daughter, but had no less taken him up on the offer as he left Cal in the company of his brother and Rockefeller.

Granting Albert such a kindness had not been solely done out of the goodness of his heart, but was more so a means to stupefy the two men before him, as he gestured for them to follow him to a more secluded area. "It was so kind of both of you to attend to my daughter at dinner," he'd said, having the two a good distance away from everyone else. "Indeed, I find myself indebted to your kind attentions to her, as I wanted to thank the both of you personally." They'd visibly shifted at the suggestion, and Cal inwardly grinned. "Since it's not every day that I have not one, but two, perfectly eligible and worthy gentlemen vying for my daughter's attention."

Rockefeller had the good sense to blanch. "It's always a pleasure to be in her company; she's quite an intelligent, accomplished young woman. A true honor, really."

Cal had given Rockefeller a patronizing grin. "Yes, it appears that my daughter has inherited a great many virtues. For after all, she is a Hockley, no matter any foreign taint that might suggest otherwise, right gentlemen?" He'd smiled a most deadly smile at Rockefeller and William, as each knew that he'd heard every word they'd said.

William had been the first to speak. "Sir, you've misunderstood—"

"Oh, have I?" Cal broke in, the cordial façade gone, replaced by the nightmare that had possessed the shrewd businessman he'd been in another life. "Don't insult my intelligence, you pathetic little prick. I know well enough what you meant; I'm perfectly sober tonight, so I understand you perfectly." With this, he clapped a friendly hand on the latter's shoulder, although such contact was far from friendly. He leaned in, for only William to hear. "If you ever come near my daughter again, I'll tear you apart, and no one, not the police, not your figure head of a king, and certainly not your father will ever find what remains of you, am I understood?" He then turned to Rockefeller, who undoubtedly surmised what Cal had whispered. "Shouldn't you be returning to your own intended, Nelson? My daughter's interests also lie elsewhere."

That had been Rockefeller's cue to retreat, which he sensibly did, muttering a few, half-intelligible apologies along the way, and obviously leaving William Gainsborough to Cal's mercy. He'd almost applauded the buffoon. Leave it to a true gentleman to allow another gentleman to completely take the fall. Rockefeller, whatever he endeavored to do with himself, would surely hold such a commendable attribute in spades. William Gainsborough was another matter entirely, however.

He hadn't torn William Gainsborough to pieces, or subjected the bastard to some vulgarity-laden tirade; in fact, he'd said very little to the man—in the brief interlude where no one noticed their presence. No, the only thing he'd imparted to George Arthur's eldest son was a look of disapproval and a thinly veiled threat of enacting what he had whispered only a few minutes before. He'd grasped Gainsborough's shoulder then, his sharp nails digging into the fine evening coat, emphasizing his point. "I am glad that we have an understanding, William; you're obviously not as stupid as Nelson Rockefeller, since you've clearly inherited some of your father's intelligence, after all," he'd said, that grip unwavering in its intent. "But even that will not save you from what I'll do if you ever consider what you suggested tonight. Stay the hell away from my daughter and return to your hole in England, if you know what's good for you."

And William Gainsborough had, as he and his father boarded the next passage back to London. Nothing had been sent in the form of an apology to Cal; indeed, the was no further correspondence between Gainsborough and himself, or even from George Arthur, who had doubtlessly found out when William was at a safe distance from Cal. Only Albert had remained, going against his father's wishes in distancing both of his sons from Charlotte and the monster of a father William had undoubtedly painted him as. It mattered little now. Cal hadn't cared either way; least of all, about what George Arthur thought of him.

He never considered George Arthur being in the same league of lowlife scum as his father, but the man had proven otherwise, as he withdrew all contact, not only from Cal, but also from Albert in the process. The boy was left virtually without the financial backing of his own family—something, Cal was sure, had been the doing of his miserable elder brother—as he lived on, from what Cal had heard, was a kind stipend from his maternal grandmother. It had been most fortunate for Albert to have a viscount's dowager daughter to sympathize with his plight, by providing him with a moderate income. And even luckier for him, perhaps, that Charlotte had been made privy to such knowledge, otherwise Cal would have been compelled to server their tender association altogether.

But then, Cal had to admit, in spite of Albert's many shortcomings, and the drastic turn in anything he'd receive from his father's inheritance, standing up for Charlotte's honor had granted him a new insight regarding the young man who was clearly enamored by his daughter. After all, it wasn't every day that a young man of Albert Gainsborough's standing would risk to lose both his family name and his inheritance over a pretty face. Perhaps there was something worthy in the young man after all, although Cal was loath still to consider Albert a prospective husband for Charlotte, no matter his obvious devotion to her.

Though now, as his own circumstances loomed heavily before him, he had to consider the future of his children very carefully, in spite of their happiness. His own marriage with Felicia hadn't been one forged from a shared, mutual happiness, but of the wealth and privileges it brought from both sides. And look how that turned out. He grimaced in the midst of his own sarcasm, and almost withdrew himself completely from the whole affair as he took the envelope that foretold the end of Hockley Steel in his hand and threw it in the trash.

He didn't bother to retrieve it, as another was bound to replace it.

It was just as well, since there was nothing else to be done but accept them with the remainder of his dignity. His patience was already wearing thin, having denied his growing hunger to ease his affliction. He'd even attempted to wean himself off of consuming so much raw meat and his own blood, only to find himself even more ravenous when he finally gave in to his thirst for something more than the bland tastes of the earthly delights which had once sated him.

Even now, he was tempted beyond measure to simply cut his wrist and indulge the demonic entity that clawed at his remaining sanity. He didn't require a base mixture of wine to heighten the experience, either; an open vein would perfectly suffice. He rubbed his tired, bloodshot eyes, fighting back the pain he internally felt. Goddamn it all, but the pain would not shift. It's gotten a lot worse, he thought, in spite of his desire to ignore the whole of his affliction entirely. He silently cursed himself and the whole of the world as the nightmare that had become his life had taken an entirely new track in his strange evolution.

It had started, not long after his uneventful meeting with Cayce. Though, even then, the occurrences hadn't been all that terrible, just a few brief instances, here and there, that he'd simply ignored. He grimaced at the simplicity of his past inaction, knowing well enough that they'd intensified since that whole mess with Wall Street, his stress and frustration and God only knew what else spurring them on.

Perhaps Cayce had opened a door into his thoughts when the man had gone into that bizarre trance. Either way, Cal had no explanation for it, though whatever the fuck that man had done when he'd answered Cal's questions, had left him with something more than just disappointment and a wasted train ticket. The mental projections—whatever the hell they were—of faces and moments and times he'd long since wished to forget would flash across his mind at the most inopportune moments. He'd unofficially labeled them as delusions, since they'd been almost as bad as Nathan, poisoning in their transitory presence, although they'd been far from ghosts that he could easily exercise.

No, they'd been far worse than that, since they'd been conjured from the reality of his own fragmented memories. His latest hallucination…he'd no wish to relive, as having to face the end of everything he'd ever known was far easier an accomplishment, as having to conjure that single mocking face that reminded him of the one time he'd ever lost.

Yes, he certainly needed that drink.

It would keep the delusions he had when he didn't drink—which was something he absolutely wouldn't tolerate tonight—at bay, as he finally relented and cut his wrist with the pocket knife he kept in his desk.

He drank freely, thinking of everything about his life and nothing simultaneously by turns, although most of his thoughts—his more coherent conjectures, to be more precise—focused on the substantial loss he could've avoided, and the bloody aftermath which would duly follow suit in the subsequent weeks. He hadn't related the extent of his losses to his children, although Marcus undoubtedly suspected, from what little he could construe from the statements Cal actually allowed him to see. Alexander had passed the twenty-ninth off as nothing but a slight dip in an ever-cyclical cycle of stocks and shares. But this was more than a mere recession; Cal had ridden out many throughout the years, and knew that whatever happened on October's last Tuesday, was unlike anything he or any other investor had seen. It was the end of an age, a turning point from the old world that he and so many of his father's living acquaintances knew, as well as the time of the Bright Young Things that were his own children, as the world proceeded into the next decade, and, more ironically, into the unknown.

He wouldn't contact Cayce again, not even for a reading on how to bandage what was undoubtedly a mortal wound for Hockley Steel. His pride would not allow him. Even though…his unexpected generosity—which was something he rarely considered—had hinted at another side, a better side, perhaps, to his otherwise forbidding and immovable character, for such was only brought on by the despondent lunacy of a madman. Perhaps he had lost his mind. He smirked in spite of it, wondering if he was still as sane as he'd been on the twenty-eighth of October as he was now, staring at the endless vacuum of a life ruined in a single day. His mouth fell away from his wrist, the wound healing instantly.

For the moment, he remained a millionaire, if only in name, although becoming a pauper was now his—as well as his family's—reality. It was almost too inconceivable, too unfathomable to even comprehend. He glanced at the top right-hand drawer of his desk, half-inclined to open it, where one solution to his problem lay within. And how easy—how fucking simple!—it would be to resort to it. But he wasn't a coward, not like Nathan, who cowered before the inevitable for a decade, hiding away in the shadows that had only embellished an indomitable force that hadn't really been there—not like his, which was still a force to be reckoned with.

He barely construed what would remain of such after the destabilization of Hockley Steel finally became a reality when a knock—almost timid in its swift, yet firm, motion—on his study door pulled him from the darkness of his thoughts. Charlotte. How unsurprising. As per usual, her timely concern for his well-being was as punctual in its nightly occupation as the irregularity in his hours was that permitted her presence. And yet, he welcomed her all the same.

And, as usual, that same genuine look of worry suffused her delicate features when she shut the door, doubtlessly for a moment of privacy. "I saw your light on," she began, taking a seat across from him, her hands folded over the thick folds of her light-blue dressing gown. "I just wanted to see if you needed anything." When she saw him shake his head, she continued. "You've been working so hard lately, Daddy; we hardly see you at home anymore. Marcus said that he and Alexander can barely keep up with you."

Cal acknowledged her words with a disturbingly silent affirmation. For in that momentary gesture, he saw the beauty that so naturally became his eldest daughter, even with that ghastly short bob of hair she seemed to favor. Still, though, she was a marvel to behold. A blonde geisha, dressed in delicate pale silks of the Orient. An absolute gem, utterly flawless, and one of the finest in his collection. It was almost a shame that he might have to barter her to cover some of his own losses. But he would think of that later. Right now, he had to play "Daddy" for his little Charlotte.

"They've done adequately well in handling whatever task I assign them," he returned, a mundane response, although it seemed to please her. "I believe Marcus will one day prove a most valuable asset to the company, although…"

"You wish you could say the same for Alexander," she finished for him, wholly in understanding, as she sadly shook her head. "I know that Alexander isn't really one for business, but he does have his good points."

Cal lifted a questioning eyebrow. "If you can name them, then I might believe you."

Charlotte flushed madly under his dispassionate gaze. "Well, he's…he's always…Let me think on that," she finally said, completely at a loss for words, and her father laughed, strangely amused.

"You may have all of the time in the world for that one, since I won't rush you for an answer on your brother's many talents any time soon," he said, and Charlotte returned his laughter with her own.

It was as close to a joke as he'd make at his son's expense, without the hellfire and brimstone that it usually came with in such a circumstance. The tension between father and daughter lightened significantly, becoming almost nonexistent, if only for a short time. She'd even brought him some tea, instead of the coffee she usually offered him on nights such as this. Apparently, she desired him to retire for the night, her next words confirmation of that wish.

She glanced at the clock on the mantle-piece, noting the hour. "Daddy, it's a little after two in the morning. You've had such a busy day at the mill; why don't you rest for the night?" She had the kindness in not saying anything of their family's financial woes, although Cal knew for a fact that she'd heard, and worried, not necessarily for their wealth or the mills, but for him.

He only wished that he could say the same for Alexander, while Marcus strove to do everything he could to reverse the damage already done to the company, and Celia remained duly afraid of him, although she seemed to fear losing a large portion of the comforts she'd long known and had come to expect even more. It had surely been from Felicia's side that he'd gotten such a flighty, narrow-minded creature for a daughter and a simpleton for an heir. Though no longer, he corrected himself, taking in Charlotte's faltering smile and tired expression. God only knew how long she'd stayed up, worrying.

He stood then, coming to her side and placed a hand on one of her slumping shoulders. It was as much fatherly affection as he would allow, as he urged her to go to bed. "I'll be along shortly," he assured her. A lie, of course, but one she'd accepted, as she smiled her brightest smile, in spite of her silent fears, and kissed his cheek.

"Good-night, Daddy. I'll…see you in the morning," she said, and he nodded his head in silent agreement, a final look taken, as she closed the door behind her, and leaving him once again to the silence that had become a most intimate companion to him.

He barely noticed that she'd kissed him good-night, her retreating footsteps melting into the darkness beyond his study. He was scarcely aware of anything, his wrist already healed, although his thirst hadn't left him, not fully, as the delusions returned in full force. Goddamn it. He'd never had them so bad before. Pushing himself at work had done little to allay them, as a heady dose of regret, guilt, and possibly everything else in that category had only fueled them in their intensity.

His eyes closed against the pain they inflicted, but he would not give in to them. No, he would not surrender, not even to that one delusion that was as cold and as alluring as an iceberg. The danger of what lay beneath its surface was too Freudian, too unpredictable, and too deadly for his already faltering sanity. But the image remained: a fiery vapor, dark and utterly tantalizing in its primal state, calling to him, tempting him to let go of everything. Take it up. Kiss it as you would my frozen corpse. Pull the trigger. Let go. Just let go.

He took the engagement ring from out of his pants pocket instead, his distant thoughts alighting on the portrait in his bedroom, and of the timeless beauty who would never smile as its damned counterpart in his mind instinctively did.

Veronica Veronese. Silent. Restrained. Composed. Forever trapped in her gilded cage. A perfect lady. What complete and utter bullshit. Rossetti should've named her Katherina Minola, for the insufferable cocktease she so inherently was, and had been done with it. But then, Cal in a way understood Rossetti enshrining one of his finest portraits, by titling it with a moniker so true to its nature, since he, in essence, shared a certain connection of loss with the artist. Of course, he hadn't lost some terribly clichéd, lost love to a laudanum overdose; his loss was nothing as inspiring as that, since Rossetti's wife and muse had seemingly loved him in return before meeting her tragic end. Though all the same, tragedy was a thing Cal knew intimately, as he allowed the siren in, no longer barring her and her self-righteous rage.

He glanced at the ring that he held in the palm of his hand, watching its set diamonds sparkle like stars as its former keeper returned from the abyss, her unsightly contours melding against the ring, a golden Medusa, with a stone-like stare to match. Why haven't you let go? those serpentine eyes silently accused. Cal frowned at the accusation, and forced the image from his mind, rejecting it, rejecting her…if only temporarily, as the customary habit in spinning the ring in between his fingers returned him to a brief moment of reality. He could think of nothing else, as he tugged at a familiar gold chain attached to his waistcoat pocket, his mental barriers breaking down with each passing second.

He looked at his pocket watch. Almost twenty after two. Roughly around the same time as—but he would not think of that, not now, not when he considered what he had to do, although the timing did help in making his decision.

Staring down at the tea Charlotte had left him, he took it up, his final kindness to her, as he indulged himself in its bitter contents until only the bottom of the cup remained, a mass of black tea leaves, congealed and ugly, and holding nothing but their own, pathetic insignificance in regards to his future. It was almost a pity that they didn't foretell what would happen next in his crazy upside down life, as the face returned, a relentless adversary, that would not cease in its silent provocation as it forced him to think of his life and the letter in the tin wastebasket which sat next to him.

His gaze lingered over to where it resided, before returning his attention to the top right-hand drawer of his desk. He pulled it open without another word, his answer—his sanity—staring back at him in cold, black assurance. His sole means of saving his family. A courtesy for a gentleman. The only measure to prove himself unlike his cowardly father, as his parting words to Nathan revisited him, demanding that he prove the man wrong, that he could take the gentlemen's way out with some dignity. And he had only the noble Romans of a fallen empire to thank for it, as there had been no other of his acquaintance from whom he could learn by example. Not yet, anyhow. Perhaps they would jump out of their townhouse windows, with a gilded hope that they could fly tomorrow. He himself held no such delusions as salvation lay, cold and solemn, before him.

He disregarded its presence, however, holding off the inevitable as he briefly thought of his children and the legacy he would leave them, before returning his attention to the ring. He spun it around in a laconic manner, wholly lackadaisical in his silent summation of his past forty-seven years of life as he recited part of a poem he'd read in his Harvard days:

"And he was rich – yes, richer than a king –
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place."

The engagement ring spun on without impediment.

"So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;"

He pulled out the revolver, his other hand continuing in the ring's spinning.

"And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and—"

A single gunshot echoed in the study, the revolver, with its gunmetal gray casing, clattering noisily against the floor until a deafening silence replaced it.

A body eclipsed half of the blood-splattered mahogany desk, its lifeless shape exuding the internal cold of a life extinguished long before the pulling of a trigger. Only a body had continued on, its mechanical movements soulless and resolute. Though no more. He was now as assuredly dead as she or any other who'd perished that night. And that had made all the difference, as those black eyes, in the midst of cooling dark blood and scattered brain tissue, clouded over in true death, his already still heart as silent as the grave.

It would later be noted in subsequent newspaper headlines that the great Caledon Hockley had taken his own life, considering his financial circumstances and the questionable survival of Hockley Steel. What it would not print, although true in its speculation of the former, was that he'd finally succumbed to that which he'd long eluded for seventeen years, the sole reminder of such a miserable and intenerate existence that had been within arm's reach of something he could never truly attain. The papers would, assuredly, suggest otherwise, creating more of a myth than anything of relative substance. He would die in the wake of shame, and burden his family with a scandal of his own making. People would speak of his downfall for years to come, as he had finally slipped in his guileless perfection, the artifice broken at last.

If he could've smiled, he would have, if solely at the irony of his own, pathetic demise. The final traces of his undead life had ebbed away to the cold, black stillness of death, with only a fading mental image of a young woman of seventeen in a purple pinstriped day suit smiling her mocking half-smile at him as she boarded an ill-fated ocean liner that edged perilously toward eternity. He inwardly laughed at the sight of her. Dream or crazed manifestation, death must've had a twisted sense of humor, since the siren of his delusions welcomed him all the same, an endless, rapturous façade of intrigue etched upon her horrifically beautiful face, as he mindlessly accepted her poisonous embrace, and hell itself.

The last synapse in his brain snapped, the diamond ring—the bodily symbol of eternity—glittering darkly in the growing stillness as his fingers absently withdrew from his possession of it, his lowly existence no longer connected with its gleaming silver shape.

He thought his last, with only a hellfire siren in mind.

And the ring fell…

…as it stopped in its spinning.

Author's Notes: Such a Lord of the Rings moment, with the chapter ending there. But, yes, Happy Halloween, everyone! This is an early treat from me, although I'm sure that many of you may consider it more the trick than an actual treat…

I honestly don't know where to begin with this; but, to be perfectly honest, I've had this chapter's ending planned since this story's conception. It was sadly unavoidable, and was, actually, pretty much the reason why I'm writing this story. I think James Cameron's comments on Cal "getting his just desserts," although he admitted that Cal suffered from the fate of a one-dimensional villain in his director's commentary, during one of the film's deleted scenes. Nevertheless, his comments reinforced my desire to write a story in which Cal is not the completely the aforementioned, soulless one-dimensional villain as he was depicted in the film. As such, I do hope that the whole ending scene was believable. I had a lot of difficulty in writing it, and put it off for as long as I could. Either way, Cal isn't playing with a full deck of cards anymore, as those delusions unfortunately suggested.

It might also be impossible for Cal to actually have any coherent thoughts after blowing his brains out; but, for some reason, the man seems to defy the laws of science. His decision to shoot himself after looking at the time is also significant of his escaping death during the sinking.

I also hope this chapter doesn't seem too rushed, since a lot of things happened, but I am beginning to tie up some loose ends, before I continue on to the second half of this story. I wanted this chapter to feel as if a good deal of time—months, really—had passed, so I hope it had that kind of feel to it for everyone. I also glanced through this chapter, so I'm bound to have missed some grammatical errors. I'll correct it if I catch anything; I just wanted to post this, since today reflects the semi-ending of this first half perfectly.

And Celia's little encounter with that nameless waiter just came out of nowhere, honestly. For that reason, as well as the parallel between her and Rose's relationship with Jack, I decided to leave it in, so that Cal could deal with it, not to mention his own issues regarding the whole Jack/Rose love affair and his part in it, seventeen years later. It just worked out that way, and I'm actually glad that it did, since it needed to be addressed. Consider it a twenty-first century method of therapy for Cal! :D

Nathan's exit is left open for interpretation. I'll admit that it's a very vague and dark fate that Cal left him with, but, again, it's the readers' call, as to what actually became of him.

Also, I didn't directly mark the date, but this chapter pretty much takes place a couple of weeks after the stock market crash, which would explain the letter and the timing of its arrival. I actually had some issues about the whole stock broker/investor-jumping-out-of-building-windows-on-the-29th thing, since that's really just a myth, as there were very few suicides recorded that denoted such. It's mainly why I didn't have Cal musing too much on any of his acquaintances doing that kind of thing, other than such being tongue-and-cheek, since his reason for his own suicide wasn't exactly over his loss of fortune, either.

And now, for some historical trivia!

Surrealism was really only in its nascent stages in the 1920s. I didn't mention Salvador Dalí, mainly for the fact that he was only beginning to become a prominent artist in 1929, and Cal probably wouldn't have heard of him at the point in time anyway, especially since he obviously had a distaste for new movements and groups, like the Impressionists and Cubist painters. It just didn't seem fitting for him to take an interest in something he disliked, you know?

Margaret Carnegie Miller was the only daughter of Andrew Carnegie and Louise Whitfield, who was a philanthropist and heiress to her father's fortune in steel. She was married to Roswell Miller for some time, and had four children by him, before their marriage ended in divorce in 1953. From what I've read, the couple did remain on friendly terms, even after marrying other spouses. Andrew Carnegie's enterprise was primarily in Pittsburgh, so it's theoretically possible that Margaret would have charity functions there among the wealthy. That assumption is the basis for setting up the conclusion to the first half of this story.

The 1921 vintage of champagne that Alexander evidently had a little too much of is heavily hinted to be the 1921 Dom Pérignon, which is considered to be one of the most sought-after bottles of champagne among wine collectors, as well as one of the best vintages known. It's also the first year in which Dom Pérignon began bottling champagne—a little tidbit I learned from an episode of Pawn Stars—and is a crown jewel in its own right. I'd love to try some myself! XD

The poem that Cal recites at the end is from Edwin Arlington Robinson's narrative poem, "Richard Cory," which describes the life of a man who has everything, yet is far from happy. The poem is from the perspective of the townspeople—who are obviously poor, yet admire him nonetheless—and emphasizes his apparent unhappiness that the townspeople fail to understand through his suicide at the end. I decided to use it as a means to parallel Cal's life, and what he must be thinking of at that moment, with it. It's a very short poem, but is powerful in its overall meaning nonetheless.

There are a couple of allusions strewn about, here and there, in this chapter, as well. Katherina Minola is Shakespeare's Shrew from The Taming of the Shrew. The "courtesy for a gentleman" remark is directly taken from the 2002 film adaptation of The Count of Monte Cristo, in which a very similar instance is played out in the film. I love, love, love that film, by the way! :D The comparison of Rose being as deep and profound as an iceberg is an allusion to Freud's Id, Ego, and Superego concept. The "weighed, measure, and found wanting" is from A Knight's Tale.

Amanda, thank you so much again for continuing to read this story! I confess that I grinned when I read your review, since you nailed Cal's fate in it: his unusual kindness was indeed a foreshadowing of the hell he would spiral into. This chapter is the storm that you so aptly mentioned! I also hope you liked Albert, since I wanted him to really shine in this chapter, by standing up to his bully of an older brother. If only there were more men out there like Albert…Charlotte's so lucky! And, truly, I am so happy to know that this story has had you reconsider Cal's character. I also thought very little of him, when I first saw the movie, but now, after having read some criticisms regarding the film, as well as some very well-written fanfiction about Cal on this site, I have to say that I can no longer see him in the same light as I once did. But again, it is an honor, to know that you regard Cal differently and also like the Cal/Rose edge! :)

RikkiChadwick2011, that is indeed funny that a Charlotte has shown up as prominent characters in our stories. I haven't read your story, but I'll look into it! Thanks so much for reading and reviewing; I am so glad that you've enjoyed reading so far!

And again, my thanks to everyone who is reading. Thank you, also, for all of your thoughts, messages, and PMs, I truly appreciate it!

Until the next chapter!

Kittie

November 30th, 2011: Just a quick note. I re-edited this chapter, and reformatted the Richard Cory poem, as well as the flashback between Cal and Nathan. I should also have everything corrected this time. I've also redone the ending a bit, since I wasn't completely happy with the first draft. I may revise this chapter again, since I still feel that it could be more than it is. But we'll see. Either way, I'm now satisfied with this newly revised ending, whereas the other was not for what I'd originally hoped.