Chapter 9: The Final Day Dawns

April 14th, 1912.

There was nothing right on that morning. There are those who claim it was a date like any other, but such is not the truth. The very sea breeze that often whispered so calmly and blissfully during days past suddenly dropped a few deathly degrees. It sneaked down, slithering stealthily into Titanic's most inner reaches, uttering words of warning that were lost on the ears of the mortal. Its freezing breaths, however, were felt in full.

The breezy exhales of a foreboding wind are what roused Ludwig from his sleep. The cold shook him awake.

The wind continued its endeavors, sliding its freezing tendrils up and around an Italian called Feliciano. Premonitions of the tragedy to come surrounded his unconscious mind, dancing within his loosely formed thoughts and sinking claws within his frame of mind, stealing his semi-conscious away in the form of a nightmare. He stirred.

Ludwig was aware of some movement before he understood what was causing it; then there were the sounds. At first, the same whimpers as before. Then, they progressed. More comprehendible mumbles, loosely resembling words but nothing Ludwig could understand. He made a movement of his own, sitting up in his bunk and letting his woolen blankets slide limply into pools on his lap and beside his legs.

"Feliciano?" he whispered, thinking maybe his voice alone could jolt his friend from this restless half-sleep.

No such luck. The tossing, turning, and gentle sleep talking continued.

Ludwig hopped out of bed and crossed the room as he'd done last time.

"Hey," he shook the smaller man's shoulder. He still did not wake up. Instead, he reached up and tugged Ludwig's arm toward his chest, curling up into a ball as he did so.

"N-No," he stuttered in response to whatever nightmare plagued him. He twisted again, causing Ludwig to stumble and nearly collapse on top of him.

"Wake up!" the German hissed, holding a trembling shoulder.

"No…no, no, no," Feliciano continued to say.

"Wake up!" was Ludwig's pleading cry. He jerked Feliciano's shoulder. Two eyes snapped awake, blind, unadjusted to the darkness. Feliciano gasped as he woke: for air, for clarity, for confirmation. He was alive.

He held Ludwig's arm tighter. It was slightly painful, but he didn't mind. Ludwig could feel how hard Feliciano was shaking, and if his tired eyes weren't mistaken, those were tears slipping out the corners of his eyes.

"What happened?" he asked.

Feliciano shook his head and buried his face in Ludwig's arm. The muscular man tried to shake him away, but it was no use. "Feliciano! Calm down!" he hissed.

The young Italian continued to suck in breath after ragged breath.

"What was it?" Ludwig struggled to keep his voice calm, since Feliciano was both trying his patience and trying to give him a heart attack.

"A n-nightmare," Feliciano stammered in reply, "A r-really bad one."

"What was your nightmare? Do you want to tell me? Would it help?" Ludwig attempted comfort, but worried that a harsh-sounding voice like his own wouldn't do the trick for someone so childlike. He was completely wrong, of course, but he wouldn't fully understand why until later.

"I don't know," Feliciano whined, reminiscent of a puppy as his posture curled inward yet further.

Ludwig simply stood and waited; listened to his breathing slow, watched his eyes stop leaking salty water, felt his grip loosen. "Water," he finally said, "That's what I dreamed of. Water rushing everywhere. Some people were dying in it, but I was okay. I think that was the worst part."

"Well everything is fine now," Ludwig said. He hoped that was the right thing to tell him. "It was just a dream. Not real. There's no need to be afraid now."

The tears started falling again: onto the blankets they splashed, one by one, two by two.

"I saw you," Feliciano sobbed, "You were one of the people dying."

Ludwig blinked against the darkness, against nothingness, unsure of what to say. What was the right response to this? Did such words even exist?

"But I'm right here. Nothing happened to me. We're both fine."

Feliciano nodded, but he didn't make a sound. The two of them remained still; Ludwig seated, teetering on the edge of the bunk, and Feliciano burrowed in blankets, fearfully clinging to the arm that joined him in the warm cocoon. They looked around, mostly at each other, squinting through the soupy darkness.

Words weren't needed, but after a while, two were finally spoken: "Thank you," from Feliciano.

And then there was the reply, "For what?"

"Just being here."

Once again, there was no correct replication, nor was a response required. A reassuring aura of caring and understanding circulated until Feliciano's breathing became even and rhythmic.

There was the almost silent whisper of a question: "Are you awake?" To which the little Italian could not give an answer. With that, Ludwig ambled back over to his bunk for a few more hours of precious sleep.

Gilbert sat confidently on the table that he'd danced upon last night, arms folded, legs crossed, insistently retelling the story of how he'd saved Elizabeth's life that fateful night. Ludwig refused to believe any of it.

"It's true, I'm telling you!" he contended.

His little brother just scoffed, leaning back in his stool. "When you're ready to tell me the real story behind that girl, go right ahead."

"I'm telling you the truth," Gilbert pouted.

"Ah, so it went well with that girl? Do tell me more," an eavesdropper's question came from above.

Gilbert recognized that French accent and that mischievous laughter, but he had to actually look at the golden-haired nitwit at the top of the stairs to believe it.

"Is that you up there, Francey-Pants?" Gilbert shouted, hopping off the table, argument totally forgotten.

"Oui, mon ami," Francis stated.

Gilbert hurried toward him, asking, "How the hell did you find me?"

The blond chuckled for a moment before he said, "It was easier than I thought it'd be, that's for sure. But enough about that! How did it go with Elizabeth?"

Of course. That was just like Francis. Who cared about anything else, when there was a creature of the female variety to be spoken of? The awesome Gilbert decided to give Francis the full story by recounting his awesome tale of awesome rescue. This time, his audience actually trusted he was telling the truth.

"Ah, such a tragic romance!" Francis said. "A flaming, passionate love, torn apart by the separation of social classes and a cold, hateful fiancé!"

Gilbert felt his face getting hot again, which he really didn't like. "Enough already," he muttered, "It's not like I'll be able to see her again anyway."

Only after those words left his mouth did Gilbert realize how much he actually wanted to see her again. For some reason, it felt like last night was forever ago, and all he wished for was to see Liza again. It was a strange experience for someone like Gilbert, who had lived his whole life without depending on or longing for anyone. It had only been about him before. Why was it changing?

Francis started laughing, which ripped the young German from his intense deliberating. "You really want to see her, don't you?" he cackled.

"I-I don't really care!" Gilbert responded automatically.

"Yes you do."

"Maybe. But it doesn't matter."

"I wouldn't say that!" Francis winked, and Gilbert suddenly remembered something about that man; he always had something up his sleeve.

Elizabeth felt guilty. She didn't know what she'd done, but the thick-as-molasses silence that bubbled around the breakfast table made her feel as if she'd committed a crime. The way her fiancé was staring at her –or more like into her—was certainly not making her feel better. A nervous hand brought tea to her lips. She couldn't taste it because her mouth was already full of unasked questions and ridiculous speculations. Roderich mirrored her actions, and then, for the first time, spoke.

"I had hoped you would come to me last night."

It was a simple phrase, but in it, Elizabeth could hear many things. Disappointment. Anger. Sadness. Jealously.

"I was tired," the girl answered simply. Her hands fidgeted below the table.

Roderich's jaw clenched, and Elizabeth could see the anger and jealousy dominating his eyes as he said, "Yes…I imagine your little adventures below deck must have been quite exhausting."

She was caught red-handed, and the only thing she could do was keep talking. Don't let him make any accusations. Some of his assumptions could be difficult to deny.

"You had me followed by that Ivan of yours? Or did you follow me yourself?" she said. Her words were quick, clipped, and burning hot as they left her mouth in a quick stream.

"You won't behave in such an undistinguished way ever again. Understand?" Roderich said. He never answered her question.

"I'm not your pet," Elizabeth snapped. She was instantly shocked at the repressed fury evident in her own voice, but it was too late to stop the expressions rushing from her mouth like an overflowing river. "I'm your fiancé!"

Roderich stood. His chair rocked. The table swayed, china clinking against silverware and liquids swirling in their cups. For a moment, he was just staring again. His breaking point was near –Elizabeth could see it building in his eyes so clearly that they might as well have turned red.

"Fiancé. Yes Elizabeth. YES YOU ARE!"

Roderich threw the teacup in his hand to the ground, where it shattered into a million pieces, irreparable. No one had ever seen Roderich act this way before, but there was no stopping him as he continued to scream.

"YES YOU'RE MY FIANCÉ! MY WIFE! MY PROPERTY!"

He leaned toward her and held her by the shoulders, his seething words emerging not an inch from her face. She trembled with the shock of seeing her imperious Roderich reduced to such madness.

"You are my wife and my wife alone! Is that unclear?"

Elizabeth's head shook, and she attempted to answer, "No."

She wasn't sure if the word actually left her quivering lips, but Roderich must have heard it, because he released her and praised, "Good."

He blinked several times, violet irises gazing around, finally comprehending what he'd just done. His back straightened and he cleared his throat, brushing invisible dirt off his shirt. "I…I…" he stammered. He looked at her, and for a second his eyes were guilty. Then he hardened them again, and stormed out of the room.

Elizabeth wasn't in the chair after that. She was standing, then kneeling, shaking, trying to hold back tears. The maid was picking up the shattered china –beautiful pieces reduced to ugly jagged shards on the floor. Elizabeth apologized, tried desperately to explain what had happened, to help clean up the mess. The maid wouldn't let her, and offered useless words of comfort that didn't break the force field of terror still numbing Liza's mind.

Finally she fell back, shoulders knocking against the wicker chair, followed by her head. She could scarcely breathe and was further suffocating herself holding back the tears. Liza's head swam as the maid continued her pointless efforts of support, until finally, her heart slid back down out of her throat and the tears faded away. She was really hurting Roderich. There was no other explanation. He never acted like that. Normally, he'd be disgusted by the idea of behaving so brutishly in front of anyone else. She was making him jealous, and she had no business to be doing so. She was still supposed to be his.

I can't see him anymore, she realized. No more Gilbert.

Wow, I'm on a roll with this story. I've updated so fast. I guess I just like writing it.