This is a long chapter, but I couldn't really separate it that well! I hope you like it and the long wait is worth something . . .

"It'll all work out fine in the end, darling, you'll see," Victoria Benova murmured as soothingly as she could, smoothing Rose's fiery red curls in the bedroom of the apartment and trying to braid them into a manageable plait so Rose could sleep. That proved to be an extremely difficult task, however, because this Rose woman was as jittery as a newborn baby, shaking and turning and crying at intervals.

"But why did he have to leave already? He's supposed to leave while I'm sleeping, he's not supposed to have gone yet, that's not how it goes! Oh my God, what if he's having second thoughts or he decided to –"

Rose was silenced suddenly by Victoria's thin hand pressed to her clammy and cold lips. Her heart was banging so hard that she couldn't breathe at all because its range obscured her lungs and cut off her air supply. Sweat was beading on her forehead and every peaceful feeling she had ever had about her wedding was absolutely gone.

Tom had arrived to take Jack away that morning, when Rose had still been groggy from sleep and hadn't fully eaten her breakfast yet. She had even still been in her bathrobe. Jack had taken the day before their wedding off of work, but had been dressed and awake and alive, which wasn't at all unusual for him.

Rose had thought that she'd be fine. She thought that when Jack left, she'd be happy, because that meant it was closer to the actual ceremony.

She hadn't thought that he'd be leaving so early.

It had surprised her, really, the terror she had felt when Jack had started to pull on his boots by the front door. Often he had done this before he went to the factory, but she knew he wasn't going to be at work and it petrified her because Tom wouldn't tell where he was taking her fiancé, and the last time she hadn't known where he was had been that time in which all time had froze and her very soul had been so badly damaged it hadn't even fully healed yet.

She had tried to keep her composure when Jack had promised that he'd see her tomorrow on the aisle and that he'd be sure not to let Tom take him far away, but she had failed. Tears had started to wind down her face as they stood alone in their living room with the front door closed for a private farewell, their last words as simply lovers.

He had looked shocked when she started to cry and fervently wiped her cheeks, whispering to her, trying to calm her, and when he had seen that that wasn't going to work, he had just grabbed her and pulled her to him, promising that he wouldn't ever leave her, kissing her forehead.

That had been enough at the moment because she had learned to trust him. His eyes had shone with conviction like blue steel when he said softly and huskily that they would make it, that they would be fine. She wasn't sure that he truly understood it was not the wedding that horrified her – it was losing him all over again. But she had managed to put her emotions under control and kiss him one last time, all of the passion and fear and fragile feelings going from her lips to his. And when Victoria had arrived to take care of Rose, she had let him go and walk out her door.

She hadn't been consolable since.

Even though, somewhere deep in her heart, she knew his word was as good as anything she would ever need, another evil voice told her he was gone, she had let him be gone, and he wouldn't come back. That she had driven him away. The very thought of life without him was enough to throw her back into that immortal night of wickedness, of despair and desolation and loneliness and pain. That was a night, a place, she had never wanted to visit again, and she couldn't seem to leave it. She needed him, the essence of him, the arms of him, the scent of him. Without him, she couldn't even think straight. She looked like a mess and prayed that in the morning she'd look better, but she didn't see how that would happen since she wasn't going to sleep anyway.

Her stomach was turning in all directions. Was it from the baby or from her own nerves? Perhaps both.

"You need to relax," Victoria stated, as if she knew these things. Rose guessed she most likely did. Her marriage had lasted successfully for nigh on ten years if the number could be believed. Her pale brown hair, the color of a fawn, was pinned delicately behind her head and her lace-trimmed deep green dress was a little tight around the middle where she had rounded out lately. Rose hadn't asked and Victoria hadn't told, but she thought that maybe the older woman was also pregnant, and if that was true it would be their first as well. Actually, Victoria's complexion had been whiter lately, and her eyes more dull. That was what happened to some when they became with child, but others, like Rose herself, simply sparkled, looking healthier than they had their entire life.

The thought of her baby suddenly comforted her immensely, and her hand slipped down her now wrinkled robe and rested on her abdomen, trying to see through the skin and bones and blood to her infant that she would someday cradle in her arms. It was like a piece of Jack couldn't leave her, even if he did, and all of the sudden she realized that he loved that little one and the woman carrying him more than anything else on this entire planet. If he felt even a percentage of the way she did, he'd be at that alter tomorrow.

As much as she tried to let tranquility to drift over her, it only worked part way. The strange feeling in the pit of her stomach settled there and wouldn't leave her alone, but at the same time another emotion burst into her soul, that electrifying presence of mind she got whenever she thought of her husband-to-be. In that battle of the heart, she began to let herself relax a little, and soon her waxy skin began to fade back into its rosy glow. She didn't want to think, because thoughts had always been her worst enemy at times like this. Instead she just silently mouthed words to the one inside of her, and to the one that was her other half. She could not help but feel they both heard her.

As she sank onto her bed, she realized that sleep came easier than she had thought it would. Easier, maybe, but she still lay awake for a long time, long after Victoria had fallen asleep on the sofa, trying to imagine Jack's arms around her.

She failed miserably.

"Okay, now, Jackie boy, this is your last night as a bachelor. Your very last night to go a little wild. What do you want to do?" Tom's friend that Jack had just met, Charlie, had that deceitful fire in his muddy brown eyes, that look of total wildness that Jack must have once had himself but had been beaten away years ago. He had experienced way too much to ever think like that again.

He sighed at what Charlie had said. "My last night as a bachelor was April 14," he answered angrily. Marriage was really just an official thing because Jack and Rose had been spiritually married for a long time, and to even suggest that Jack would ever cheat on her was infuriating. No one could know the depth of love that they had shared, the strings of passion tying them together and holding them there, saving them, saving him. If only this man knew what they had been through, how close they had been to being nothing but miserable, empty souls roaming the planet. No one else had felt death's icy grasp squeeze and clamp around their hearts that only broke through from their fervent beating. No one else had seen the spiraling grey and white arms of the Milky Way swirling over water as black as the sky, knowing it would be the last time they ever saw the stars, but dying to live and living to die for the one and only person that could ever make them feel that way.

It was strange how much he missed her. They hadn't spent a night away from each other in a long time, and it was just natural that he wanted her to be with him so bad right then that there was a pain in his chest where his heart was. When he had left, he had kept a straight face, hadn't showed a single emotion. But it was harder now, because he would never see Rose again, she would be his wife. Not just his lover, but his wife. He didn't really like the reputation that housewives had tacked onto them. Rose wasn't at all like that, and he didn't ever want to see her like that: someone only capable of running a household. That was another reason marriage scared him.

Tom had, in his usual Tom-like way, forgotten not only his money, but his coat and hat. He was an extremely irresponsible person when it came to holding onto his possessions, and his excitement about this last night before Jack's wedding had drove him out the door without it. That was his excuse anyway. Jack had become closer to Tom, but he wasn't exactly a wonderful friend, and Jack didn't think he could be, because Jack had had those wonderful friends – especially one in particular. He was convinced that men like that did not come more than once. He felt like his heart would never open to a best friend again. It was still sour and bitter from the loss of that Italian that Jack had promised to save, and he had failed. He knew his heart would always hurt like this.

So Tom had left, and Charlie had told Tom where he would meet him. Tom had seemed against it and had murmured something else, but Charlie had shaken his head and pushed Tom off.

This Charlie character had led Jack through the back alleys of New York City, never nice alleys in particular. Jack remembered them from when he was sixteen and they definitely hadn't gotten any better. He kept his eyes straight ahead of him all the time and didn't dare look around to see the prostitutes or the thieves or the rapists. He couldn't believe that he was in this place again, and that was when he decided that he'd get Rose outta New York City if it was the last thing he ever did.

Now Charlie looked ashamed, horrified even, because Jack wasn't as sleazy as he was. He shook his head and dug his hands in his pockets. He looked and sounded like a cardsharp, and Jack couldn't believe that he had left Rose alone on this night for this. It was pathetic. His guide murmured something about waiting for Tom to come back and "show them around because it wasn't safe." Jack didn't bother to point out that he had wandered these streets alone, as a vagabond, and the memories were imprinted so vividly in his mind that nothing could faze him. If there was one thing he had, it was the smarts of, as Cal had once said what seemed like so long ago, a "gutter rat." Rose had told him everything of that conversation.

It had been a long time since he had allowed his mind to run over those few horrifyingly perfect days aboard the Ship of Dreams. Whenever Titanic came into his head he violently pushed it out, not willing to allow another ounce of pain in his life. However, he had eventually realized that there would always be that ache, sometimes dull and sometimes sharp and grueling. He couldn't control it, and right now seeing these homeless people lying in doorways, he missed that past wonderful reality so much that he was forced to fall back into time, slipping across the pages of his history.

The moment Jack saw Rose's eyes light up, he knew what her answer would be. He had never seen her irises such brilliant pools of green and deep blue, like magnolia leaves and the sky coming together, shining and swirling and glowing, flickering with the electric glow of the light above them in the dome of the Grand Staircase. He felt so uncomfortable in this scratchy suit. The moment Molly Brown had fitted his jacket on him he had looked like a whole other person, definitely not the off-the-cuff man he really was. But it seemed like this Rose DeWitt-Bukater girl saw past all of it and saw him for who he really was. The best part was that she seemed to like that person more than his clothes, which wasn't something he could say for her bastard fiancé.

When he had first met Rose, he had wanted to make their conversation light to outweigh the honest-to-God seriousness of the moment. He had said he might need to get her to write her name down – it was a lot of fancy syllables and weird accents. He had lied. The name of this celestial goddess hadn't left his mind since it had left her silken tongue and he didn't think it ever would. He was confused that he seemed to be so suddenly obsessed with her, but he let it go because it didn't matter. She was here with him.

At first she looked intimidated and terrified, but then suddenly she giggled and held out her elegantly gloved hand, gracefully curved and lovely. "A real party, Mr. Dawson? Are you saying that my absolutely stimulating crowd isn't exciting enough for you?"

He detected the joking in her voice before he had enough time to register embarrassment. He raised an eyebrow at her and she dissolved into silent laughter as he took her hand and led her away from her crowd.

It was an amazing feeling, leading her away from her crowd. It was like he was rescuing her from something that bit at her with the viciousness of some beast. He was finally showing her something other than the tacky, fake, fabricated way of life that was all she had ever known. And the trust that she showed for him so obviously was absolutely incredible. He'd never have been able to trust anyone like she did.

They weaved through people and it seemed she forgot where she was. It was like she didn't care anymore. She had transformed into almost an innocent child, dropping the weight of whatever burden had been thrown on her. It shocked him how fast she could become herself and her fake self without warning.

"Jack? Where are you taking me? Jack?!" Her whisper rose to a furious murmur. She tugged on the sleeve of the tuxedo, trying to force him to turn around and talk to her, but he only chuckled and towed her onwards.

"Wait, Rose, you'll see!" He returned, smiling widely, almost giddy. He shoved open the door and pulled her out with him onto boat deck. The air had taken a turn for the cooler, fresh to his lungs and blood. He clasped her delicate fingers with his calloused ones and drew her up until she was next to him and no longer being tugged behind him.

The loose curls of her hair were tossed around her face like strands of blood, beautifully red, memorizing him so that he had to try harder than he should have had to to focus on what she was saying.

"I'm sorry about my mother, Jack," she said softly, suddenly serious. She didn't fight his hand but didn't ignore it either. He could see her eyes flutter every once and awhile to their palms entwined together, and he couldn't help but wonder desperately what she was thinking. His heart was beating so hard he was afraid it would give him away.

"Aw, your mother? Don't worry 'bout it, Rose. Wasn't a big deal. I'm used to people havin' different ideas than me." His pathetic attempt to shrug off her comment made her shoot him a double take.

"No, no, Jack, she's always like that. It's terrible, I know. Ever since my father passed away last autumn, she hasn't been . . . the same." All of the sudden her irises turned black with grief, retreating into a past that he could not see. She seemed to wilt right before his eyes, and in his grip her hand became limp.

He looked at her sympathetically, knowing the pain of loss and the pain of never gaining, because he had been there before. He licked his lip; trying to think of something to say, trying to save her, rescue her from the agony that was ravaging her bruised heart. There was only one thing that he could say.

"I'm sorry, Rose. I mean it."

She turned abruptly at that, and he had a strong feeling that no one ever "meant" something that they said to her, that her life was completely fake, and that it was killing her. Moments ago he had marveled at how quickly she could change, but now she could not convert back to tonight from all of her yesterdays swiftly enough. For just one second, he could see her anguish and misery. He could see the mortal wounds that life had inflicted upon her.

And then it was gone.

"You make me feel so guilty. Look how silly I am! I still have my mother, and my home, but you lost everything, and so young, too. I can't possibly ever feel sorry for myself when you're around."

She shook her head and tried to weakly smile but failed so pitifully that he stopped walking and held her back with him. His breathing became irregular and he could feel his veins popping in his neck. He grasped her shoulders and turned her to face him. He was so close to her that he lost what he had been planning to say, lost what ever had possessed him to do that in the first place. Her lips opened into a ripe, round circle of surprise, red as a ripe strawberry and he would bet his life that they tasted so sweet. But it wasn't the time for such thoughts that were winding through his head. All he knew was that she was hurt, she was dying, and she was lying to him about it.

"You don't need to hide yourself from me," he whispered passionately, honestly, huskily. The intensity of his gaze was boring through her skin and soul into the inner depths of her very being. For a moment her magnolia-colored eyes were as wide as saucers, and she seemed about to faint of shock. But she did not push him away.

Breath met with breath, pain with pain, loss with loss. Something melded them together, something that Jack didn't know the name of yet, but a tickle of conscience told him destiny. Her beautiful shoulders rose and fell with each gasp of cool air she managed to take into her form, and his hands traveled down to her forearms. She shivered and he shivered, but it wasn't from the cold.

In that second, a truth was laid naked and bare in front of him, swirling in her irises of emerald whirlpools. He realized that he was in way too deep to ever leave her again. For a brief second his future was spread out before him, and she was in it. For just that moment, he let the scream of his soul explode outside of him, to her, that forbidden cry of need and desire and inevitable love. But before he had time to identify these banned emotions, that social barrier started building itself up again, putting itself up block by block, the very blocks he had just torn down.

Before that minute, it had seemed as if classes and societies and rules did not separate them anymore. They were simply man and woman, Jack and a Rose, freedom and beauty all theirs. It was as if a small part in the world was right again. Being so close to her made his insides twist and writhe, but at the same time his heart leapt and sang and ran, and her heart flew with his.

Damn this terrible, wonderful feeling inside of him!

He had fallen in love with this mistress of forgery, but at the heart a magnificent celestial creature, and as much as he tried to deny it, he knew that it was far, far too late too ever turn back now.

Her lovely rosebud lips opened and closed, and he could almost see every emotion racing through her mind. The sensations stirring within him from her nearness were exhilarating and it took far too much work to concentrate on anything else.

"I know," she finally whispered, terror vanishing from her eyes, finally replaced with something else. Trust? Did she really trust him? Oh Lord, it was too much to hope for. It sent something shooting right into his heart and for a second he believed in Cupid, arrows and all.

He let go of her gently, regretting that he had to, seeing that her skin was creamy where he had touched and he hadn't left a physical mark, but emotionally he knew he had. They turned and continued walking, each lost in distant thoughts.

As much as he tried to renounce it, passion was welling inside of him for this wild-haired woman, passion he had never felt before in his life.

"Jack! Oh my God, he didn't take you here did he?" Jack was woken from this wonderful memory into something far less pleasant. Prostitutes, giving their bodies fully, were the first things he saw. It was horrible, and the majority of them were people with lives that had one been full of color and love and music, but had been forced into this abuse and legal rape. It made something inside of him hurt as he remembered Paris, and he turned away.

"Charlie! What did I tell you?! Have you seen his fiancée?! A man couldn't be persuaded by the world to ever dare cheat on –"

He turned to see Tom back, his eyes livid and red, and he interjected quickly, "Tom, if it's all the same to you, I'd just as soon you realize that I'm not just marrying Rose for her beauty. That's sorta on the bottom of my list."

He couldn't have stopped saying that even if he tried. It was his one amusement of the evening to see a second man's face contort with embarrassment and shame, even if it was only for a second. Ever so calmly, he inhaled and exhaled, trying to wish himself back into his apartment, trying to make Rose's figure appear in his arms, trying to force Rose's lips to be on his. But she wasn't there.

He lit a cigarette in from his pocket. Recently, Rose had decided smoking was a disgusting habit because it made his breath reek, but she wasn't there to kiss him anyway. He took a drag on his smoke, and the silvery cloud burst into the sky that was lightly sprinkled with stars, the rest hidden by light and smoke from factories and other buildings.

He was reminded of another silvery cloud of cigarette exhaust curling towards another black sky, this one exploding with stars as far as he could see, bright and searing and milky. He still felt the chill in his insides when he heard those footsteps racing by him, footsteps that stepped into his life that night.

He couldn't take much more of this. He turned to Charlie.

"You shouldn't have come here, end of story. We don't need to spend anymore time here," he forcefully yelled to be heard over the din of the crowds around him. He vaguely heard music, stomping, laughing, and he pulled himself out of another memory because he had to stay sane around these places.

Tom nodded in firm agreement, every line of his face still boiling in anger, and turned to lead the group to his apartment. Jack knew these streets better than he had previously let on, and he showed them many shortcuts through side streets and over fences. He didn't tell him why he had been here before, or how long ago. He was not ready to face those parts of his past yet. Eventually they made it and Tom unlocked his door to the dark and lonely set of rooms.

Jack was used to a beautiful, passionate, fiery redhead nearly bowling him over when he walked through his own door. He had grown so into this routine that his arms actually buzzed, telling him that he needed to hold her now.

It's not like he didn't already know.

"So, Jack, how did you and Rose meet? Obviously there must have been somethin' mighty peculiar in that encounter; you two seem from different worlds, almost."

The previously pleasant conversation was absolutely frozen by this one question. Jack's laugh evaporated from his face and his insides turned to mush.

He had thought he was on the road to healing, and every time he thought he was maybe getting just a little better, something like this happened. Something horrible. He did not want to breathe a word about that terrible event imprinted so painfully in his mind. Just because they had asked didn't mean he had to tell the truth.

Yet inside, he knew he had to. He couldn't lie to this man, because Tom had given them a place to live, had often sent food for them to eat. He had really taken them out of the cold of that goddamn shelter and brought them to a home, even if it was not a perfect one. It was still a roof, which is more than Jack had had for a long time.

But the true reason he didn't lie were because of the ghosts of his past. It seemed like it was almost a sin, to dismiss their memories in this way. The memories of his parents – they abhorred liars. The memories of Paris and England . . . that his honesty was the only thing that separated him from the other vagabonds and homeless souls wandering the streets. And then maybe most of all, it was the phantoms of that terrible, paralyzing night . . . that night in which time as the rest of the world defined it ceased to exist, that night when love and death was laid so naked in front of his eyes, that night when he saw the ocean colored black and red with terror and blood. It was in that night he had realized just how quickly the flames of passion could be lit, and how impossible it was to put them out, even with the ice that haunted his days and nights.

It seemed all of the sudden that he wasn't alone with two other men anymore, but moaning and whispering beings pressed in from all sides, and one stood out above all the rest. It was Fabrizio de Rossi.

There was such a sad look in his warm cinnamon eyes, eyes that spoke of a betrayal and a destiny that he had realized he could not control. Tears that had stopped so many months ago were still lying on his cheeks and neck. His body seemed to pound with sorrow, guilt, regret . . . everything that the past was locked in.

Jack broke out in a sweat and his mouth tried to cry out to the friend that had stayed by his side till a bitter end. He tried to scream an apology, but the Italian whose big heart had been silenced and graceful hands were forever still simply shook his head.

" . . . Jack? Jack, can you hear me?"

Jack turned wide, vacant, terrified, dark eyes to Tom and he whispered, "We met . . . on a ship." Maybe his eyes just seemed disturbing to him on the inside, because it seemed that Tom and Charlie noticed no difference, but Jack did. He could feel Fabrizio standing near him, could almost hear him murmuring that it was time to move on. And soon he heard Rose's own voice, telling him it was alright, that they'd made it, that Titanic did not control them anymore.

It still controlled him.

"And . . .?" Charlie prodded, an interested look chiseled into his face. It was almost disgusting, that look. Jack took a deep breath. He couldn't mention the name. He could not dare to say Titanic. He couldn't lie either.

"We fell in love, but we got pulled apart, in a way," he muttered, struggling in vain to keep his words vague, so he did not have to mention the entire story.

His voice seemed in such agony that Tom and Charlie did not ask further when he finished by saying that they had gotten back together. Tom had noticed how his skin had turned white as a sheet and his blue eyes had become darkened with wisdom as they flew around the room, like he was searching for ghosts. Tom had to wonder if he saw any.

After that Jack didn't want to talk much. Other than a few offhand remarks about tomorrow, no one seemed to want to talk at all. They were each lost in separate worlds, in separate times, for separate reasons. The fire burned low until at last it was nothing more than embers glowing orange and crackling into grey clouds of ash.

Jack tried to banish Fabrizio from his mind for this one night. He wanted peace just for now. But he realized as well that this one night happened to be the night he needed his best friend the most. He had always assumed that if marriage ever was in his future, Fabri would be right there. And even though he wasn't, in a way, he was. It was completely confusing, and the only thing Jack knew of was a slightly relaxing feeling when he felt the presence of that Italian and an Irishman that he had only barely gotten to know but had respected so deeply.

Throughout the night while Jack Dawson tried to sleep, he silently whispered his fears and hopes and dreams to them. But mostly he listened, listened as they comforted his heart.

Rose stretched dreamily as her eyelids flitted open to a sun-streaked day, beautiful in just about every form that God had to offer. The morning warmth crept into her body and gave her a sense of serenity that was like magic to her.

Her hands slipped along the bedcovers to her side to run up and down the arms of the man next to her. That was strange. He wasn't there. Squeezing her eyes shut against those blinding rays, she thrust her fingertips out as far as she could, and he still wasn't there.

I wonder why, she thought to herself. He doesn't have to go to work today, today's –

All of the sudden she sat up in bed so quickly that she almost felt the baby inside of her jolt. Her palm flew to her abdomen and stroked the unborn cargo preciously as a lurch of terror rose like bile in her throat.

Today's my wedding day, she finished silently, shakily. Then suddenly her entire body was shivering with such ardor that the bed banged against the wall. So much stress was not good for her or her child, and she tried to calm down, but it was physically impossible.

One would think that after all she had been through, after how well she knew Jack, after her life had completely blossomed into something different, that nervousness on the day of her wedding was something that she would never face, something she only read about in storybooks.

Well, that someone would be wrong.

Victoria had picked up her wedding gown last evening from the bridal shop and now it hung, lovely and beautiful and shiny, on a hanger that was placed on the door of their tiny, cardboard-box sized closet. When she turned her jade, fear-streaked eyes to the dress, it symbolized something other than that wedding. For a second, she fought to realize what it was. It was too foreign, too terrifying, too raw.

Was it the end? Was it the end to all of this head-over-heels romance that made her feel dizzy, that was magical and magnificent? Was it the start? Was it the start of a boring and horrible life in which all of the passion would drown? Or was it something else entirely? Was it the closing to a chapter in her life written in her blood, drawn with her pain?

It was so bewildering and so agonizing that she tried with all of her strength to focus on it and still couldn't understand it. So instead, she turned away and convinced herself that this was the embarkation of a wonderful future with the man she loved more than anything that God or Satan could offer her.

Surprisingly, it worked.

The nerves in her stomach were still there, but their sensitive panic was quenched by excitement that almost hurt just as bad. All at once time couldn't move fast enough until she was at the edge of the path leading to the altar.

All at once she realized something that she should have realized a long time ago. Jack had never told her where they were getting married. It was obvious he knew, and obvious that he had chosen not to tell her. How stupid she was! Knowing him, it could be some bar, where he said the "reality of everybody is just so . . . there!" She would die if it was someplace like that. It might even be Central Park fifteen miles away. Lord could only guess where he wanted to take her.

She turned to the clock by her bed that was old and tarnished, and faintly made out through the rust the time "12:30." Damn it! It was already half past noon?! How could she have slept that late? She should have been up at the crack of dawn! Damn it, damn it, damn it!

She kicked out of her covers, entrapped by the lacy, uncomfortable nightgown she was draped in. Her hair was still in a somewhat tame braid, and when she sat down at the old, broken vanity the last tenant had left behind, she face a horrible shock.

It was almost a picture of herself months earlier. The lace crept up her neck, her curls wound over her shoulder in their tie, and in her eyes was the same haunted glaze as before. She could only attest that to her numbness at today being today, and the moment she thought of Jack, those same eyes burned with fire.

But it still wasn't enough to keep her from gasping at the coincidence.

Then she became petrified. She stood up and tripped over her chair, sending it crashing to the floor. She backed away and pushed against the mirror, causing it to totter dangerously until it finally righted again.

Somewhere in the back of her imagination, she heard the footsteps coming, and the voice. "Sweetpea," it murmured venomously, "Sweetpea . . . you're older now . . . stop it!"

Her skin became clammy and her stare empty because when she fell into her nightmare this time, Jack was not here to pull her back out. She collapsed onto the floor and drew her knees up to her stomach, whimpering.

The evil black eyes were on her again, and that disgusting hand stroked her arm and cupped her breast. Whereas in her past she had managed to get away at times like these, this imaginary time she couldn't. As Caledon Hockley transformed into a beast and started to touch her, she heard her mother behind him. "Just do as he tells you, Rose. That's what good wives do."

The terror was drowning her. Not today, she thought roughly, trying to yank herself back to the present. Definitely not today.

Why wasn't Jack here? Why did he leave her?

Her insides began to swim and she pressed the back of her hand to her white lips. Inside of her mind Cal was still there, and he was trying to take her, and no one was here to stop him. His breath fell hot on her neck like a terrible dragon, and she fought to get away, but he was so much stronger.

She screamed.

Even though everything had been imaginary, it was horrible and terrifying and she couldn't get out. The moment she screamed, everything started to dissolve like sugar into water and the only thing left was her clamoring heart, racing at a dangerous pace through her ribcage.

Victoria rushed in, her hair askew because she had been in the process of fixing it when she heard the shriek. Her beautiful dress, perfect for a day like today, was in disarray and her eyes were wide with shock.

She fell next to Rose, smoothing Rose's curls with one hand, rocking her back and forth, as Rose wept. Although Victoria had no idea what was wrong, the torture in this young woman's haunted eyes was enough to tell her that it was horrendous. Because it was so awful, it scared her. What had this girl seen? What happened?

"What is it?" She whispered fiercely, her own eyes blazing with worry. When she did not respond, she grabbed both sides of Rose's head with her hands and forced her to look into her eyes. "What is it?!"

Rose's tears halted and a foggy memory swept through her face so fast that Victoria did not have time to register what it might be. Then a barely audible murmur escaped from those ripe lips, something that sent shivers down Victoria's spine. "Nothing."

The fact that this wild-haired, fiery-spirited beauty had experienced something so blood-chilling that she could not bear to speak of it made her shake for a moment. It was something that bled with mystique and pure pain.

"I'm sorry," Rose said, stronger this time, sitting up straight. "It was just a nightmare. That's it. Just a nightmare." Rose knew that she was trying to convince herself just as much as she was trying to convince Victoria. "Must have been caused by cold feet while I slept." A harsh, fake, bitter laugh left from her, and it was not hers, and they both knew it.

Rose stood, her back straight again, and righted the chair. "I slept so late – I don't know how I did it! I was so nervous falling asleep."

Victoria nodded and stood herself. For a moment she simply stared into space, then she twisted her hair up like she had been trying to and the brown waves were finished into an elegant up do. "Yes, it is late . . ." The conversation itself wasn't real, just a figment of their imaginations, skirting around the real issues.

"Why don't we get you ready? Your wedding is to be at sundown, or so that handsome fiancé of yours said. He also mentioned that you don't know anything about the whereabouts of the ceremony. Is that true?"

She maneuvered Rose to the closet and held up the white gown to her friend's figure, her mind lost in how lovely this young lady would look. She was so consumed that she was startled by Rose's, "No, I have no idea. The thought just struck me this morning. I'm so dense not to have wondered earlier."

Rose hated how she couldn't rid herself of the accent that had flourished her words all of her life, or the vocabulary and the proper pronunciation that her mother had enforced upon her so strictly. It made her "stick out like a sore thumb," or so Jack said.

"No, no, Rose. I think that's romantic!" Victoria argued, trying to rid herself of the woman Rose had been moments earlier with phantoms dancing in her rich green irises.

Rose shrugged daintily, if one could do such a thing. She took the gown from Victoria, allowing the cool, silky fabric to ripple over her hands. The terror that iced in her throat at seeing this visible symbol of marriage vanished all of the sudden, without reason or warning, and such anticipation was inside of her that she could not stand it.

She needed Jack right this moment.

"Will you excuse me Victoria?" She asked timidly, her eyes still in a land of the lost, her heart in a place that was not here, in a body that was not her own. How terribly it hurt.

"Hm?" Victoria was preoccupied with thoughts of her own wedding, a wedding she knew that had structured a marriage that was wonderful . . . but not without faults. She had believed that all marriages had their faults, but this couple could make an exception. It did her good to see two people so in love as they were. It was obvious that it was killing Rose to be away from Jack – her haunted irises spoke of murder. But every time she mentioned his name, they would clear just for a minute.

"I have to change," Rose urged, opening her bedroom door wider and shooing Victoria out into the hallway. Victoria did not have much time to react and before she could mouth a word the door was shut in her face.

Oh well. It would be a trying day.

On the other side of the door, Rose easily peeled her nightclothes from her body and stepped into her wedding dress. She was used to garments that were nearly impossible to get on, and this didn't faze her in the least. A perfect column of pearl-colored buttons on her back were very hard to do, but she did them anyway. Each button seemed like a step further away from the person she had been throughout her childhood and then on throughout her whole life, and when her graceful fingers closed them, she felt as if she was sealing another passageway out of this route she had chosen, the path that Jack was taking her down.

She knew that it was what she wanted, what they wanted, but she still had a hard time realizing that she was turning her back on everything she had ever believed in. It wasn't supposed to hurt and she wasn't supposed to have any regrets, and she didn't, no! It was just that in that second she had to lock away the little part of her that was still dreaming of a father's redemption, of a child that thought her life was perfect, of herself ages ago. The smiles and laughter had faded in that hallway she dreamt of though, and the parlor was dusty and the piano out of tune from years of neglect. Everything else had moved on, and now it was her turn, so in a little pocket of her heart she hid the Jonathan DeWitt-Bukater she had known during his life, the jolly, earnest man who had thought there was good in everyone and peace during everything. Oh Papa, she silently despaired, trying to keep the other side of that man out – the side drowning in an addiction, the side gambling with obsession.

Her long hair cascaded down her shoulders when she let it fly from the tie that was holding it prisoner. When she gazed in the mirror, she was different then she'd expected herself to look.

She was happy.

Whenever she thought of her father, this inevitable gloom would cast its sinister shadow over her very being, but now she sparkled. Green eyes bathed with flecks of blue shone like colored sunset splashes and her rich, ripe, ruby lips were full and smiling. Something about everything put together made her look absolutely stunningly ecstatic and she couldn't hide her delight.

"Alright, I'm dressed now," she called through that hideous door, smoothing the fabric over her figure and trying to find the person that she really was under all the white. She tried and tried until she realized something – this was who she was – Jack Dawson's bride!

The moment Victoria walked in, her breath caught in her throat. Where Rose had been stood an angel – an angel that was shimmering with joy and expectations that Victoria didn't have names for. Something too deep, too amazing, too full of destiny was surrounding Rose like a halo, and as much as Victoria attempted to find out what it was, she couldn't. The stun left her babbling.

"We have to do your hair – oh you look so lovely! My dear, what do you want done? We can wrap it up with a ribbon or braid those synthetic pearls in or –"

Rose smiled, a real, genuine smile, the first in at least twenty-four hours. "Jack likes it down," she murmured, in rapt conversation with memories that surrounded her like a smoky, dense, curtain of fog.

Victoria did not disagree. There was something wild and untamed and free about Rose when she had her hair down. So instead she pushed Rose into her vanity chair and worked to take out the knots that Rose had created by tossing and turning all night. It didn't take much and in seconds Victoria had modeled a goddess.

"We should start to make plans for how we're going to get you to the place Jack wants you in, Rose. Tom just stopped by while you were changing and told me where – you'll love it! You should be at this mysterious place by six-thirty and it'll be grand! For now, you just sit back and relax and we'll do one last touch up before you leave."

Victoria seemed like a little girl, so excited, that Rose just giggled and, nodding, pulled a book from inside her vanity. After her friend had spun around and Rose heard her skirts swoosh from the room, she opened the anciently bound script, the spine crackling from age. She had found it at a sale at the local bookstore and when she saw the title – "Shakespeare's Most Famous Works" – she couldn't resist paying the nickel they wanted for it. Inside she had found things that made her heart soar; things like "Romeo and Juliet," "Hamlet," "Cleopatra," and "Midsummer Night's Dream." Rose had always been crazy about Shakespeare. She loved plays. She could remember being really young, not more than eight, and sitting on her father's lap and silently reading these works along with his big booming voice while her mother sat, pleasantly listening and writing out invitations to socials and parties or practicing knitting. Those had been happy times, times that she had felt safe.

It was like flashing back into the past every time she saw that furtive name, William Shakespeare. Often she and Jonathan had attempted to sort out reality from mystique about that man, and they had failed. But, oh my, it had been fun!

Now, she flipped through the introduction to "Romeo and Juliet" and came upon, "Act 1,Scene 1." She fell back onto her bed and sat cross-legged over the covers. She was hopeless for this kind of romance, always had been. The fact that the romance she and Jack shared was so similar to the tales she loved to read made her blush furiously. She couldn't concentrate, even on her favorite story, because she was enraptured with thoughts of her wedding that would take place later in the day.

It was hopeless. She didn't even notice when she closed her book. She was too deep in thoughts to realize that she had walked over to her closet, and too lost in yesterdays to wake up and see that she had taken one of Jack's shirts from a shelf and pressed it to her face.

She missed him.

"Aw, Jack, Victoria said that Rose is in quite a state. It seems that she misses you so and is in tears half the time," Tom stated as he hung his coat on the rack and slapped dust out of his top hat. "She can't bear to be apart from you."
Jack's face contorted into a maze of pain and understanding, because he had felt the same way. His heart pounded louder with each breath, thinking that maybe they should have stayed together the night before their wedding. Thinking that they didn't need to follow tradition, thinking that they already had broken every custom that was set in their path.

"She's . . . she's right scary when it comes to separation," he muttered, his eyelids flickering heavily as he remembered . . . remembered when separation meant life and death just a few short months ago. "I'm the same way though, I reckon. I'm nearly outta my mind, waitin' for the ceremony."

Charlie had lent him a bathrobe to wear while Tom took his clothes to the cleaners, forcefully demanding that if Jack had to wear these "threadbare rags" then they might as well be clean. Jack had tried to explain that Rose wanted him to wear them for the symbolism; it wasn't that he couldn't scrape together some pennies to rent a suit. Well, maybe it was, but that wasn't the real reason. It was to no use though because he couldn't fully explain it without revealing his past.

Tom had explained, to Charlie's and Jack's amusement, the look on the cleaner's face when she had seen what she was being asked to wash. The way she had crinkled up her nose and shook her head had been, in Mr. Benova's words, priceless. But praise be, he had returned with Jack's shirt (a new one that Rose had bought and was a deep brownish burgundy, much like the one he had owned on Titanic – he figured shirts didn't come in a lot of variety) as fresh as it could get and his trousers as soft as the woman could manage.

Now, Jack had just started to change and was only in his pants, with his suspenders hanging loosely from his waist and down his thighs. Usually when he walked around the apartment like this for just two seconds, a warm little form would press against his and ripe rosebud lips would probe his own. Feeling a lump rise in his throat, he grabbed his limp shirt and yanked it over his head. The clock chimed on the wall – it was three. Tom had left at nearly one. He had been gone an awful long time. Suspicious, Jack eyed the bundle in his new friend's hands.

"No, no, it's nothing Jack," Tom said hurriedly. "Just a present for Victoria. That's all."

Jack shrugged. Damn today! His wedding couldn't get here fast enough. For some nigh unexplainable reason, he had to be near his Rose right this very second.

He couldn't be.

It was almost as though another life form had suddenly inhabited Rose's body. She looked magnificent – but she looked the same as she always had since she met Jack. Her deep emerald eyes, flecked with blue like bits of morning dew, sparkled with anticipation for roads that lay ahead and with love for the man that stood beside. Her hair tumbled down her back in all its wild beauty, each fiery curl sleek and silky and cool. Her cheeks glowed and her skin seemed to vibrate with excitement.

Something was different though. It was not just her wedding gown that perfectly enfolded her petite frame, outlining every luscious curve for a viewer's eye but mysteriously not showing nearly everything, each shape disappearing into the glorious folds of white that accented her complexion with reckless abandon. It was not just that her delicate white shoes of faux silk the color of snow made her seem almost like a fairy, or an angel. It was not just that she looked like a bride.

There was a different presence inside of her, a presence that she could only account to maybe the spirit of marriage, the binding of her soul with someone else's, a presence that brought her sheer joy. It was a freeing of a sort of already free thing inside of her, and it was confusing.

"Rose, it's almost five! We have to get going! Tom just brought over the flowers, but – oh my." Victoria had never seen a creature so beautiful, so lovely, so perfectly representing blossoming dawn as she did right then. Her breath was torn from her lungs by the gorgeousness of the Rose in front of her.

"Oh . . . Rose . . . you look . . ." Victoria groped for a word worthy enough to be of use for this girl, and it was useless. "Splendid," she finished pathetically in a whisper. She had come in expecting to have to fix something or straighten something, but there was nothing to repair.

A horn bleeped outside and she knew that the cab Jack had hired was here to take them to whatever place he had chosen. Rose knew too, and she murmured a "thank you" before glided elegantly out the door, as elegant as she always ways with a regal posture that commanded attention. Victoria grabbed the flowers that her husband had brought and followed her, smoothing the lavender dress she had chosen for the wedding.

The driver of the cab held the door open as a young woman raced out of her apartment. He was in a hurry, because the man who had paid him had told him to be there at promptly six-fifteen, and they were late by at least five minutes, which meant a cut in his pay. He had been tapping his booted foot impatiently against the roadside.

But all of his worrying stopped when he saw the fiery-haired mistress seemingly float to him. It was like a dream. She glowed with happiness for the wedding that was close at hand, and it reminded him of some vision from heaven with her clothed in that amazing white. She was an angel, and he knew it.

"Oh, sir, I appreciate your assistance," she said breathlessly as she slipped into the cab while he stared at her, awestruck. There was something about her that screamed royalty, and something about her that screamed miracle.

Yet another scream pierced the air. "Do hurry up, my good man!" A second lady trouped from the house, her brown waves pinned slightly back and a bouquet clutched in her ringed hands. She climbed into the other side, and he hurried to his post in the front seat.

Rose's heart lurched just as much as the automobile when the engine finally propelled them forward. She was so excited that she couldn't contain herself. The prospect of seeing Jack again alone was enough to make her head spin, and the fact that she was going to be married in an hour made her spirit soar. Her insides shook and her lips buzzed. It had been so long, it seemed, since that fateful night. Even upon recalling it, she shivered violently and ice seeped through her skin. The blackness, the cold, and most of all, the pain and terror, was still as plain to her as it had ever been.

What scared her most now was that she felt ghosts. They always seemed to be dancing just out of her reach, in that grey area she couldn't quite see and couldn't quite ignore. They were as tangible to her as the air she breathed, but so unreal that they seemed foggy and distant.

That hideous memory would never leave her mind and she didn't pretend that it ever would. She didn't want it to. Rose was a forever changed woman. But the point was, she had someone to share the hurt with, someone she loved.

Bricks flashed by from buildings as they made their way to who knew where.

An hour and fifteen minutes later, after weaving through the traffic of the city, they came to a halt a good twenty miles from the heart of New York. The skyline, pathetic as it was, was far off in the distance and gentle hills carried the breeze forward.

When the cab stopped, Rose knew that this was where she was meant to have her wedding. It was surefire knowledge as deep and burning as a white hot knife. It was the same knowledge that had hit her when she had first saw Jack, even though she had chosen to ignore it. It was the same knowledge that had nearly killed her on April 14, 1912. And this time, it filled her with this feeling of fate – fate that made her own life seem so insignificant until she was no longer just one person, but one from two.

The sun was sinking bloodily over the horizon, setting the clouds on fire with a pallet of warm colors, colors as warm as her heart. Finally, she felt as if the disaster was thoroughly thawed from her. Expectations fell away and time seemed to stop as the entire world pulsed with her soul.

"Rose, Jack's already around the bluff on the corner so he can't see you right now. Let's get this started! You're about to be married!"

Rose zoned out from Victoria's words the moment she told her where Jack was. He was so close! Their time was so close! Everything that had seemed impossible was now within her reach and it terrified her.

That's when she noticed that, down a steep cliff, in perfect harmony, lapped the Atlantic Ocean. Blue-green-grey waves rolled over the rocky shoreline and then were pulled back into the water, for all things that were subjected to that mighty force must eventually return, like her heart. The peace that they symbolized shocked her, for she could only remember that water as black and terrible and evil.

When she had woken this morning, she had believed with all her heart and soul that she wanted Jack to the capability of her emotions. But right now, that sea made something inside of her live again. She had not felt this desire for him since she had believed him to be dead. It was killing her on the inside, gnawing at her soul and eating at her heart. She ached, physically burned, with the need for him to hold her. She was instantly reminded if the beginning of this chapter in her life, of when she had loved him and not been able to get to him, and she prayed that now it truly was different.

The grey and brown wrinkles of wet sand, just a few feet long, melted with the rock-covered walls of the hill and where the met, the dying sun painted them a beautifully intense orange. She felt as though she had stepped into a painting, a painting that told of her past. The ocean went on, growing gold at the edges of the horizons. She could not see the other shore and she knew what lay between where she was standing and where land was on the opposite side. Titanic did. The very thought of the name sent shivers down her spine but they weren't all shivers of horror. Some were shivers of love and some were shivers of hate and some were shivers of devotion, but all were shivers of the Atlantic. So there she stood, on one shore of her life, and she saw the great expanse until the other shore, and she knew that the crossing would be a magical one.

Victoria was plucking at her gown, straightening one crease, than creating another, then smoothing it. She stood to attempt to fix Rose's hair, but that was impossible. The light sea breeze had transformed it into a pool of copper tresses and she had never seen something as beautiful.

Rose herself could not help but let her emerald eyes wander past another cab and to the bluff, where Victoria was hurrying to help her husband and another man, had Tom called him Charlie?, spread flower petals for the bride's path. She knew who was on the other side of that path. The half of her heart that was in her chest slammed brutally against her ribs, and the other half was in someone else.

Jack stood uneasily, unsure of what to do. There was a small bend in the rock and he knew, even though no one had told him, that Rose was standing just beyond that bend. He could feel her. Hell, he could almost smell her. The wind was carrying her forbidden, sultry, mysterious scent, fresh and crisp, until it surrounded him with the essence of the goddess of seduction. It was enough to drive him mad with want and crazy with impatience.

They'd been married for a long time, spiritually at least. Maybe since before he was born, he didn't know. One thing he did know was that the actual ceremony was only to make it official because the bonding of their spirits had happened in the past. He closed his eyes, facing the ocean and turning so that his side was facing the rose-strewn trail that the real Rose would soon bless with her presence. In the secret of dark behind his eyelids, he flashed back in time. For once, he had control over it. He chose the place, he chose the moment, and he chose the reason. With sheer will he was back in the cargo hold, sweat clinging to their flesh that had become one. He could feel the softness of her breath and her lips and see that painful joy and dangerous adoration dancing little paths in her hurt and love streaked irises, covered in green. He could hear her heart beating against his, or maybe it was his, he wasn't sure. He knew that, once they were together, they'd never really be apart again. He knew it and was scared to believe it.

Lord, the salty ocean smell washed over him all at once, and with it another horde of memories fell like a downpour. The voice of a stocky, gentle man called, "I can see the Statue of Liberty already! . . . Very small of course . . ." He heard someone, someone that he knew was him, someone he was regaining, shout and faintly he made out "I'm the king of the world!" He could feel Fabri's shirt whipping with the wind against his knees and it was almost like his best friend had really never been gone. It was almost like the past few months had never happened.

But Jack wouldn't give up those past few months for anything in any world, including Fabrizio de Rossi. An awesome sadness overwhelmed him and he felt like a traitor, he felt guilty that he loved a girl with all of his heart and had none left for his friend. But somehow, he knew that the same Fabri who stayed by his side for years, the same Fabri who tried to help him find a boat, the same Fabri that danced and stomped in the third class general room, the same Fabri that welcomed and accepted Rose as his sister – he knew the same Fabri understood. The guilt was lifted and underneath was nothing but pure excitement for the next few minutes.

He reckoned it was time. Charlie grabbed Jack and spun him around to face the make-shift aisle. He and Tom flanked the groom on either side, moving back to make room for the bride. It seemed as if all of creation waited and groaned with the anticipation that everyone was electrified with. The waves crashed with more eagerness, sending fine white spray swirling to the bloody sky. The entire ocean smoothed itself as if providing a looking glass for the inhabitants of the citizens beneath it. Even the tangled grass seemed to tilt for a better view. The Earth held its collective breath and Jack was frozen. He was completely unaware of his plain, pathetic clothing that he had been urged to wear. He didn't notice one of his boots was untied, and he couldn't tell that strands of golden hair were hanging in his face. Something he hadn't felt lately surged through him – nervousness mixed with ecstasy. His entire body buzzed and didn't move at the same time.

Where was she?

The minister had taken his place beyond where those who were to be wed would stand. His Bible was split open across his palms. The men on either side were positioned, one with the rings – both of them silver, with Rose's sprinkled in tiny, but extraordinary, diamonds and Jack's a plain band. There hadn't been money for anything else. Rose hadn't seen them yet but only wore her engagement ring. And Jack had yet to even see her dress! His exhilaration reached the breaking point and he didn't feel like he could wait any longer. It had been hours since he had first started waiting – hadn't it? Or had it?

Colors started spinning and then righted themselves. His whole mind had turned to water, and he wasn't functioning right. His chest hurt. His arms hurt. Everything hurt.

Just when he felt like he was about to burst and throw himself off the ledge, there was a rustling from the other side of the bluff. Long shadows were thrust over the rolling flowers and grass. His jaw dropped.

Suddenly she was just there.

He knew it was her, but at the same time he wanted to cower because he also knew the very realm of heaven was there with her. At first the beauty of her was so shocking that he didn't see it. It was blinding. Then, without warning, he did.

She was shining, glowing, radiating relief. An unknown bond strengthened between them, making them magnetic, as she continued toward him. She was coming toward him. An angel was coming toward him.

Her gown was magnificent, cloaking her in its purity of white, its majesty of memories. It accented her skin perfectly, skin tinged with excitement and creamy as lotion. She wasn't walking; she was floating, like on clouds. He could almost see her heavenly host following her, leading the way. Something about the way she looked made all of the stars fall to Earth and the sunset seem dull as she soaked in all of their wonder as her own. She was familiar, and yet so far away. Her body steamed with his past and smoked with other-worldly treasures. Wine-red roses were pressed to her chest, sending off a sweet fragrance and a heady portrait of gorgeousness. The sweeping, elegant twists of fire-painted hair that he loved were given a life of their own by the tumultuous racing of cool air. The curls were bathed in wildness and beauty and they reminded him of something that hurt him terribly and made him feel wonderful at the same time.

But it was her face that made him like jam. Her mouth was opened slightly, breaths being sucked in forcefully through the ruby-red lips so that her breasts heaved. Her eyes never once left his the entire time, and the desire that was pressed in them made him shiver with happiness. The green of them pierced his heart and made a single tear slide down his face, because she had trusted him, and he had, if barely, saved her. He had finally saved her. She was his for the rest of eternity and nothing could ever change that. She was not half Cal's or half pain's, but all his. She was willingly offering every single particle of her being to him.

Somehow, in some way, they had survived everything that it seemed God could give them. They had survived it together. Through fire and ice and smoke and torture, they had lasted. It had all worked together to create this one moment. She had never seemed so beautiful to him, even though he knew that she was always just as beautiful. His nervous fidgeting ceased and he couldn't help but smile, absolutely awestruck with love. Their love.

Rose knew that, if Jack hadn't been keeping his eyes locked with hers, she wouldn't have been able to make it. Her entire insides were like mush, and her body was barely even working. It was everything she had dreamed of as a little girl; maybe without the pageants and princesses and kings and queens and cathedrals, but her prince charming was right there. No, he wasn't dressed in shining armor. To the contrary, he was in his regular beaten trousers, a plain, cheap, brown-reddish shirt, and his rough, ancient boots. But he was as lovely to her as anyone had ever been, with his golden hair sweeping in his eyes, eyes that she was completely lost in. His irises shone, if possible, with even more blue than they ever had, with truth and redemption that soaked her in like the morning tide. So many times, many, many, times, those eyes had been her lone source of comfort, her sole fountain of hope. The bare life that sparkled in them had intrigued her since she had first seen their owner. She had read her entire life story, open and flawlessly written, in the pupils as black as a raven. Now there was something else there, something mysterious and wonderful.

The waning sunlight lathered his head with a copperish glow, setting his finely chiseled face afire with as much ravaging burning as her heart. Through it all, the sea sounded silently and at the same time roared beneath them, bringing in yesterdays and taking them out. The aisle had never been so long to any bride on the face of the planet. Her hands trembled and the deep red roses shook against her bosom. She could barely breathe.

It wasn't that her parents were there, it was that they were and then they weren't. Her imagination produced a heart-stopping picture of her father escorting her down the path, but no one was. She had already been given away a long time ago. The father she saw was not the one she knew he had been. He was not hiding from himself beneath a false pretense of promises and dreams. He truly loved her –and perhaps he really had? He was actually happy for her, she could feel it. For a second she didn't hate him. For a second she was able to love him again, love him in a childish innocence that had been stolen from her. She expected this adoration to go away, for this father to vanish like he had all the other times. He stayed. It was a shock for her to think that maybe he cared about her, and it was a shock for her to think that he hadn't wanted to hurt her.

Then there was her mother . . . and this was a different Ruth too. She wasn't the hard, bitter, self-obsessed woman that she had been when Rose had last seen her. Rose had thought that this impression of the one whom had born her would stay for her entire life, but another point was present right now. It was the woman she used to be; content, healthy, loving, bright. It was the woman that Rose had prided herself in being able to call "Mother," and it was the woman that Rose had looked up to and wanted so terribly to be.

The satisfaction she finally was able to feel with those who had brought her into this world made her finally at peace with her past. It might not have lasted long, but it lasted long enough for her to get married.

There was another manifestation entirely – one that warmed her blood and chilled her mind. This was a multi-souled one, one of many origins and many beginnings, but the same end. They all molded together and encased bride and groom in a world that was completely theirs and the phantoms.

It seemed an unbearably long time, an eternity maybe, until Jack held out his hand for Rose to take. The hand quivered in the dusk air, quivering with anticipation and fear at once. It was carved with dignity and tenderness. Even the calluses from years of hard work and passionate drawing could not dim the gentle way with which his hand reached for his love's.

She stopped inches from the hand, her walk abruptly ceasing and her eyes glimmering hope, steadily radiating faith. This was the only person on earth that she was devoted to with every particle of her being. Not once had she truly wanted to desert him and not once had she been able to stop loving him. The fervor she felt for him was addictive, and so was his touch.

She made the most important decision of her life. She took his hand.

"Dearly beloved, we gather here today . . ."

The two young lovers, surrounded by spirits that they loved and surrounded by the passion that was totally theirs, did not hear the priest as he continued the rhythmic speech that he used for every wedding. Something was different about today, though. Something that shone in their eyes and beat in their hearts. Something that he felt in the air around them. The metallic scent of fear and the sweet fragrance of determination.

It made him tremble to think of two people that were so wrapped up into each other. Usually, he could guess how long these marriages would last. He had done tons of ceremonies throughout his life like these – immature people still drunk on the majesty of life, not knowing the reality, and making these decisions much too quickly. Usually, he knew that they would be man and wife for no more than four months. But right now, he had that unnerving feeling that this Jack and this Rose would stay true to each other through their years, through death, and for the eternity afterwards.

His husky voice quoted from one of Paul's letters in the Scriptures, "Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast. It is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking. It is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres."

Jack's strong hands gripped Rose's, millions of thoughts running through his head. This was his destiny . . . his life had been working towards this point the entire time. From birth, to his parent's death, to Fabri, to Titanic, the world had been preparing him to make enough room inside for this girl.

He looked at her, and his heart strained. The amount of love that he felt was amazing. It was downright impossible. It pulled at him and weighed at him and he wouldn't have it any other way. When he closed his eyes for a second, and thought of her, he thought of the Rose he had seen only once. The Rose that was beyond terrified, the Rose that was past hope. The Rose that was lying on a door that was lying on an ocean that was trying to kill them. He could see her hair, brittle and frozen as her soul. The stars were behind her, painting a black sky like white flowers.

But now she was alive again, and happy. She bit her lip in nervousness, and he saw all of her body signs of anticipation. He brushed his mouth against her soft hand.

Rose smiled weakly at Jack. She felt like she could pass out. This was it. After years of pain, this was where a new life was officially beginning. He knees knocked together and her heart clamored so loud she knew everyone could here it. Victoria was crying by Rose's side, but Rose didn't notice. She was too lost in her lover's eyes that spoke to her of trust.

"Rose Grace Elizabeth Bukater, do you wish to take this man, Jack William Dawson, to be your lawful wedded husband, to love, to honor, to hold, to cherish, and to obey, in sickness and in health, in riches and in poverty, for better or worse, as long as you may live?"

She shivered. For safety's sake, they had left DeWitt out of her name. No one would be able to track her down through marriage records, but the marriage would still be lawful because, since her father died, her mother had the option to switch back to her maiden name. She hadn't, but that didn't mean Rose couldn't.

This was not on her mind right now. The future was. In that split second before she answered, her soul raced ahead of her to the decades that would lie along the way to the rest of her life. Children, growing and witnessing the love their parents shared, grandchildren, great-grandchildren . . . Santa Monica, maybe even Chippewa Falls someday . . .

But always Jack. Always and only Jack.

Then her heart traveled to her middle, where a product of their passion was already growing. Their life together was already growing.

Tears clouded her eyes as she fell back to Titanic and the struggle for survival. Somehow, she had known she was going to die. She hadn't. He hadn't. Surely that meant something – anything! The pain slicing through every fiber of her body, the fogginess of mind. The only thing keeping her alive being the only thing she was keeping alive – one man. The terrifying realization that perhaps, if love was separable, they were separable. Then the blackness . . . the blackness that had lasted for days and salted bitter, bitter hatred towards herself. Towards humanity. Towards the ocean. Towards the world.

But it hadn't all been lost. Her new self, the one that Jack had blossomed, had not been lost. He had fought back, and watered it and nurtured it and now she was his, for this life and all the lives after. She owed herself to him, and was more than willing to give it.

" . . . I do . . ."

Those two words were her freedom and her salvation. They forever cut the chains that bonded her to her past. She was a completely new woman now. Rose DeWitt-Bukater was trapped in yesterdays, and now Rose Dawson began to emerge, beautiful and strong. Joy flooded her heart like a raging river, for the man that gave her slender hand a squeeze and wiped a trembling tear with a calloused finger was the love of her life, the savior of her world, the gardener of her soul. He was not the evil demon that her previous fiancée had been, and he was not trying to take life out of her. She did not cower in fear of his footsteps, and was not sentencing herself to death. No, this was Jack. Her Jack, the only person that had looked closely enough and saw the real her, and fallen in love with her, not her worldly possessions or her beauty.

A soft smile, speaking tirades of powerful emotions, curved her lips.

"And Jack William Dawson, do you wish to take this woman, Rose Grace Elizabeth Bukater, to love, to honor, to hold, to cherish, and support, in sickness and in health, in riches and in poverty, for better or worse, as long as you may live?"

Jack had no second thoughts. There were no regrets and no wishes to spare himself of the torture he had been subject to. For once, he did not have the slightest desire to turn back the hands of time. Oh yes, he remembered, but he would never, never, trade his pain for a life without Rose.

You see, when he looked at her, her light dazzled the darkness which he had become subject to. He was not reminded of death or Hell or hurt, or even Heaven, but of love – timeless, ancient love. When he gazed upon her, he did not feel anguish in memories, but rather hope for today and tomorrow. He couldn't give that up. He just couldn't.

He thought of his past – of growing up smothered by everyday rural life, of his parents' devotion to each other whirling away in clouds of ash and smoke, and of the conviction he had felt that it was his fault. He moved from one tragedy to another – this time to a kind, gentle-hearted Italian and a rough, outspoken Irishman. He moved from the devouring fire of his childhood to the icy doom of his manhood. But he was no longer guilty, no longer afraid.

It was over now, and he had been given this lovely woman for the rest of his days. It was insanity to ever imagine that he would want anything else.

"I do."

They were bonded, strongly, suddenly. They were each other. With the Atlantic that had torn and built their lives crashing beside them and the sunset smiling its red rays upon them, their hearts officially molded into one. No disaster, no power, no person – not even Hell or the Devil himself, could ever break a connection so pure and true. A Jack and his Rose had forever given themselves to the other.

"I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride."

None of the witnesses present that day had ever seen something so divine and haunting on their tiny planet that revolved around the Sun. Almost as if the were unworthy to witness something so heavenly it was like angels had fallen from the sky themselves, they broke into tears.

Destiny and fate gave them the moment that Jack and Rose had deserved since the second that had met. The moment they had fought for, lived for, almost been crushed for. They had prevailed through things inhumanly possible to prevail through, and this was their reward. There was a belief that dawned on the world that day – pain brings joy.

He pulled her to him and for a moment just looked lovingly into her eyes with his, eyes that screamed that they had made it, that it was alright now. She returned his gaze with hope and adoration and faith, and they both collided to create an even stronger trust.

Then, as if they were unable to wait even a fraction of a minute longer, he desperately pressed his lips to hers, and the soft kiss of promise began to open with the fragrance of a delicate flower, sweet and unquestionably eternal. His hands reached up to cup her face, and their mouths urged themselves onwards into a lovely and sacred dance, the dance of forever finally being there.

It was almost as if they were not really in New York, but were rather hundreds of miles away and two miles beneath the blackening sea, back where they belonged, in the presences of ghosts forgotten and courage betrayed. But there was something else their now – an unexplainable happiness and joy, a love that could not be ever penetrated, and a harmonious stream of peace that would flow past Time.

Each wave the slipped onto the sand below the cliff-face whispered words of encouragement and victory. These beautiful poetic lines came from those that were not really dead but just moved on to another place, and were sent to the man and the woman that were not truly on the bluff at all, but rather in a world open to only two among the living, and it was only the two of them. The two of them that were in a close circle of friends that were no longer known by their names, names like Fabrizio and Tommy and Cora, but only as phantoms.