Author's Note: Everyone, thank you so much for your lovely words. Ah, the tears. I know. It's rough to write, too. As far as this chapter goes, I was going to put some big note in here, about *grumblegrumble* it's just fan fiction, don't get your knickers in a festival; it's movie-based, so *sassafrassintarnation* relax already, but I decided not to. You're all smarter than that. As a final note, the epilogue will be up this week at the usual update time. It's not over till it's over. And it's not over yet. Until then, dear readers. Cue up your favorite soul-crushingly sad music.

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Eighteen: Murdoch and the others

April 15, 1912

02:07

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There'd been a moment, a few hours back, one in which Murdoch found himself wondering at the thrumming of his heart. At that point, Ellen was deep in his arms, her full lips giving his kisses back to him, his hands in her soft unpinned hair, her brown eyes looking up at him with more need than he knew what to do with. His heart had pounded, and he'd reveled in every second, wanting more, and more.

Now his heart was hammering so hard he could barely breathe. And he couldn't stop shaking, not as he pulled her away from the crowds, not as Wilde came with him and helped him set her down at the other end of the lifeboat. She was whimpering—uncontrollably, he assumed—in a pitiful, small pitch, her cold nose pressed into his neck.

"No," he was saying without meaning to. The horror was making him sick to his stomach, his pounding heart worsening the effect. Wilde, in shocked silence, held Ellen's shoulders up while Murdoch tore off his gloves, started unbuttoning her heavy greatcoat. "No, no, no—"

Inside her coat, he opened the buttons on her officer's jacket, tasting bitterness like bile in his mouth. Just hours ago he was fumbling with those same buttons, and she with him, the backs of his knuckles just grazing the warm skin beneath her shirt before they both came to their senses and pulled away from each other.

He thought that next time they got around to it, they'd have time. She was watching him, not the progress on her buttons, and he knew she was thinking it, too.

She was wheezing shallowly, her shirt already red, and he nearly tore out the bottom three buttons of it. He caught a flash of pale, smooth skin before seeing that the rest of it was wet with blood, a purplish dime-sized puncture in the skin just below her ribcage dribbling it fast and thick.

There was no way she'd make it.

"Lung," Wilde managed from behind and above her, still holding her shoulders up, fear in his eyes. "She's got minutes."

Murdoch nodded, suppressing a panic that was about to unhinge him. He moved to take Wilde's place, one arm around her shoulders, holding her up, his other hand tangling with her damp fingers—sea spray and blood. Wilde, with no other choice, went to keep helping the crowd.

Murdoch held her close. "Ellen?" Her eyes were slightly unfocused, but he could see them working to meet his. "Love?"

"Murdoch," she managed hoarsely, reaching up with her free hand to wrap it around the back of his neck.

His eyes prickled with bitter tears as it occurred to him that the faster she spoke, the more energy she'd lose. She was already barely breathing. She'd start choking on her own blood before long. "Don't speak," he tried, releasing her hand to smooth strands of hair off her face. "It'll—it'll make the pain worse."

She tried to smile, but it was tremulous, none too confident. "Like I could feel pain when I'm with you."

He remembered the first collapsible, and more anger flared within him. He should have picked her up and thrown her in. His own selfishness, his own fear made him accept that she was staying. And now they were both paying for it. "I should have made you go," he managed. "God, Ellen, I should have forced you to go!"

She swallowed, eyes losing focus with the effort, before coming back to him. "Something would have happened to me anyway." It was barely above a whisper. She tried to take a deep breath and winced, but looked up at him again. "You can't beat fate. Luckily it led me back to you."

His breath caught on a dry sob. "Love," he whispered, hating nothing so much as he hated himself, "I'm so sorry."

She pulled him closer, eyes intent on his. "I know, Will." He watched tears gather in them, and she tried to smile again. "It's all right."

"No." he shook his head. "It isn't. We. . ." Could have tried for it together. Could have had a life together. Could have at least finished their duty together.

Ellen sniffled then cried out from the way her body jerked; her grip tightened around his neck, and she trembled nearly as badly as he did. He couldn't stand it, seeing her like this, knowing he'd done it to her.

When she met his eyes again, hers were still forgiving. "S'all right, Will," she whispered.

She pulled him down to her lips and gently bit his lower one; he pulled her closer and kissed her back. They became pecks as he tried to apologize again, but she wouldn't have it, pulling him back again, claiming him, their fingers still tangled together. It was a last kiss. It was good.

She pulled back, looking at him, her smile almost content. Relieved. Suddenly she winced, coughed and then whimpered, and he realized she'd coughed blood. She swallowed it back, shaking, and leaned against him, the ragged sound of her labored breathing between them as he held her close, his eyes wide.

She whispered his name, almost inaudible. He bent his head. "Yes?"

Her voice was so small. He could barely hear it. "I think I'm in love with you, too," she whispered.

"Ellen," his voice broke. "Ellen, I. . ."

Her trembling had stopped.

Murdoch held her away from him. Her eyes were closed, and her body had gone limp. He could see the red of blood on her parted lips.

It all slammed back on him—the shouting crowd, fighting to break past the crewmen; Wilde above him, helping women come through, calling for everyone to stay back. The green water roaring up the stairs, the fact that Collapsible C was minutes from being swamped by the water it had to be lowered into.

Murdoch set his jaw. He kissed Ellen's sweat-damp forehead, laid her down gently, and got to his feet. He felt numb. Everything did, except for the very edges of his resolve, which were simmering with a blinding rage.

He hadn't meant to fire. He'd panicked. Who wouldn't have? In the heat of it, when that other group of men sprang forward, he'd shot without thinking, without even looking.

And she'd been there. The look in her eyes, the surprise, the confusion, her hand suddenly bright red as she pressed it to her side as she fell—he could never forget.

Looking down at the deck, the noise of the crowd roaring in his ears, he watched blood slide down the wooden slats. Her blood. He stepped back, horrified, and his heel came down on something solid and irregular.

It was the Webley he'd dropped moments ago.

Staring at it, the breath on his lips fogging in the cold air, he made up his mind. This hell, this nightmare of panic and screaming and death and hopelessness and Ellen Wallace's blood on his hands and her last kiss still on his lips and every last ruddy bit of it, his fault. . .

He closed his eyes.

There was only one thing he had the strength left to do.

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Icy water slammed into Lightoller, nearly displacing his grip on the rudder of the overturned Collapsible B as the wave propelled the boat away from the ship. Gasping for air, fingers hardly working for the pain of cold, he managed to haul himself aboard.

Watching the second funnel collapse, numbly helping drag others onto the overturned collapsible, he couldn't believe he was still alive. Didn't want to think about it too hard, because he didn't know how long he would be. Survival isn't a question of fighting, he thought as the group of them slowly began to paddle away from the ship. Surviving is just doing. Keeping yourself going, distracted, so there's no time to reflect on any other alternative.

As they gained distance, the ship coming apart behind them, he took stock of the boat. There were some twenty-odd men huddled uncomfortably on the keel, nothing to grip, the sea making everything slippery. Phillips and Bride, the two wireless operators, were across from him. Bride was waiting for orders, unable to reach the sea from his seat. Phillips was folded in on himself, shuddering so violently that Lightoller knew the boy couldn't last much longer.

When the ship went under minutes later, Lights and the men on the collapsible could do nothing but watch silently. His whole body was still, eyes wide, too horrified to even shiver. It happened so fast, the whole thing sliding into the waves at once, a cacophony of internal explosions dragging it down, and just like that, there were a thousand people in the water. The sense of being alone, helpless, in the middle of the ocean, was overwhelming, made his voice bubble to the back of his throat.

"We have to get away," he said, but it was hoarse, and no one could hear it. He coughed, wished for a drink. Water. Or whiskey. Definitely whiskey. "Let's move," he said, "Come on, lads, we've got to pull for it. They'll drag us down with them." They all reached into the water again, and tried to put distance between themselves and the screaming.

In an hour the ocean was silent and Phillips was dead, and Bride was too exhausted and freezing to even mourn his friend properly. Waves had begun picking up. The glass-calm sea, once reflecting the stars, had come alive again. A wintery breeze chilled them and stiffened their wet clothes.

Lightoller had tucked himself into a corner of his mind, away from the icy air, his own shivering. He only emerged to call the occasional order, and once to ask Bride if any ships were on the way. One of them, the Carpathia, might reach them as soon as dawn, but Lights nearly didn't care.

The guilt of survival was heavy on his shoulders, and he'd had enough of responsibility to last him a lifetime. This waiting here, in the freezing cold, alone on the North Atlantic—it was too much. The cold that drove into him with every breath, the water around every edge of his peripherals, even the sound of waves gently lapping the boat (a noise which he usually deeply enjoyed) was driving him mad. He didn't want to wait. He wanted to be dead or he wanted to be on a rescue boat. Not here in the interim, waiting on a fleeting hope, wondering if he'd ever see sunlight again.

But then the boat bucked again, nearly tossing him and a few others from it. He grabbed the rudder, pulled himself to his knees, bringing himself back. The men were looking to him for orders.

"Up," he heard himself call. "Everyone up. Get ready for the next wave."

He taught them how to displace their weight, so that when the next wave came rolling by, they were ready for it. They kept the boat steady, shifting, bracing themselves, and when the wave is past, the boat settles and no one even stumbled.

They're pleased with themselves. Though Lightoller couldn't quite summon the strength to smile, he felt a shadow of fondness somewhere deep inside of him. It was like kindling, and each time a wave came at them, each time the men on the boat moved accordingly and saved themselves, it grew stronger. He could feel himself beginning to light up again, from the inside. The will to survive, slowly coming back.

In another hour Lights could see hints of sun on the horizon. He and Bride were standing shoulder-to-shoulder with members of Boat 12, over 70 of them, sea water splashing over the gunwale because it was riding so low on the waves. They were all staring into the distance, prayig that none of them were hallucinating.

The tiny speck of a ship miles in the distance fired a rocket into the sky, and it exploded overhead, white against the dusty blue of dawn. Saved, he thought, water in his shoes, in his clothes, as everyone cheered. We're ruddy well saved.

An hour after that, his limbs felt like rubber as he climbed the rope ladder up the side of the Carpathia. He couldn't believe he even had the strength for it. He's the last one out of the boat, which is half sunk with water. The last passenger from the Titanic to come aboard.

At the top of the ladder, a large, callused hand took his to pull him the rest of the way up. A grim-faced mustachioed man in a captain's uniform let go, and nodded at Lightoller. "Welcome aboard the Carpathia," the man said. "I'm Captain Rostron."

"I'm Second Officer Lightoller," Lights said. He was gripping a nearby railing so hard his knuckles were white, and he was nearly swaying with exhaustion. "The Titanic has struck a berg and gone under." The sunlight was warm on his face, and he blinked up into it, the relief of his survival hitting him hard. "And if you don't mind, I'd very much like to see the other officers."

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Lowe was still getting accustomed to the idea that he wasn't, and wouldn't be, dead.

He'd accepted it, huddled in the dark and cold, nearly welcomed it as he'd shivered convulsively, surrounded by a field of floating dead. He'd rescued the few he could, but then came the wait. It was all they could do, aside from tie their boat to two others and try to keep people calm.

He'd made the knowledge of death part of himself, waited for it. He'd given up, because dying of hypothermia seemed so much easier than living out his life with these memories always hovering near the surface of his mind.

Now he was silent, hands thawing around a hot mug of strong tea, heavy blanket around his shoulders.

The others were silent too, still getting used to it, still in shock, in the bright lights of Carpathia's officer's mess. Lightoller's eyes were closed, head leaned back against the wall behind their bench. Pitman stared unseeingly at the countertop. Boxhall had his head in his hands. It's almost worse, Lowe thought. Wondering why it isn't us.

He sipped his tea, wishing for Ellen's coffee instead. He's been trying not to think of what her last moments could possibly have been like, what Will's and Henry's had entailed, even the captain's. And how James had died. How he could possibly have died. He was twenty-four. Even Ellen—she was Lowe's age.

It was so bloody unfair that he didn't think he could stand thinking about it much more.

So he decided to think of more pleasant things. The easy friendship he'd struck up with Ellen, and even James. Lowe hadn't known any of the officers when he'd come aboard a week ago. He didn't expect to find himself in the maritime equivalent of a barfight, much less with a woman who could handle it as well as he could. He didn't expect that he and Moody would get along so well; Moody had even loaned him a few books the other night, the younger man's favorites that Lowe had never read.

He remembered walking in on the group of them barely twelve hours ago in the officer's mess, when he'd been looking for a cup of coffee. They playing cards, the air thick with laughter and smoke, and a few of them had tried to get him to ditch his rounds. In that moment, he thought that he and Ellen finally knew they fit in.

And then disaster. And somehow he'd clawed his way to survival. He wondered briefly what, exactly, had happened between Murdoch and Ellen, that had caused Murdoch's surprising revelation right before Lowe had to leave them. Perhaps he'd ask Lightoller, once everything had calmed down. Lights and the first officer were close, Lowe knew. And it might help to talk about it.

Lowe took a deep breath, steadying himself. Soon they'd have to get up. They'd have to speak more in detail with Captain Rostron; they'd have to speak about everything. They'd have a duty to the passengers to help document the survivors, to help round up telegram messages.

But for now, the four of them were quiet. Lowe knew somewhere deep down that as much as they'd never forget the hell of that night, this is something else they'd remember. The camaraderie in surviving. The brotherhood of the living.

The door opened, and Captain Rostron stuck his head in. "Sorry, gentlemen," he said, looking at each of them. "We'll need you in a few minutes. Wheelhouse."

"Right," Lightoller said, not opening his eyes. "We'll be there." Rostron nodded, and closed the door.

Boxhall sighed, taking his head out of his hands. "Good," he grunted. "Could use something to bloody do."

"Agree," Pitman said, and stood. He looked around at them all. "Come on, lads," he said gently. "Let's get through this, eh?"

Lowe nodded and stood. It felt good to stand on a steady deck. "Let's get through this," he agreed, and drained his tea.