All Through The Night

[intheheart]

Title: All Through the Night
Rating: R.
Summary: The Titanic and destiny.
Warnings: suicide, death, mass death, shipwreck, PTSD flashbacks.
AU: Titanic
Notes: BECAUSE KELLY. I am so sick of looking at this I can't even tell you. Constuctive criticism welcome.


1. snow

The snow drifted down on the North Atlantic, on mirror-smooth seas, the moon glowing bright through wisps of clouds. It was deathly silent, as icebergs glided smooth through the water, castles and ships of their own.

In a cemetery in Halifax, the snow drifted down onto the graves, onto the flowers left by survivors. The trees caught and held the snow, white for mourning, white for death, heavy black boughs bending almost to the ground.

In homes on both sides of the waters, people remembered, and wept.



13. hot chocolate

Dearest Mother;

Enclosed are a tin of cocoa powder for Summer, a shawl for you, a map of the United States that I beg you will not tell Ivy is from me, and your tickets for the journey to New York.

Do you see how I left that for the end? Clever of me, don't you think?

It's true, though. Everything is finally ready for the three of you to come across. We've finished furnishing the house at last, and the business is growing steadily. Father purchased the tickets, and he'll be writing his own letter, but it may or may not be ready in time for the packet and so I write my own.

You and my sisters will be travelling second class on the RMS Titanic, to depart Southampton on April 10th. I believe you will have a cabin to yourself. We shall expect your arrival on Wednesday morning, April 17th. Telegraph if the ship runs into difficulties, but if I do not hear from you I will meet you at the docks. Father will try to be there but may need to be at the shipyards. Things are somewhat uncertain of late, but I promise it is nothing that need concern you; it is only that we may get a larger contract than the one we have already, and Father is not certain if we must expand the yard or not.

Don't fuss over the expense, Mother. Enjoy the ship. It's meant to be the largest and most luxurious liner on the seas today. Father picked it because he wants to sail on it, and he says he expects a full description. Write and tell me how Summer enjoys her cocoa, and how Ivy does not enjoy her map.

All my love,

Aaron



15. evergreens

Trees lined the graveyard, some bare and skeletal against the winter sky, some heavy with needles, dark and foreboding. Nathan Kendall walked among them until he came to the neat row of graves, earth still raw before their stone markers.

It was a long trip from New York to Halifax, but he had come because these were the only graves he knew for the unknown victims, the men and women whose bodies had been mangled or who had had no one to identify them. His daughter had been too frightened and the steward too distracted to remember the man's face, and in any case how could they have found him? A third-class passenger, dead in the sinking, his body probably lost to the ocean, and yet...

His daughter was still alive because of that man, the young Dane who picked her up when she fell and told her she was all right, who returned her to her mother when she got lost, who thrust her at a ship's steward in the chaos of a cold April night and said 'take her, get her to the boats, go, go now.' His youngest child had been terrified almost out of her wits, had not spoken for a full three days after, but because of that man, she lived.

He left flowers on each of the unknown graves, out-of-season roses he could barely afford, then went to the ocean and threw his very last bloom into the sea.

Whoever that man was, wherever his body lay—if God was merciful, he knew what a precious life he'd saved, and heard all the things her father could never tell him.



7. skiing

Riker stop Michael and I aboard RMS Titanic stop have got job as stoker stop will wire you from New York stop don't tell them where we've gone stop Danny



4. long nights

She whimpered in her sleep, and he knew she was dreaming about the ship.

In the daylight she insisted to the point of hysteria that she remembered nothing about it. Sometimes, to strangers or reporters, she would claim she had never been on the ship at all, that it must have been some other little girl with her initials and frightened eyes. He thought that some days she even managed to convince herself of that.

Most nights, she stayed convinced. Most nights she slept easy, her cheek pillowed on her hand, her eyelashes shadowing her cheeks. On nights like those he tucked his hand beneath her hip and slept easy himself, the blankets warm over them both.

When winter came, when the nights turned cold and silent. Not when it snowed—she slept well when it snowed, something about the glow of light and the gentle drift of flakes muffling sounds. Her bad nights were all clear as ice, and so still a breath sounded like a shout. The stars looked like chips of ice scattered across a dark deck, on nights like those.

On nights like those she didn't wake. She only cried out in her sleep, pressed her hands against her eyes and wept, cried out names he knew distantly—Lars, Ivy, Mama. On nights like those, all he could do was tuck the covers tighter around her, pull her close to the warmth of his body, and wait for the dream to pass, wait for her to wake and cry out her fear in his chest.

He wondered sometimes in the long dark if this was what it had been like, that distant night in the lifeboats, shocked and frozen, waiting for the morning.



5. holidays

Dear Aaron;

It's a bit silly writing to you when I shall see you in New York in less than a week, but I won't be sending this letter by post anyway, as you'll see very quickly. I don't know that I'll be able to say any of this aloud, but I want you to know it. You're the only one that I can trust.

First, I know it was you who sent me the map. Prepare yourself for retaliation. And yes, I absolutely could have said that aloud.

Second, I met a woman. Ah, you say, now we come to it. Be quiet. This is my letter and I shall explain things as I like.

I suppose the largest problem is that you aren't wrong. I met a woman, and I mean that precisely as you think that I mean it. Her name is Gina—I won't tell you her full name, and I think you know why—and she is a first-class passenger, travelling with her father.

I met her when we toured first class. I should say, when I toured first class. We arrived early enough that we had the time to do so, and while Mother stayed behind with Summer to settle into the cabin, I went to see what we would be missing. The answer, if you're curious, is quite a lot of somewhat intimidating luxury. The builders have spared no expense in fitting the ship out. To be perfectly honest I am quite glad we won’t be travelling first, so you needn't tell Father that I wish he'd spent more. Second class is quite luxurious enough for us, and the first-class passengers are almost universally snobs.

I do not know if Gina thought I was in first when we met. I was dressed in my best—Mother insisted, it was none of my doing as I think you can well imagine—and she approached me to compliment my hat. I complimented hers, which was naturally much nicer, and we fell to talking, and—

Aaron, I do truly think she is the most wonderful woman alive. She is very beautiful, and so intelligent; we talked until the ship sailed, about anything and everything, and then we went up to the boat deck together to watch the docks fall away, and I would have stayed with her as long as I could but a steward came and suggested I return to second. It was embarrassing, but she did not seem to mind. She shook my hand and told me that she was glad of my acquaintance. I do not know if she meant it.

I hope we can talk more about this in New York, once you've read this.

Your loving sister;

Ivy



3. sleet

Olivia was dry-eyed, at the burials.

She'd scraped the money together somehow, to get herself up to the graveyard. She probably should not have gone; she needed every penny, with the baby coming, and Halifax was far from New York. And yet... she felt she needed to be there. Someone should witness it. It might as well be her.

It was May and yet it was freezing, sleet dripping down the back of her neck no matter how she adjusted her umbrella. There was hardly anyone there—her, a crew of men who kept giving her nervous looks, and a shivering pastor who said blessings over the graves as quickly as he could before moving on to the next. Body after body went into the earth, glazed with sleet, and marked with only a single wooden cross.

None of them were Lars. She knew. She'd looked.

Something crunched behind her and she turned, sharply enough that she lost her balance and nearly fell. The man who caught her elbow smiled a little sheepishly.

"My apologies, ma'am," he said, quietly. "I didn't mean to startle you."

He was tall, with dark, curling hair much like her own, and long lashes dewed with sleet. He had a coat but no umbrella or hat, and she moved toward him, tilting her umbrella over his head. "That's all right," she replied. "Are you... I mean, did you..."

He looked over her shoulder, at the burying crew, and said, flatly, "Yes. I was on the ship."

"Oh." She turned, to look at the burying crew again. They seemed much more comfortable now that she was accompanied. "I wasn't... I mean, my husband was, but I wasn't."

The man behind her was silent for a moment, then asked, "Did he die?"

It was blunt, but she liked that. Her neighbors hadn't spoken directly to her since the news. "Yes," she said, quietly, and put a hand to her belly, to the child who was fatherless before it was even born.

"I'm sorry," the man said, just as quietly. "I didn't mean to... I was a steward. I would have stayed on the ship, but someone handed me this little girl, and..."

She turned back to him, cut him off. "No, you—it wasn't your fault, it couldn't possibly have been your fault. Lars was..." She fell silent, thinking of him, his friendly brown eyes, how kind he'd been to her. But she could not think about him now, dared not let herself crumble. Not yet. "He liked to rescue people. I think that must have been how he died. Did she live?"

"The little girl?" he asked, and to her relief, the haunted darkness in his eyes lifted, just a bit. "Yes, she did. Her mother and sister too."

"Good," Olivia said, and they stood together in silence, huddling against the sleet and watching the burying party make their way down the row.

If Olivia's hand found its way into the man's and clung there against the cold, well—it comforted her.

No one had to know.



12. snowman

Dear Christine;

I hope you are even better than when I left you. We do adore your children, you know, but you mustn't die while having them—we adore you even more. Write me in New York and tell me how you are. I am glad that I came home, though. I missed you all. Besides, it gave me experience, for when Olivia has her baby, and it gave me the opportunity to sail on the Titanic.

Chrissy, this ship is just incredible. So luxurious, even in third class. The food is wonderful and there's as much as you can eat, and we've even got a social room all to our own. There are dances almost every night. I've danced with a lovely girl twice now. Her name is Joy and she is an excellent dancer, and much in demand as a partner, as you might expect.

I've made another friend, but I cannot tell you about her, not yet. When we're all safe in America I shall write you and tell you her whole story, but it's a very strange one, and I think you will enjoy hearing it. Suffice to say that she is travelling with her brother, and they have nowhere to go when they arrive, so I think I shall take them home with me. Olivia won't mind. They can help her with the chores, now that the baby's almost here.

There is one other thing—it's very, very cold here, colder even than Odense in the dark. We are quite warm in the ship, of course, but out on the deck it is freezing. Several passengers have been talking about ice in dark and ominous tones, but you needn't worry. I'm sure we shall be fine. Well, of course, we must be fine, for I will mail this to you from New York. Perhaps it will even make its way to you on the Titanic, on its way back to Southampton! Won't that be wonderful.

I miss you already, and send my love to you, your husband, all your little ones, and our brothers and sisters—well, everyone except Eliot, and he knows why. Write me as soon as you are able.

Your loving brother;

Lars



14. hibernation

They had picked Gail up and thrown her in a lifeboat, sometime near the end. She had fought them, hard enough that she had bruises on her hands and arms. Summer had still been on the ship, after all, and she did not know where Ivy had been—she had told her older daughter, she had said 'go to the deck and get in a boat' but Ivy was so very headstrong, so difficult to control, and perhaps she had not got on a boat after all but was in the water now.

Her children. Her daughters. The cold must have worked its way into her heart, because her daughters were in the water and she could not feel a thing.

She did not remember the night on the water except in flashes—the ship outlined black against the sky, the screams in the water, shivering cold winding tight around her skin. A ship must have come to rescue them, because the next flash came as someone shoved her into a sling, tied her there, and then she was hoisted aloft, her feet kicking into the air. Blank again and now she was here, a blanket draped across her shoulders, a solicitous woman hanging over her with a cup in her hands.

"Won't you drink something, dearie?" she was saying, coaxingly. "You must be so cold, after that horrible night. I don't know how any of you survived. Here, I have some coffee for you, nice and hot, it will be so good for you. Come on, won't you drink? It will feel lovely, warm you right up."

Gail looked up at her. She was elderly, perhaps Gail's mother's age. She had dark, twinkling eyes, crow's feet, silver hair. She looked so worried, and so hopeful, as if a cup of warm coffee would fix everything that had happened, would make everything all right again, as if Gail's whole world had not just sunk with the Titanic.

"Dearie?" the woman asked, peering closely at Gail's face. "Are you all right?"

"No," Gail said, hoarsely. "No. My daughters are dead. No, I'm not all right." The woman drew sharply back from her, distress chasing across her face, and Gail closed her eyes, drew the blanket over her face. Maybe the woman would go away now, and leave her to the emptiness.

The blankness would come back, sooner or later. She hoped it was sooner.



8. scarf

Dear papa;

I have got lost already and we are only on the ship one day. Mama says I am not to go away from her at all for the rest of the time and I shall try very hard to do as she says. It was not all bad though I was very scared. I went out of our cabin and down a long hallway. I meant to find the water closet but I got lost and I could not find the water closet or the cabin again. I cried because I was scared and a man came and told me his name was Lars and it was all right and what was my name. I told him and he said Summer is a pretty name and why was I crying. I told him I was lost and he said it is easy to get lost on this ship except he said a bad word too, and then he said if I said where my mama was he would take me back to my mama and that I should not worry. So I told him where mama was and he took me back. I was shaking because I was scared but I told him I was cold, because he told me I should not worry and I did not want to, so he gave me his scarf and I am wearing it now. It is blue and red with fringe on the end. I will show you it in New York. We are in Cherbourg now and mama says I must give her my letter so that she can post it. I miss you very much and I want to hug you lots.

love your daughter

Summer



9. wrap up well

He was down in third class trying to keep the crowd calm when a wiry young man shoved his way to the front, and Jake suddenly found his arms full of a sobbing red-headed child.

"She's second class," the man was shouting at him, blurting the words out all in a stream, "she's a second-class passenger and you must get her to the boats. Get her in a lifeboat, please, she's only a baby, get her there safe, go, go now!"

Jake found himself halfway up the stairs, the child still in his arms, pushed by the sheer force of those words. The child had begun to scream, reaching out both her arms to the crowd of passengers behind him, and he turned to give the girl back, but the man was already lost in the heaving movement, and at any rate he had a mission now.

The girl clung to his shirt and sobbed quietly as he ran up the stairs, skipping steps and tearing around corners. The boats were half gone when he'd come down here; if he was lucky he could throw this girl into the last of them and go back to his duties. If he wasn't lucky—

And he wasn't. When he made it up to the boat deck, panting and sobbing for breath, the last of the boats was lowering into the water.

He clutched the child tight against his chest and thought as quickly as he could. He could not throw her into the boat; she was too large and at any rate she might struggle, twist and fall and miss the boat entirely and he couldn't risk that. He could not just throw her into the water and hope that the boats picked her up, because she was only a baby, he had no idea if she could swim, and there was no hope that the boats would return anyway—none of the others had.

If he was going to get her off this ship, he had one choice.

There was some rope lying loose beside him, a relic perhaps of one of the long-gone lifeboats. He snatched it up and tied the suddenly silent child against his chest, as tightly as he could manage without hurting her. He ran to the rail then, swung one leg over and looked down at the small, pale face against his chest.

"Hold your breath and hold on to me," he ordered her, and jumped.

The water was a shock, icicles stabbing into his skin, so cold he lost his breath and gasped in a mouthful of it before kicking strong for the surface. The girl was coughing weakly when he surfaced, and he rolled over onto his back, putting her head as far above water as he could. He couldn't help her yet.

The boat he'd seen wasn't far away; he struck out for it, grateful for a childhood spent swimming with his sisters. If he could only reach the boat then the girl would be fine. If he could only keep swimming, only a few more strokes...

Suddenly there were voices, shouts, people reaching down to haul him into the boat, the girl still tied to his chest. She was quiet, frighteningly so, and he pounded her back as people tried to get the rope untied, shook her until she started, coughed, and began to cry again, low and thin. Someone draped a sail over them both, shouting at him, demanding answers.

"I had to get her to the boat," he said, and coughed. "I had... I had to get her to the boat."

The child was crying again, sobs torn from her chest, her hands in fists and shoved against her eyes. She was only a baby, God, she was only a baby, and now she was all alone. Jake gathered her close as the boat pulled away, tugged the sail tighter around them both, and began to sing under his breath, a low lullaby he had not heard in a very, very long time.

"Sleep, my child, and peace attend thee, all through the night..."



10. winter wonderland

I shall never write these words again, or speak them aloud where anyone could hear them. I should not be writing them now, but I fear the loss of this memory. I shall write the words, then, and fix this night in my mind, and when I am done I shall throw this paper to the water and there will be nothing left to betray us.

I met her again. I shall not write her name, for you and I both know who I mean. She was at church services, with her mother and sister, and I went up to her and invited her to walk with me for a bit. The steward said nothing, so we went to the promenade, and after a while we sat down, and we talked.

It was just like the first day, at Southampton. It was as if we'd never been apart. She is so bright and lovely, I feel like I am standing in the sun when I am with her. I am warm, and happy, and pleased just to be near her. I hope she feels a tenth as happy as I am, being near me. I met her only a few days ago, and we have known each other a few hours, but... I feel as if I've known her forever. I feel as if... but I cannot say that, not even when no one will ever see this but me.

I don't really remember what we talked of, but it must have been almost everything, for we sat there for hours. I even went to dinner with her and her family—she is travelling with her mother and her sister, who is much smaller than her, perhaps six years old, and I quite enjoyed their company, I'm sure, but for the most part I paid attention only to her. I don't remember what we ate or what we said or anything, until we went back out on the decks afterwards, and it was so cold that we huddled together. I did not mind this at all; her arm was tight around me, and her breath was warm on my face. We were so close in that moment. I thought perhaps I could hold on to her forever.

I kissed her. I couldn't help myself. I thought that it would destroy everything but it did not; she kissed me back. I cannot, even now, believe how lucky I am.

We had to part. There was a steward coming to empty the decks for the night, and we had to part. But she has said that she will be on the boat deck tomorrow morning. I shall see her tomorrow morning.

I cannot wait.



6. the longest night

Michael stumbled up the stairs behind Danny as she ran, panting hard, dragging him behind her. He thought he'd broken his ankle when the ship had lurched hard—hitting an iceberg, Danny told him, when she shook him up and threw his clothes on—it hurt so much and lurched under him with every step, but Danny was dragging him and he couldn't stop. It was nearly two in the morning and there was water everywhere, climbing up the steps, and he knew, he just knew, that he was going to die.

Danny had been working when it happened. He knew that. She was soaked and freezing, greasy from the coal and the boilers, her hair plastered against her forehead. She'd found him after they let the stokers go, sitting in their cabin in inch-deep water, unable to get up, his ankle throbbing but numbing now in the water. She'd hauled him up and now they were somewhere on C deck, running up as fast as they could.

He couldn't go very fast. And the water was rising.

He had to do something. He had to do something. He was going to die, there wasn't any question of that, but Danny might live, if he did something and did it soon.

"Danny," he panted, and tugged at her hand, hauled her to a stop on the landing. "Danny, I can't."

"You can," she said, fiercely, whirling right into his face. "The water's right there, we have to keep going!"

"I can't," Michael said again, and slumped against her, his face against his shoulder. Dear Danny. She'd protected him through so much, kept him safe from their parents, taken him with her when she ran. He couldn't let her do this. "I can't."

"You have to," she insisted. Panic rose in her voice before she choked it down. "Come on, it's only a few more decks..."

He raised his head, kissed her cheek and hugged her tight, around the shoulders. "You can't save us both."

"I'm not leaving you," she snarled, her furious face so close to his, so beloved. He smiled at her, tried not to let the sorrow leak into his face.

"You're going to have to, sister dear," he said, and pushed away from her, wobbled back against the bulkhead, his ankle alive with pain. "One of us has to live."

She could tell herself afterward that the ship lurched, or that he slipped, or something, or at least he hoped she could—but the truth was that he jumped, pushed off from the wall and let himself fall.
It felt like flying.



11. ice skating

Dearest Mama;

There was a lovely party tonight, in the third-class lounge. There was music and laughing and oh, how I danced! I danced with every man who would ask me, and when nobody would I danced by myself. People were talking about me, I know, but I don't care. Some of them were admiring me, which is all that really matters. We shall be in New York by Wednesday.

I am sitting in the very front of the ship now. I don't know what it is called properly, a prow, maybe? I had to sneak out here after the party, because I wanted a bit of quiet, and I'm quite glad that I did. It's bitter cold like it never is at home, which is why my handwriting is so wretched. My hands are shaking! You will forgive me, I am sure, for it is so beautiful out here, all the dark water and the stars like diamonds, and not a hint of whitecap to be seen. The sea looks like someone has shaken it out and smoothed it over. We shall have a very smooth journey, I think.

I miss you very much already. Kiss Papa for me and tell him I shall write to him next. Maybe I shall carry off a cup or a fork, something made for the ship with the name on it. I want to remember when I am old that I sailed on the most beautiful ship that man has ever made, going to New York to start my life.

I shall post this when I get to New York.

My hands are shaking too much now to write any more, and I am sure you would tell me to go in before I caught cold, so I shall end now and say simply that I am as always your loving daughter,

Joy



2. ice

It did not snow that night, though it was cold enough; the sky was clear as ice, the sea mirror-still. The scattered stars could have been snowflakes but they looked more like chips of ice on black velvet, or frozen seawater in a woman's hair. The ship was silent, its passengers asleep, its crew bored, and a sleepy lookout shuffling through his watch, rubbing his arms to keep himself warm.

In the darkness, black ice shifted, and broke.