"When the Music Fades"

The giant, steel vessel rocked in time with the fast paced waves. The water crashed against the bow, sending sprays of the sea into the air and onto the deck. Though the tide was a bit fiercer this night, the weather was what one could hope for. The moon was full and round, no ominous clouds blocking her from sight. Even the wind was calm, nothing but a faint, refreshing breeze. It was still quite cold, however- but what could one expect from sailing by across the Atlantic in the middle of April?

The weather outside, though, had little effect to those on the grand ocean- liner. Most now were putting their young ones to bed and heading down either to one of the elegant dining halls, the swimming pool, the smoking rooms, or some even tried their luck at a game of tennis. A few bold ones did decide to brave the frigid cold, donning their warmest coats and furs for a stroll about one of the many decks.

These were the minority, however, and I found that most of the passengers- the majority of which were of the higher-society- were lounging in the dining room, having just finished their many-coursed supper. Most were immersed in their conversations, discussing stocks, possibilities in America, wine, or other such mindless drivel.

"Let's have another go then." Wellsworth lifted his violin and was about to begin another melody, when Brewster interrupted, the Scotsman's heavy accent heard clearly over the soft hum of the crowd.

"What's the point? It's not as though anyone is listening."

I stifled a sigh. Indeed, it appeared as though hardly any noticed that we had stopped even for a second. We were used to this kind of attention, of course, back home in Southampton, but I suppose I had always imagined it so much different here on the Titanic.

Back home, no one appreciated our talents. We would play at eateries, a few low-key balls, even once at a pub when we were down on our luck- but that is another tale entirely. Yet, no one paid much attention to us, let alone the devotion we yearned for. No one could value the detail and beauty of our music.

So when we were offered the job of playing on the R.M.S Titanic, the grandest ship said to have ever been built, we had thought that this was finally our chance to prove our worth, to perform for people of high tastes who loved our music for what it was- an art.

We were sadly mistaken.

"I can't remember when that has stopped us before," Wellsworth replied with that irritating, optimistic air of his. Brewster looked about to protest, but Wellsworth had already begun to play Summer, his bow quickly racing across the delicate strings as he began the introduction.

Brewster looked at me helplessly, but I only shrugged and joined in. There was no use trying to stop Wellsworth once he started on Vivaldi.

I felt with a smile my fingers dancing gracefully over the softly vibrating cords, the comforting weight of the carved wooden violin resting on my shoulder. I heard Brewster enter in as well, his cello leaning against him as his digits, too, began their alluring waltz. As the music flowed through me to my hands, I could for a moment forget my troubles. The vivacious, allegro melody caused all other senses to flee me, leaving me only with my hearing. There was no other sound that could bring me more joy.

The three of us wound the song to a close, and I was almost sad to bring it to an end. Lifting our instruments from their positions, we awaited for applause.

Which never came, unless you count the few quiet claps from those that actually noticed we had finished. 'Perhaps there was one other sound I would rather hear,' I thought dejectedly. It was not as though we were unused to the silent, unappreciative room. Yet, after every song, we still could not help but hope for a more enthused response.

I sighed. Even the sparse audience in Southampton was more excited than this group. Of course, we got more of a response this hour than we had prior. For, you see, our normal shift was for the noonday meal, and sometimes at tea when necessary. But tonight, out of pure luck, the regular musicians had a rather bad case of seasickness. I had gotten a nasty bout of it first day aboard, and I did not at all envy their situation. However, I was thrilled that we took their place. Not only would we be paid extra for it, but also we would have a more diverse audience. However, their response still somewhat lacked what our pride demanded.

A young man approached us, no more than 18 years old, perhaps less. His dark hair was neatly trimmed and tidy, contrasting somewhat with his light complexion. He donned a black suit, which was pressed and smoothed, along with a tailored, white shirt and high collar. And, judging from the way he walked stiffly, he was not at all comfortable in aforementioned clothes. I recognized him immediately. He was one of the few applauding spectators, but unlike the rest, he was actually wholehearted and sincere about it. He should be, as well, for he was the one who had recommended us to White Star Line in the first place.

"Jack!" Wellsworth greeted in delight. "Jack, my lad. How are you? I saw your father strolling about and was wondering when we might see you."

Jack Thayer gave us a cheeky grin, causing dimples to form on his handsomely structured face. "I was hoping to escape the boredom of this room, and my friend and I almost succeeded. But, alas! It seems my father had other plans for me. So, here I am!" He gestured towards his dress clothes in disdain. "I am still at a loss as to why all this formality is needed for a simple dinner!"

I could not help but chuckle at his childishness. It felt good to see some fresh youth here in this stuffy hall. He was our biggest fan on the ship, maybe even at all. We had first met him at one of the banquets we were serving at, and he had eagerly approached us. He looked like a well behaved, good boy, so when he asked us for lessons, we saw no reason to send him away. It did feel good, after all, to have someone look at us like that.

After only a few days, it became apparent that the lad did not have the gifted hands to wield the violin. He could execute the notes, but they always came sloppy and stalling. Brewster then tried to teach him the art of the cello, but it was clear that Jack had no talent for that either. The poor boy told us then that since he could not play music, he would enjoy hearing us play for him. Faithfully, he attended many of our performances whenever he was in England. (His father, John B. Thayer, was the vice- president of the Pennsylvanian Railroad, so he and his son were well traveled.)

Therefore, when he had heard that Bruce Ismay had been searching for musicians for the highly acclaimed ocean liner, Jack had used all the connections of his father that he could. Thus, we three simple, striving performers were offered the job of a lifetime.

"Would you fine gents mind if your biggest fan requested a song?" Jack asked with twinkling eyes.

"I would be offended if you didn't," I replied, forcing into my voice mock- offense at the very idea.

"What shall it be?" Brewster questioned, and for the first time in the night, we could see a fond smile form on his round face, causing his thick mustache to twitch.

"Fledermaus Overture."

"Strauss?" Wellsworth questioned suspiciously. Then, realization lighting his eyes, he scanned the room. "Ah, so where be the lass who has earned such a song?"

Young Thayer blushed, again reminding me of his youthfulness, and gestured towards a young lady who sat with some of the other older women. The girl was not at all hard on the eyes, her lithe figure sitting upright in her chair. She suddenly lifted her head back, laughing at something one of the ladies had said, causing her curly, blonde hair to bounce with the action. I watched with amusement as Jack stared mesmerized in her direction

"A fine choice. Of course we will play." Wellsworth lifted his violin, bow poised in readiness. Brewster adjusted his seating, grumbling about the soreness of his legs and seat, and with a nod, signaled for us to begin.

The music was light and airy, the waltzing melody making it a fine piece to dance to. I observed Jack straighten his posture, despite the irritating attire, and walk over to the young woman. He said something to her, and she blushed slightly before taking his proffered hand. As soon as they reached the center of the floor, Jack began the waltz, leading her in intricate circles across the polished tiles.

More couples joined them, and soon the room was a swirl of colorful gowns and suits. As the shadows danced in the light from the chandelier, I again focused on the music, allowing the outside world drift away outside my consciousness. I felt as though I, too, danced; yet, it was my spirit not my feet that made movement.

We finished, the melody slowly fading and the dancers perforce ceased their revolutions. Then, something quite unexpected occurred.

They asked for more.

I nearly fell over in shock. Of course, I knew it was because they merely wished to continue waltzing and really didn't appreciate the music as a piece of art, only for something to dance to, but I was not about to complain. Brewster let out a booming guffaw, a huge grin now threatening to swallow his face. I saw a flicker of disappointment in Wellsworth's eyes, no doubt understanding as I did that they were wanting nothing more than cotillion music, but I ignored it, so great was my delight.

This time, it was Brewster who began the next piece- Symphony No. 5 in B flat major. Not one of my favorites, but the crowd seemed pleased enough. The night passed as so- one song ending as another was requested to continue. Soon I found my fingers cramping as they sought to keep pace with the rhythm, but I overlooked the discomfort.

Hours passed, and around 11:30, the people began leaving, the dance floor becoming less crowded as its occupants either retired or sat to allow their feet a respite. Jack Thayer had long since left, wishing his father goodnight. I noticed that the young woman he was so captivated with excused herself rather suddenly afterward. Soon, only a handful of men and women were left, and they seemed to be preparing to leave soon as well.

One of the maids approached us and gestured towards the kitchen, where we would find our meals waiting. My stomach suddenly complained of the lack of attention it had received, reminding me hungrily of the food we had smelt and seen while performing. Quickly putting our instruments away, we scrambled through the heavy doors where we would discover the leftovers of the evening's meal.

We seated ourselves at a small table near the front, my eyes eagerly roaming over the delicacies. Picking through each platter, I soon had a sizeable plate and immediately began devouring the food, grabbing first for a slice of venison. The clinking of an overly thick glass caught my attention.

"A toast!" Brewster declared, lifting his glass of brandy. "To endless possibilities! May our dreams take us beyond the horizon!"

I voiced my agreement, and Wellsworth, too, lifted his glass, though it seemed a tad reluctant.

"We should have gotten a better response," he muttered disheartedly. "Those people wouldn't know good music if it bit them in the arse. They just had us play so they could twirl around in their silly circles. Bah!" He downed his drink in one swallow.

It was discouraging to see the young man so melancholy. However, I suppose I should have suspected it. The handsome, 25-year old was always upbeat and positive, sometimes to the point of annoyance, but there was one thing that brought him down: others' views of music. Music was his life; he thrived on it. I, myself, had taught him when he was still a boy of perhaps fifteen. He was my most diligent pupil. When he became old enough, he and I performed together, and his skill was remarkable. What took me a decade to master, he matched within a few years. Now, part of an artist's life is rejection, something all in the profession come to know well in time, and you learn to accept it. Wellsworth, however, never grasped this subject, and, therefore, never took it well.

"Ah, bloody hell with them," Brewster stated, clapping the young man on the shoulder. "All I know is that when we return to Southampton, we're going to be bleedin' rich!" He refilled his glass.

"You can have my share if you like," Wellsworth told him. "I have no wish to join high society. Hours of mindless prattle, the endless parade of false smiles and politeness... I could do without such a façade." I laughed at the image of him as such. Indeed, it was almost too much for me to handle with the clothes he was wearing now. They seemed so foreign when worn on his thin form.

"Brewster," I began, suddenly remembering what I had seen earlier. "I wished to ask you before, but never found the time. Who was that letter you received from? The letter that smelt suspiciously of perfume and made you blush crimson?"

The Scotsman sputtered and choked on his brandy. "I-I-I don't know what you m-mean." He studied the floor with sudden fascination.

"Brewster!" Wellsworth's face lit up, his natural light atmosphere returning. "How dare you try to hide such a thing from us! Well, who is she? Come, man, come! Details! It's the Irish woman we met in Canterbury when we were called to that ball, isn't it?" Brewster sank lower in the chair, too involved in his study of the floor to answer. "Say, I don't recall I've ever even seen the color that his face has turned! What would you call that, mate?"

"Hmm...I would say magenta, or perhaps violent. Definitely has a touch of purple in it, though, so it can't be red." I said, fighting down a laugh. I easily dodged a cuff aimed for my head.

"That must be why you were off tonight, Brewster! Obviously your concentration was more focused on your woman than your technique." Wellsworth quipped.

"I was off?!" He exclaimed in indignation. "Impossible! I am never off. It's in my blood, after all. Everyone knows that the Scottish very nearly invented the art of music."

"Really? I thought they invented the art of heavy drinking."

"That'd be the Irish, mate."

"It is the woman, though, isn't it? Oh, come on, just tell me I'm right and get it over with!" Wellsworth said impatiently.

"Yes, yes, it's her. A bloomin' detective, you are."

Just as I was about to say a rather uncomplimentary response to the comment, the whole ship shuddered, a disquieting ripping sound ringing through out the vessel like cloth being torn. The quake lasted a few moments, shaking the steel structure and causing myself and Brewster to fall out of our chairs. Wellsworth had managed to keep his seat, but our drinks had been spilt over the table, leaving a fine stain down his front and onto his lap.

"What in bleedin' Christ was that?"

I could only give Brewster a shrug, slowly rising to my feet. Wellsworth made for the door, and we followed behind. A sense of foreboding suddenly settled into my stomach. I tried to convince myself that everything as fine. This was the "unsinkable" Titanic, after all. Yet, somehow, my false assurances did naught to ease the sinking feeling that I had.

Halfway to the dining room exit, we encountered one of the staff. He looked apprehensive and shifty, almost fearful, his eyes darting around the room nervously as though at any moment it would collapse and crush him.

"The captain orders that you are to go on deck and perform." His voice was heavy and strained. "It does not matter what you play, so long as it is light-hearted and cheery. Something to calm the people and prevent panic."

"Why would they panic?" I ask slowly, fearing the answer.

He looked at me and I noticed that he was shaking slightly. "Routine protocol. The people are being ordered to the decks near the life boats." Through the way the tremor of his voice became more profound, and from my own feeling of unease, I knew that this was not simply "routine."

"All right. Come on, gents." Wellsworth said, going over to grab his instrument and making for the door, but stopped when the attendant shoved something into his hands.

"The captain also ordered you wear these."

Slowly, he set down the violin case and put on the life preserver. Brewster and I followed suit, and my fearfulness increased. With a set face, we picked up our cases and headed to the upper deck.

When we stepped out into the frigid air, I shivered from both the cold and the terror I unexplainably felt. I nearly slipped when my foot came in contact with something slick. Glancing down, I saw to my bewilderment the deck floor littered with chunks of ice. I glanced questioningly at my companions, but saw the same puzzled look upon each of their faces.

"Well, best follow out captain's orders," I said quietly, opening the case and delicately lifting the antique violin. Brewster carefully seated himself in a chair that had suddenly appeared, while Wellsworth prepared himself nearby.

"Orpheus?" I suggested, and, without waiting for their approval, began the song.

More people began pouring onto the deck. Most wore the heavy life jackets, while others held them carelessly at their sides, not sensing any need for it. The children began running around, playing with the ice that decorated the ship. Others pocketed it for a souvenir. The passengers were so relaxed, that for a moment I thought that perhaps it really was all routine, some standard procedure required of the officers. One look at one of the crew dashed all the wishful thinking from my head. They definitely looked terrified, and that was not good.

"Attention all passengers!" The three of us stopped playing immediately when we heard the shouts of one of the First Officers. Murdoch, I believe his name was. "We ask that the women and children please move to the front, and we shall be boarding them on the life boats in an orderly fashion."

Several murmurs echoed throughout the serried crowd. Suddenly, it did not seem so untroubled anymore. I could feel the sudden tenseness that came upon everyone, people then realizing that there actually might be cause for worry.

The intro to Anitra's Dance suddenly rang out, and the anxiety eased somewhat. Smiling at Wellsworth's quick-wit, I joined in at almost the same time as Brewster. The throng began to inch their way towards the lifeboats, women and children being the only ones allowed on for a time. Some still stood on deck calmly, finding it hard to believe that the ship would sink. I myself was having trouble believing it.

The minutes out in the freezing air passed like years, and still we continued to play. Around 12:45, a rocket was fired into the air, a glittering trail following behind just as the first lifeboat was lowered.

As I watched the rocket, soaring endlessly upwards on wings of silver, it became clear to all that this "indestructible" liner was dying. As the missile exploded in a burst of white, lighting up the sky and fading as its rays drifted down, panic gripped everyone's hearts.

Each person scrambled desperately for the boats, their only chance of salvation, but they were coldly shoved away. The crew shouted for "order," and I could have laughed at the word. The giant hunk of metal these people called a ship was sinking, and they wanted order?

The men were immediately sent away, women and children only. I watched with a heavy heart as husband was separated from wife, father from daughter, each making promises of catching up with each other once the mess was sorted through. All knew that such promises were thin, yet the women clung to the false reassurances as their only anchor of hope and allowed themselves to be lowered into the boat. Some, still refused to leave their men's side.

I found myself surprisingly unsteady on my feet, and, without pausing in my movements, saw that the deck was tilting. Regaining my balance, I swallowed the lump in my throat and closed my eyes, trying to find the peaceful place my soul flees to and gets lost in the music. But it was so hard to find with all the panic and desperation that pressed against me. I focused my senses into my ministrations. My fingers glided against the silky strings, the finely crafted bow plucking rapidly at the right cords, no mistake made. My chin relaxed in accustomed comfort on the leather rest, and I shifted the instrument slightly to make the weight more comfortable on my shoulder.

The crying of a babe pierced through, and my eyes snapped open to rest upon a bawling infant, his mother frantically running towards the chaos of the boarding lifeboats. Cries of despair were heard around me as families were separated. No more fabricated lies could be believed now.

I halted in mid-stroke, my eyes meeting that of a father as he grievingly said farewell to his wife and newborn child. His eyes were filled with unshed tears, brimming to the rim. However, he refused to shed them in front of his loved ones. They needed his strength now, but I knew that the moment they were out of sight he would weep piteously. I knew I would.

Unbidden, my thoughts went to Sophia and my unborn child. I was forced to leave them in Canterbury when I received the job of playing on the R.M.S. Titanic. I was overjoyed with the opportunity, and immediately celebrated with my wife of 15 years. I was dismayed to learn, however, that she would be unable to join me. The doctor was adamant that in her condition, sailing on a ship while 8 months pregnant was extremely unwise and foolhardy. While she objected that she would be fine, I was unwilling to do anything to risk either her or our child.

We had waited years to have a baby, yet it was thought that Sophia would remain barren all her life. Moreover, after 8 years, we gave up hope. Yet, by some miracle to which I was still thankful, she somehow conceived. There was no way I would allow her to do anything the least bit precarious. When I insisted that I remain home with her and refuse the job, she laughed at the idea and insisted that I stop being stupid and go. As I gazed into the eyes of the father, I now wished I had remained home with my Sophia. I felt a hand on my shoulder and was startled out of my reverie. Wellsworth gave me a compassionate smile and tightened his grip in what was meant to be a reassuring gesture.

"Everything will be alright, my friend," he said quietly. It was another empty vow, one that I had mocked others for believing. Yet, I found that it gave me a ray of hope; no matter how much I knew it would not be "alright."

I noticed that they had stopped playing, waiting for me. With a slight wince of embarrassment, I again lifted the violin and started again, trying to get lost in the music.

I noticed that more of the high-society was gathered about us, and, much to my annoyance and amusement, were still discussing stocks and business opportunities. If circumstances had been different, I was not sure whether I would have laughed or strangled them. The Strauss', two of our three fans who actually encouraged our music, were seated side-by-side in a set of deck chairs, hand clasped together as Strauss nodded to whatever a man had said. Benjamin Guggenheim, the millionaire and who I suspected to be the richest man aboard, stood next to the elderly couple. I saw Jack's father amongst the group, as well.

Time had no more meaning. At some moments it seemed to fly by, at others, it crawled forward at a sloth's pace. The lifeboats were departing quicker now, and though the crowd had lessened a bit, there were still too many on board, and it became clear to all that there was not enough safety vessels for everyone. This made them all the more frantic.

Brewster stopped after we completed another of Grieg's pieces. "This is useless! No one is even listening to us."

"They don't listen to us at dinner either," Wellsworth said with a wry grin and began again. I could not help but smile as well. Even though our efforts seemed futile, perhaps someone got something out of it. In addition, it kept us busy. It was an unspoken fact between us that it was unlikely any of us would make it out of this alive. At least if we were doing something productive, we could keep our thoughts to something else instead of our almost inevitable fate.

I noticed the Strauss' had remained in the same position I had last glimpsed them in- reclining in a set of deck chairs, hand in hand. I could hear First Officer Lightoller calling for all women and children to get on the lifeboat, threatening any men whom even dared to approach the vessel. Yet there still sat Mrs. Strauss, gently stroking her husband's cheek, making no move towards her only chance of salvation.

"Mrs. Strauss," I began, not ceasing in my movements. "I believe the last of the life boats are being boarded, do you not wish to leave now? I fear this may be your only chance."

She gazed at me, eyes filled with exhaustion, sad acceptance, and strength. The intensity of those emotions seemed to leap out at me, and I found myself strengthened by them. Yet, beneath all of these underlay a small fear. Fear of what was to come. Fear of the uncertain fate that would in moments be made clear. Fear of death.

I could not blame her for feeling such terror, for I myself was experiencing much of the same. Yet she hid these feelings well, her stoic façade masking any dread or panic she was suffering from, and I found myself envying her vigor, her silent control.

She continued to regard me with eyes so intense that it made me wish to somehow turn her piercing stare elsewhere, anywhere except aimed at me.

"My dear boy," she smiled at me, those brilliant orbs reflecting the meager light. "How can I possibly leave now when you have begun my favorite song? Nay, I believe I shall stay to hear the end of it." The meaning was clear enough. Her face spoke what her words did not. She would stay here, by her husband's side, until the end. She would meet head on whatever sadistic Fate had in store for them.

For us.

Her husband wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulder, and she gripped it tightly as though it were the anchor to her life.

'Which,' I thought. 'It probably was.'

I could not help but feel a newfound respect for this woman. She had always generated an aura of control and calm that radiated off of her in waves. Yet now, even in the face of death, that ambiance did not vanish, rather, it just grew stronger.

The lifeboats were gone, the collapsible dinghies now being readied. It seemed they finally were allowing men on board now, though there was hardly enough for a small fraction of the passengers. It seemed that the men discovered this as well, for all at once, they surged forward, crying for deliverance and praying to get aboard. I could see the savageness of mankind and the primitive instinct of human survival take control, and I feared that more than death.

In unison, my friends and I ended the song and lowered our instruments. It was an undeclared agreement that when the men were allowed to board, we would cease and try our own luck at salvation.

"Well, gents," I began quietly. "Good luck to the both of you." I clasped them each on the shoulder, praying we would meet again, though it seemed unlikely. Brewster and I each turned to go, but Wellsworth stayed behind. A second later, we heard the sound of a single violin, playing softly in the eerie night. Turning to one another, Brewster and I paused. We each knew what Wellsworth was committing himself to, and that there would be no changing his mind. The lad was as stubborn as he was cheerful. The question was, what would we do?

It never was a serious question either one of us even considered for a second. Returning to our original stances, no matter how much our aching muscles protested, we struck up the chord. Wellsworth turned to us and smiled slowly.

"You know, neither of you need to stay with me," he said quietly, regret lacing his tone.

"Hush up and play," I told him. "You are off the music when you talk."

"It's because he ain't Scottish," Brewster muttered.

And so, our minds determined, we played. And this time, I was able to completely lose myself in the music, despite the mayhem and panic. Our three souls joined, soaring together in perfect harmony and spilling forth into the air, creating a wondrous sound. It was the best any of us had ever performed, for we knew it would be our last

It became even more freezing, the icy chill of the wind causing my gooseflesh to prickle. I shivered, despite my best efforts to prevent it, yet my fingers never ceased their intricate dance over the humming strings.

"Gents!" We heard a familiar voice in the multitude, and it caused us all to wrap up the song early.

"Jack?" Wellsworth asked in alarm. "What are you doing?! Quickly, find a boat and get yourself out of here, lad."

"I am. Milton and I are going to try for it now." He gestured towards a pale, blond boy about his age who scanned the area with huge, terrified eyes. "You three are staying here, aren't you?" He was rewarded with nods. "I feared so. I just wanted to know, should I make it out of this mess, if you wanted me to send anything to your families..." He faltered and swallowed nervously.

I noticed the tears that escaped his eyes, but politely ignored them. He looked so different than he had just a few hours before- did such little time really pass? It has seemed like years since receiving the highly sought after applause. The naivety and innocence I so loved about the young man were gone. His eyes that were once so carefree and filled with mirth were devoid of light. They only knew pain and suffering know, and I longed to somehow change that, but knew it to be beyond my ability.

We nodded, and Brewster withdrew from his coat pocket a sealed envelope addressed to a Rose McGroth. He turned to me with mournful eyes. "I had meant to send this off to the post later this eve," he explained sadly. "I suppose that they are quite busy at the moment."

I dug through my pockets, trying to find anything of value on my person to leave for my family. My wife and unborn child. What would be befitting of my unborn child? I would have wished to pass down to him my beloved violin, but that would deprive me of any instrument, making my purpose here useless. I suppose I could always sing, but, judging from the many comments I have received from my comrades, my voice would only serve in the people willingly jumping off the ship unto their death.

In my coat pocket, I withdrew a handkerchief- hand sewn by Sophia,- and my ticket stub. In my pants pouch, I found lint and a half eaten chocolate, though I could not remember how it had gotten there.

Regretfully, I handed Jack the handkerchief and stub, upset I did not have more to offer. "Tell them that I love them and that I am sorry," I whisper and quickly duck my head, seeking to hide the tears that threatened to spill.

"Tell my mum the same," Wellsworth told him before embracing him warmly. "Best of luck to you, Jack."

"And you as well. May God be with you." With one last meaningful gaze, the boy turned and left, his friend, Milton, trailing not far behind.

The cold soon grew from uncomfortable, to near unbearable. I found myself shivering wildly. My teeth were chattering madly, pounding painfully against each other, and my fingers shaking so uncontrollably that the melody now was played with less grace and accuracy. I cringed at every skipped or erroneous note, yet I could not prevent my trembling form to still my quivering hands.

I gasped in shock as the water seeped into my shoes. I had not noticed the ship had sunk so far! Never before had I felt such cold. The frigid water was now to my ankles, the coldness so paralyzing that I was certain my frostbitten feet would give out. Yet, somehow, I managed to remain standing, drawing strength from the antique violin and each of the softly vibrating cords beneath my pale digits. Finally, I was forced to stop playing altogether, and I noticed Brewster had ceased as well. Wellsworth continued to play, though. However, I could tell that he was nearing the end of his strength.

Realizing that staying in the sinking place was suicide, we scrambled up higher before the icy liquid could engulf us. The slope soon became so steep that we were forced to go lean against a pole, but we knew that would not help us for long. The deck was ever rising, and it was only a matter of time before nothing would be able to keep us on our feet.

Suddenly, the ship cracked, shuddering so violently that we were forced to grasp the railing. Brewster dropped his cello, and it fell into the depths of the Atlantic. The liner suddenly split into two, the downward part sinking swiftly into the ocean, while the other suddenly began to rise. The screams of the passengers echoed painfully in my ears, and I no longer had my music to drown out their voices. Each cry stabbed into me painfully, and I no longer had control over my tears.

"We need to get to the top!" I heard Brewster yell, and, vaguely aware of my surroundings, I clambered after him, using the railing as a ladder to the top. The remaining half of the dying Titanic became so steep, that people from above began falling, sliding down the slick deck into the frigid water below. It was hopeless! We would never be able to make it to the top.

"Well, friends," Wellsworth's voice penetrated through my haze of despair and shock. "Looks like this is where we jump. Try to hold together, and as soon as you reach the surface, swim! We need to be out of here before this overly made up boat lands on us."

"Oh, isn't that pleasant," I muttered sardonically, but I agreed. On the count of six- Wellsworth's lucky number-, we leaped off the vessel. With one hand, I clutched Brewster, who held on to Wellsworth, and with my other, grasped my violin.

The icy water hit me with a painful strength, forcing the air from my lungs. It stabbed into me like a thousand knives, tendrils of pain creeping throughout my body. I opened my eyes, which was not the smartest thing I could have done, and understood with a horrified dread that I could not see which side was up. Where was I supposed to swim to?! My lungs cried out for air, which they were selfishly being denied, but I had no way of knowing where to find it. All around me was a dark nothingness that my sight could not penetrate. I noticed suddenly that I no longer held onto Brewster. I was alone

I felt myself rising, and tried to stop myself, unsure of which way was the surface and not wanting to drift in the wrong direction. But I could not prevent myself from staying there, and I continued to rise.

I broke through the barrier with a loud intake of air, my starved lungs finally receiving the oxygen they much needed. The life preserver I wore kept me afloat, and I realized that it was the very thing that took me to the surface. I caught sight of my friends, and paddled frantically over to them, desperate to be sure they were all right.

They seemed so, and, turning around, I watched in terror as the last of the Titanic rose, completely upright, and then plummeted into the engulfing water below.

"Swim!" Brewster shouted, voice filled with horror.

For how long we swam, I did not know, but it all seemed useless as the suction from the ship pulled the three of us under. I was again trapped in darkness, a place I never wished to be. I swirled around in circles and tried desperately to find the surface again. I was smarter the second time and waited for the pull of my life jacket. As soon as I felt what direction it wanted me to go, I swam strongly the rest of the way, reaching the surface with slight more ease than the first time.

The waters were crowded, people screaming helplessly as they floated along, pleading for someone to save them. For whom they called for I was unsure. Perhaps the lifeboats, perhaps God, I did not know. I called out for my companions when I could not find them in the pandemonium. I would not be able to handle it if I made it out all right but they did not. I heard my name being called, and it took me several tries to find them. They were not too short of a distance away, hanging onto a piece of driftwood that I assumed used to be a piece of the deck. I swam as quickly as I could over there, and they helped me find a place on the debris where it would not become unbalanced.

"We feared we lost you," Brewster told me, and I recognized unhidden relief in his voice.

"You know better than to believe you can rid yourselves of me that easily," I jested, my voice shaking as I again realized how freezing I was. I could not remember warmth. It seemed like such a foreign thing. All I knew was cold.

My hand began to cramp horribly, and I noticed that somehow through all that I had happened, I still managed to clutch my violin, though the hold was so tight that it was now painful. Wellsworth, too, seemed to have managed to keep hold of his. Brewster, while his cello was lost, still had the bow. Though none of us could play the instruments, what with our chills, the violins missing the bows, and Brewster having no instrument at all, it still was comforting to have them with us, useless though they may be.

Time, again, was deceiving. We floated there for who knows how long. The only way I knew time passed at all was that the voices and screams were fading, but I was unsure whether or not that was because of the realization that it was futile or because they no longer had the strength to do so.

Our shivering forms clung closely together, clutching our instruments with icy grips so hard that our frostbitten knuckles turned white. The numbness hurt, though not as much as the silence that suddenly presented itself. The people grew more panicked. Though most were silent now, the horrifying dread became so thick, that I could feel the suffocating hopelessness of the atmosphere choke me. I wished to somehow comfort them, and I cursed my worthlessness. The whole reason that we were here was to try to bring these people some solace before... Why is it that I still could not allow my brain to accept our inevitable fate? Yet it seemed our sacrifice was for naught. When the people needed us the most, when their terror peaked at the highest, we could not comfort them. Then, floating out into the dreary stillness like an apparition from the mist, came an unlooked for sound.

"My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer,
A-chasing the wild deer and following the roe-
My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go!"

The song drifted to my ears on graceful, captivating tones. And, though the voice itself was not what one would say elegant, the passion in which it was sung was enough to make it beautiful. The sound so mesmerizing, everyone around me ceased what they were doing, and all was still except for the alluring singing. The words themselves were so sorrowful, and yet uplifting. An odd combination, yet I could find no other way to describe it. I found a sort of comfort in them, despite the implications of the meaning. The lyrics, though spoken of about another land, hit all so close to home, causing everyone within hearing range to be affected by it.

I suddenly realized I recognized the owner of the deep, baritone voice, and sought to look at the man. I slowly opened one of my eyes, surprised at the difficulty in such a small act and understood that my tears had frozen, effectively sealing the lid shut. The Scottish voice continued to sing, and, after my eyes had focused and the ice was cleared away, I could only stare gapingly at Brewster as the heavily accented melody of the second stanza was heard.

"Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The birthplace of valor, the country of worth!
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands forever I love."

The longing and sorrow that was heard was so affecting, I found that tears had once again begun to roll from the corners of my eyes, freezing on my pallid cheeks. He sang of his homeland, the one he so desperately wished to see again. The land that he so altruistically left in order to accompany us in pursuit of our dreams of music. I felt absolutely guilty, at that moment, for ever tearing him away from his home. Look where my own selfish desires brought us!

Then, as though reading my very thoughts, he turned to me, never ceasing in his poignant song, and our eyes met. I could see compassion there, as well as loyalty, mingled with grief and sad acknowledgment. Those chocolate depths held no blame towards me, and as they bore into mine, it seemed as though he wished for me to understand that he did not fault me. Suddenly, it seemed that the bonds of our friendship became visible. The thick cord linking us together was so dense that no small thing would be able to sever it. I had never felt those ties as clearly until that moment, that eternity in which our gazes locked. I knew that even if I had insisted he return home, he would have stayed by my side, despite any protests on my part. But I still could not shake my feelings of guilt.

"Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow,
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below,
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods,
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods!"

Wellsworth's voice soon synchronized with the Scotsman's, their different tones mingling together in beautiful, unique rhythm. I found my essence seemed to fly with the music, in tune with every note and lyric, and I could not stop myself from raising my own voice with theirs. I noticed with wry amusement that for once, they did not complain of me being tone-deaf. More and more joined in, drawn by the passion and emotion of the music. Though most were not from the Scottish hills, all could relate to the feeling of homesickness. All knew the feelings of patriotism and love for their home at that moment. Therefore, all raised their voices with ours, the words echoing in the twilight off the dark, frigid waters we so precariously dwelled. We drifted there, waiting in the numbing abyss of the Atlantic. Waiting for what, no one knew. Waiting for death. For rescue.

For some end.

One by one, the voices faded in the dark. My voice soon grew too hoarse to use, and I began mouthing the words, pretending that it could be heard by all. I listened a moment, and with a sob, noticed that Brewster's voice was absent with those that still continued. I refused to think about what the silence meant.

More voices silenced, and even Wellsworth's was but a mere whisper. I found it hard to stay awake. My eyelids soon became unbearably heavy, and I wondered whether it was caused by the exhaustion of my body or the ice that thickly coated them. With comfort not great enough to instill in me any relief, I found that I had stopped shivering. Though I knew it was not a good sign, I was glad now to feel only numbness instead of the painful, frigid cold that seeped into me.

I began to lose my grip on the driftwood, and felt myself falling, but I was too paralyzed to try to maintain my hold. I was too weary. I heard the rasp of my name as Wellsworth sought to keep me afloat. I made a mental apology to him, my mouth unwilling to work. There was so much to tell him. So much to apologize for. It was fitting that he be the one that outlasted us, the most noble of heart. I wished to tell him how undeserving I was of his loyalty and devotion, but my tongue was too sluggish and uncooperative. With these thoughts, I allowed myself to slide into the water as the darkness once again enveloped me.

Yet, it was not darkness that I saw, though I could still feel its oppressiveness around me. I saw a shifting light that never stayed still. A song floated to my ears, one that was so beautiful that I wept. I wept unashamed at the beauty I heard in the melody, the hope and love that was so blatant I could almost see it. I had never heard it before, of that I was sure, but it seemed almost familiar.

The rippling light changed suddenly. I found myself looking into my living room, though some of the furnishings were different. The song became louder, and a figure began to appear. At first, all I could see was the silhouette, a small child. Then, it became clear, though still a little blurred. I saw that the child- a girl, for I could make out a dress- was holding something, moving an object back and forth with gracefulness unexpected for one her age, which, judging from what I could see, was about eight or nine. The image was growing more defined, and I could make out nearly everything clearly.

The child had light brown hair, nearly matching my own, and freckles that were sprinkled over each of her blushing cheeks. I saw that the item she was holding was a violin; the song that was now echoing loudly in the room was produced by her. Her smile reminded me of my Sophia, with dimples that caused her face to look more pleasant. Then, I saw her eyes and I realized I knew the person before me.

The eyes were nearly identical to mine.

The color was slightly different, lighter to resemble more Sophia's than mine, but the emotion and feeling were reflexive to mine. I found that all the emotions I was feeling now were mirrored in hers. Her all too familiar eyes bore into mine, penetrating me to the core, instilling me with a surprising peacefulness.

"It's ok, Daddy," she told me, though her lips did not move. Her voice was as enchanting as the song. In fact, they seemed to be made for each other, harmonizing together in perfect tones. "Everything is ok now. Let the music take you to the place you long to go."

With that, she played faster, her hands moving so quickly they nearly blurred. The song sped up as well, each note striking a stirring of passion in my heart. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again, she was gone. I was once again surrounded by the dark of the water, but the song stayed with me. I heard the melody clearly, and, even with the oppressing blackness, smiled.

With a final intake of breath, my lungs filled with the icy water, and I allowed myself to be taken away by the melody, hand still clutching my violin.

I know this may feel rushed, but the reason is that I wrote this piece for a contest that had a fifteen page limit on it. This actually exceeded that limitation, and I had to alter the font to fit it all. This was the first time I ever wrote a piece in first person, but I found that due to the emotional level of it, it was necessary. Also, some of you may note that though the narrator died, it was written in past tense. This was intentional since I wanted to hint that perhaps there is something beyond death.

Well, like it? Hate it? Was bored outta your mind? Please review and let me know what your opinion is.