My Clarity

Chapter twenty nine

I love you. You are my clarity. I will never let you go.

Those were the words Jack had whispered into Rose's ear as she had wrung him through. Given him the most shattering orgasm to be experienced. Tenderly kissed his face and his neck as he had jolted in pain afterwards. Then, after cleaning him thoroughly, she had helped him back to bed before changing his bandages. Jack wasn't ashamed to have spoken such intimate words in the heights of pleasure because no matter how dizzying it was, the words were true. All stress seemed to have left his body after that and Jack had fell into a dreamless sleep. The rocking of the ship then seemed to lull him towards a place of rest where he would awaken a different man.

There was something beautifully intimate in tending to Jack now in the way that he allowed Rose to. It was as though now, something had transpired between the two of them and the last barriers of his vulnerability were laid out before her and as Rose stepped across them, she had embraced them. Who knew what existed beneath the barriers of a man? Men were painted, no, expected to be creatures of such towering strength. As provider and torch bearer for the family, a head of the household and a formidable character. A person to be well structured in body and mind and leaving no room for anything such as naivety, vulnerability or tenderness because that would be viewed as the ultimate sign of weakness. Whether it was his background as the only son of two farmers who fell in love, then suddenly thrust into the world of society without an ounce of preparation, one assumed Jack would have to have grown a hardened shell for when the vultures came to peck at him. And they had. And would continue to do, so. Or perhaps it was just the fact that he had been alone for so long and reliance upon oneself was all he had. He was never a man who wished to settle or to even consider a wife and now, Rose sat beside Jack and stroked feather light circles across his forehead as she would do to a child. When asleep, he appeared to be not much older than a child. His adolescent years were barely behind him and yet he had lived enough lives in many ways than most triple his age.

Now, as she was needed for once. Rose was the one who had become a provider, a carer and accepted for it. She was the one who had taken decisions, tended wounds and become a source of strength for a man who once had seemed to be stronger than the whole world, but just for a mere time, she would become his saviour, for there was something addictive about selflessly giving help to another and expecting nothing in return. There was something wonderful about seeing how his strength returned, how his eyes flickered and warmed with gratitude. Then, there was his words of love.

Rose didn't wish to fawn over him but somewhere beneath the exteriors of a man who had borne such weight upon his shoulders, there was also a man who was more than vulnerable. Lonely even, she would suspect. Stroking her fingers across the soft layers of his clean hair, the scent washed across her as she examined the smaller pieces of his face which she had failed to notice until now. The small scars across his forehead, perhaps he had pox as a child, the long eyelashes and tanned skin, how the darker hairs of the growth of his beard were evident and lighter at the ends. How handsome he was with the hair across his face. How beautifully peaceful he appeared to be laid there within layers of blankets and with her feather light touch, he seemed to be deeply engrossed within the depths of his slumber to the point where he didn't move for hours.

Leaving him to lay there alone was hard, but Rose found herself upon the small open deck of the Californian, wishing for the night air to give her some peace. It felt as though her lungs had tightened within the quarters of the rooms. In the corridors, passengers of the Titanic lay with the floor as their bed awaiting answers of the fate. Rooms were occupied almost double; women cradled their children in hallways and the decks had been almost empty since just after their arrival onboard. The Californian had been carrying no passengers to Boston on its original journey from Liverpool, and the ships officer's generosity had touched all aboard. Beds had been made up on the tables in dining rooms, the smoking room was full of laid down blankets and people found a desire to eat. There was enough food for everyone aboard, and hot drinks were served regular enough to keep the chills at bay. At least, that's what was hoped. The absolute tragedy, though, lingered in every corridor and in every room aboard. Any remnants of joy had been wiped away once the number of people were counted. The sight of incomplete families was enough to make even the strong stomached feel ill. The Carpathia had effortlessly managed to pick up the remaining passengers but would be heading to New York so any separated families would have to wait to be reunited without belongings and without aid.