A/N: Well, this came out sooner than I expected! Melchior was still trying to argue, but at least now he's doing it with his mother instead of with Wendla (that was the problem I was wrestling with last chapter, and why it took so long to get out). All standard disclaimers apply.
Kindheit Ende
When Frau Gabor returned to the hayloft later that night, a fresh basket of food and more lamp oil in hand, Melchior was awake. She eyed him speculatively, wondering just how much to tell him about her errands today. He probably wouldn't mind her chat with Martha Bissel, but she doubted he would react well to any news concerning Frau Bergmann, despite the fact that Fanny had not revealed the girl's whereabouts to her mother. Melchior was too distraught right now, his protective instincts riled like a guard dog with raised hackles, and it would take time for those instincts to calm. Best not to mention what would only cause an argument.
"How is she?" she asked instead, setting the new basket down and pulling her skirts through the trapdoor with a little tug. She knelt next to Wendla's sleeping form in the thick, soft hay and touched her fingers to the girl's cheek.
Melchior tugged at his hair. "I don't know," he said stonily.
Fanny Gabor instantly picked up on the change in her son's voice. Normally he was the epitome of sweetness when talking about Wendla, no matter how upset he might otherwise be. But, though the gentleness of affection lingered in his voice, it was partially masked by an adolescent veneer made to brush her off. Well, she'd had a teenager in the house for several years now, and she wasn't about to be put off by childish moods. "What's wrong?" she asked, sounding just as no-nonsense as she felt.
"Nothing."
"That's not true, and you know it." Fanny glanced at her son out of the corner of her eye as she pretended to check Wendla's pulse. In truth, though she still had a fever and was probably in a great deal of pain, her condition was stable enough that such measures weren't necessary. Melchior didn't know that, though, and he said nothing to stop his mother from touching his love as she waited for his answer.
He looked...torn, she thought. Part of him still wanted very much to turn to her as he had done so often when he was younger. Part of him still believed she had the answers to life's questions, despite her past mistakes and the terrible consequences they led to. But disillusionment ran deep, and Melchior's had been both sudden and painful. It would take time for the scars to build up—metaphorically speaking—and heal over the raw wounds of adolescence. That was all growing up was, really, Fanny thought. The breaking of trust—the wounding of childhood innocence—and then the layering of numbing scar tissue over the resulting fissures. What she did not know was who Melchior would ultimately be once the scarring process was complete.
"She knows," he said finally, dropping his voice though their speech had not yet disturbed Wendla's exhausted sleep. "She knows the baby is gone. She cried for it—for hours it seemed. Begged for it back. I didn't know what to do—what to say."
"Ah." Fanny touched the girl's tangled hair. They would have to comb it out soon if they didn't want the snarls to become permanent. "I wondered when that would happen. Poor dear—but it can't be helped. As I told you before, this is a commonplace occurrence. One she'll have to get used to if she plans on ever having children in the future. She can expect at least several more miscarriages, and that's not counting the babies born alive who don't make it." She cast an eye to her son; his face was closed to her, his expression unreadable. She wasn't used to that, and she didn't like it. "You yourself had two brothers who died as infants, and a sister lost to typhus at age five."
"I know," Melchior said tightly. "I've seen the graves."
"Yes, well, I'm reminding you now. You're young, and maybe you and she feel like this is the end of the world. You lost a friend in Moritz, and you lost the child whose conception started this mess. But the world isn't over, son. You're still alive, and so is she. I don't know what else you expect from God; he's given you that much already."
"I don't believe in God," Melchior said tightly, "and therefore expect nothing from him. I can't believe in a heavenly father when I think of all that's happened that could have been avoided. And I certainly can't believe in a loving God when Wendla is crying and blaming herself for a loss she had no control over!"
Wendla shifted, turning her head into the crinkly hay and making a soft, protesting noise as he raised his voice. Instantly Melchior stilled, his attention riveted to her sleeping form.
"The miscarriage is no one's fault, as I said before. It's just one of those things. Guilt is uncomfortable, but it eases with time. I can't force you to believe that any more than I can force you to believe in God—any more than Herr Sonnenstich could force Wendla to renounce you."
Silence.
Fanny stroked Wendla's head softly as she watched her son. He eyed her warily, though the outrage she feared never appeared.
"Who told you?" he asked finally, sounding more tired than anything else. Resigned, perhaps, which was something she had never heard from him before.
"Martha. I spoke with her today. She is to have the money Moritz asked me for—the escape I denied him."
"You can't redeem past sins by paying off someone else!"
"And you can't speak of sin, son, if you don't believe in God." Fanny stilled her hand in Wendla's hair.
"Semantics," he snapped. "Mistakes—bad choices—I don't care what word you use. There must be an underlying code of ethics to the world. Something we can all agree on, regardless of religion. Something that has to do with what is right, not what is moral." His soft young face turned dark. "Since you know already, no doubt everyone thinks our dear headmaster is a moral man. But nothing he did in the past week was right, and neither you nor Father Kahlbauch will ever convince me otherwise."
"I wouldn't try to." Fanny felt Wendla shift under her hand—the girl was waking. They had to close this conversation quickly. She had no wish to be in the middle of an argument when Wendla fully woke. Poor child—she needed peace and quiet to recover, not to be constantly reminded of the people who had done this to her. Her mind was probably doing that enough already. "Melchior, I admit that I made mistakes handling Moritz's plea for help. I discounted his threat of suicide, which I never should have done. Knowing what I know now, I would have acted differently. I don't know that I would have given him the money he requested, but I wouldn't have brushed him aside. But there's nothing I can do about that—what's done is done. What I can do is reward good deeds and faithfulness, and try to ease the lives of those who are hurting, both of which I did by offering the money to Wendla's friend. It doesn't negate Moritz's death. But for that poor girl, it might just offer a thread of hope. I think that's more than ample reason."
"And how do you plan to explain the disappearance of a sum of money that large to my father?"
Fanny smiled. "I've always had ways to deal with your father, son. Men may think they rule the world, but women have learned how to get by. We have to."
"I won't ever be like that," Melchior vowed suddenly, and Fanny felt as the anger in him shifted, the flame dimming ever so slightly as it moved backward in his mind. This conversation wasn't over, but they could put it on hold for now. He saw Wendla shift again and his hand moved to capture hers. The raw earnestness in his voice as he spoke was compelling, and she couldn't help but believe him. Otto was not a bad man—he was a far better man, in fact, than many others in town. But Fanny had no doubt that her son was of a different order entirely. "I couldn't ever treat Wendla the way other men treat their wives. I see it and I hate it. It isn't right."
Right and wrong did not have any place in a discussion like that, Fanny felt, but she held her peace. If he wanted to see this issue in black and white, she wasn't going to argue with him.
Wendla's sweet dark eyes flickered open, and she blinked blearily first at Fanny and then at Melchior. "I fell asleep again?" She looked around at the darkened hayloft, the only light coming from the little lamp that burned cheerily near the trapdoor. Her eyes lingered in the dark corner where the mother cat was busy washing a kitten before they flicked back to Frau Gabor. "I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize, child. Sleeping is exactly what you should be doing." Fanny touched her cheek reassuringly. She was still hot, and the sunken, haggard look remained though she was still undeniably a lovely girl. "For now, though, let's try a little solid food and see how you do. What do you think?"
Wendla nodded timidly, and Fanny turned to fetch the basket as Melchior slipped his arms around her, carefully helping her into a sitting position. She leaned back against his chest and squeezed her eyes shut for a long moment in the unmistakeable grimace of someone fighting off a wave of dizziness.
"The disorientation will pass with your fever," Fanny said, uncovering bowls of food for both children. There was fresh beef—not an everyday occurrence, but Wendla needed to replenish her iron levels and red meat was the fastest and easiest way to do it—boiled potatoes, and dark greens. Otto certainly had not complained about the treat, and neither was Melchior.
"Eat slowly and carefully," Fanny cautioned. "Listen to your body. It will tell you what it needs. If you can only eat a little bit, that's better than vomiting."
"I don't want to seem ungrateful," Wendla whispered, holding her bowl in shaking hands.
Fanny deftly took the piece of crockery and placed it in her lap, then took the girl's chin and raised it until she could see her eyes. Wendla had never been a shrinking violet, but the imprint of Frau Bergmann's overbearing mothering was clear in her daughter's personality. She wanted rules and limits—wanted to know what was expected of her. Love had made her improvident in her dealings with Melchior, but in general she seemed always to want to please. If Melchior was telling the truth about treating her differently than other men treated their wives, Wendla would perhaps soon learn to speak her own mind in more situations. But right now Fanny was an adult and she was a child, and she was understandably nervous.
"Child, I assure you," she said, "that ought to be the least of your worries right now. You're ill and injured. While you may not be my child, strictly speaking, you're still a child, and I am a mother. Let me care for you, dearest, and try not to fret."
Wendla flushed, but she complied as Frau Gabor held the bowl and offered back the fork. "Thank you," she whispered. Her hand still shook, but Fanny was willing to believe it was from weakness rather than nerves. She had no doubt that Frau Bergmann would not be so accepting of weakness—not if it put her out in any way. Wendla's mother liked things to be just so, and any deviations were vastly upsetting to her. It was one reason why she and Fanny had never seemed to get along.
"I can do that," Melchior protested with his mouth full."
"You eat," Fanny said, waving him away. "And then you're going to go bathe. Your father is playing chess with Father Kahlbauch tonight, so there's no reason to worry."
"I'm not leaving," he said, once again adamant.
"Yes, you are. You smell like you've been working in the fields all day, and it's less than pleasant, frankly. I'll stay here—she won't be alone."
"No."
"Yes." Frau Gabor smiled at Wendla, who gave her a hesitant, wavery smile back. "We'll be just fine for the short time it takes you to get clean."
"Wendla doesn't want me to go." Melchior set his bowl down, half-eaten, and reached for her hand.
Fanny glanced at the girl. The expression on her face was troubled, and she thought she knew why. It was an uncomfortable situation, putting her in the middle. While Fanny was certain it was the truth and Wendla did not, in fact, want Melchior to leave her, she also knew they'd have to learn to be apart at some point. It was neither healthy nor realistic to expect them both to remain in the same room for the rest of their lives. She could also see that Wendla did not want to argue with her as an adult and an authority figure, no matter what else she might otherwise prefer.
"Don't put the girl in the middle of this," she scolded lightly. "Humor me and pretend I still, as your mother, have some sort of say in what you do."
"I don't—"
"It's okay." Wendla's soft voice broke through Melchior's refusal, stilling him as surely as a shout would have. She squeezed his hand, and the look that passed between them was both intense and private. Fanny couldn't begin to decipher it, nor did she want to. Some things were meant to remain between lovers. "I'll be okay. Please, though—hurry?"
Frau Gabor saw the moment of capitulation. She could also see that Melchior was not happy about this, though he was powerless to deny Wendla. "Of course," he said. "As fast as I can."
He kissed her temple softly and was down the ladder a moment later. Fanny held in a chuckle as she heard his running steps heading toward the house. He was serious about hurrying—had even abandoned his half-eaten food in his haste.
"Now, then," she said, laying Wendla's bowl in the girl's lap. "We can have some women-talk. Not too much—I know you're still not feeling well."
"I feel better than I did this afternoon," Wendla said softly. She had eaten the greens in her bowl, and Fanny pressed a cup of water into her hand.
"Try to eat as much meat as you can," she urged. "It may not seem appetizing, but it will help your body heal."
Wendla obediently took a bite as Fanny dug in the basket again, producing a hairbrush. She watched in amusement as Wendla offered a piece of meat from Melchior's abandoned bowl to the mother cat, who had come to investigate the interesting smells. The cat took it from her outstretched fingers and then retreated back to her corner, the kittens crowding around to sniff though they were young yet to be eating solid food.
"I don't remember there being cats up here." Wendla's voice was quiet, and Fanny didn't know if it was illness or shyness keeping her words so soft and hesitant.
"There weren't until yesterday. Otto brought them home as mousers." Fanny settled herself behind Wendla and took a handful of her dark hair. "I'll try not to pull," she said. "Tell me if it hurts."
"Everything hurts," Wendla said with a sigh.
"I'm surprised you can sit, truthfully." Fanny began brushing lightly at the bottom of the soft strands of hair, working her way slowly upward. "We cleaned you off after I discovered Melchior had hidden you up here. I saw your backside, child—it's not a pretty sight at the moment."
Wendla flushed deeply; Fanny saw the color bleed even onto the back of her neck.
"Shh—don't feel bad. None of it was your fault." She paused and moved, abandoning Wendla's hair in favor of her eyes. "Child—you know that, right? I may not know everything that happened to you, but I know enough. Nothing that they did was in any way your fault. You deserved none of it. I need you to tell me that you understand."
"My head does," Wendla whispered, and her eyes filled. They were bright as stars, the brown irises almost golden with reflected lamplight. "My heart isn't so sure. They said things—such awful things..."
"I'm sure they did." Fanny closed her mouth in a grim line. Wendla's use of the plural told her the answer she hadn't had before. This horrible crime hadn't been committed by Herr Sonnenstich alone. Someone else—most likely the under-teachers living with him—had helped. "Men like that know exactly what to say to justify what they want to do. I told your friend Martha the same thing just this afternoon, but it's a lesson that bears repeating. Nothing—nothing-you could ever do would make what they did okay."
"Mama said I had to learn a lesson." Wendla's whisper was just as tearful as her eyes.
"Your mother hasn't a clue what she's talking about, and I'm going to do everything in my power to keep you away from her from now on." Frau Gabor felt the resolve firming in her gut as she said the words. Before it had been a nebulously vague sort of feeling—the feeling that someone ought to do something for Wendla. Now it was crystal-clear that nobody else was going to step in. She and Melchior were on their own.
"But you wanted to tell her where I was..." Wendla protested uncertainly.
"No," Fanny corrected, "I wanted to make sure you agreed with Melchior about keeping away from her. I know he has your best interests at heart, but you have a say in this, too. It's your life." It was almost completely true—close enough that Fanny didn't feel bad about the refutation. Yes, at the time, she had still felt hopeful about a reunion between mother and daughter. Now she was anything but.
"Oh." Wendla took another careful bite, though Fanny could see that she was going through the motions because she'd been told to, not because she wanted to. Her body was in turmoil right now, and Fanny wasn't at all surprised that an upset stomach seemed to be a current symptom. But the red meat really would help her feel better if she could keep it down. "It does hurt," she added softly.
For a moment Frau Gabor wasn't sure what Wendla was talking about, but then she clicked back several sentences. "Do you think the hay helps?" she asked. Physical wounds were apparently a safer topic than Frau Bergmann's betrayal.
Wendla nodded slowly, offering a finger to the little orange kitten that had, once again, made its laborious way across the hayloft. It licked her fingertip with its tiny sandpaper tongue and she smiled softly—the first real smile Frau Gabor had seen on her face since discovering the children hiding in the hay. "I don't think I could manage on the bare boards," she admitted.
Frau Gabor returned to her spot behind Wendla and resumed brushing out the beautiful curls. "If it hurts, you can lie down. Don't do something that causes pain, honey. One of the welts has split and it won't heal if you keep putting pressure on it."
"I think I'll be all right until Melchior gets back."
"Suit yourself. I'm not going to tell you what to do when there's no need. You're a smart girl. You can figure things out on your own." She paused. "Child—I know these things come with time and they can't be dictated. But I'd like you to be able to ask me questions—tell me things—whatever you might need. I know you have Melchior and I'm sure he's a great comfort. But he's a man—or will be soon—and if you need a woman to talk to, I'm here."
"Thank you." Wendla's voice faltered, and Fanny could feel the hesitancy. No, the girl did not fully trust her yet, but that wasn't surprising. They hardly knew each other. But if she was Melchior's choice for the future, Fanny was going to embrace it. Fighting the inevitable had only resulted in untenable amounts of heartache for all involved and she was through. It was also undeniably true that Wendla badly needed a mother and her own was wholly unsuitable. It would take time to win her trust, but Fanny was dedicated to her task.
"In time," she said. "Everything comes with time, child. Trust me—you'll see." The sound of a slamming door broke through the hesitant silence, and Fanny smiled. "Look—there's Melchior coming back to you, just as he said he would."
Wendla's voice was still soft, but it was full of a joy Fanny didn't know that she'd ever herself touched. "Yes. I didn't doubt him for a moment."
A/N: This chapter had kind of a lot of philosophical discussion in it, which I didn't expect, although with Melchior's character growth I probably should have. Bruised Smile made the excellent comment last chapter that the entire play of Spring Awakening is basically about the loss of innocence that comes with growing up. There is one book on that topic that I can't recommend enough. It's called The Dubious Hills by Pamela Dean. The book is an allegory, which means it can be read on several levels. On one level, it's a story about a girl in a dystopian society whose teacher wants to turn everyone into werewolves. But on another level, it's about the loss of innocence that comes, not just from growing up, but also to every society at some point. Gorgeous language; she's one of my all-time favorite authors.
Here's a quote from the book that gives me shivers every time I read it:
"Yet you bethought you of Halver," said Oonan.
"Reason would do as much as that," said Frances. "Reason is what we have now."
"So you told Halver," said Oonan. "What happened then?"
Bec answered him. "He got enthralled. You know - you understand - you remember how he does. He walked up and down his room and talked and shouted. This was true learning, he said, this was education, what he had done until now with every child under his care was mere - mere - " Bec looked at Frances.
"Rote and eyewash," said Frances precisely.
"No, not that, I could remember that myself. The Draconian word."
"Ah," said Frances. "Indoctrination."
"What?" said Oonan.
"When the Dragons use it, it still means just education," said Bec. "But in Wormsreign it means otherwise, and that's what Halver meant."
"Where did he come by a word like that?" said Oonan.
"I told it him," said Frances. "Very long ago; the year Arry was born. He would ask me for words as a child asks for honey. Thinking them even less harmful, I gave him them."
