A/N: Sorry for the repost. A terrible error came to my attention (thanks so much, Jelpy :o) and I had to fix it before anything grievous occurred. It was just a spelling error; nothing is different. Thanks :o)
A/N: Wow, thanks for reviewing and encouraging me on this, y'all :o) Here's my next attempt…for whoever really wanted to see The Argument, I'm sorry this only picks up the end of it—but I find that when I'm really angry, it's difficult to be thoughtful, and since I'm doing the Captain's thoughts in this fic, I didn't want to write a bunch of: "Who does she think she is!" I hope y'all like it anyway.
After this, I hope to go into a bit of the Captain and Maria 'getting to know each other better' in some scene I want to make up—so tell me if you like this or want more, please. Also, again, any criticism is much appreciated (imnotinacommittee, I think you're right about my sentence structure; I tried to make it a little more easy to read in this chapter :o)
Thanks again for all your kind words,
Ilandra
*
Chapter 2
"I am not finished yet, Captain!"
"Oh yes you are, Captain!—Fräulein," he amended. It had been a long while since he was too furious to speak straight. In fact, the Captain wasn't quite coherent enough to form complete thoughts that were little more than curses and obscenities, and even these weren't fully formed in his mind. His mind, in actuality, was drawing a deep, red blank, that was, in short, incensed that any woman would attempt to tell him who he was, who his family was, or what his family meant to him.
Love them? Love them? Could she possibly have any idea what loving them meant, having only known them a month, not seeing their mother in Brigitta's brown eyes, in Kurt's hair? She had no heaven or earthly idea how much he loved them—and the fact that this women—this girl—this governess—would presume to tell him— And she was supposed to be a nun? Cloisters, indeed, were the best place for her—somewhere where other people wouldn't have to deal with her—her—good God. It was too much. "Now. You will pack your bags this minute, and return to the Abbey." He saw her face fall, and was pleased.
And music was playing somewhere. In this place, that was as incongruous as the governess yelling at him. "What's that?"
"It's singing."
She was done yelling, it seemed, but there was a nagging thought in the back of his mind that she would never get done being difficult. "I know it's singing," he replied, letting the annoyance show. "But who is singing?"
"The children."
"The children?" He half turned, looking up in the direction of the sound.
"I taught them something to sing for the Baroness."
She'd taught his children to—he didn't quite believe it. He walked slowly toward the house, his disbelief slowly being overtaken by—wonder, by memory, by a heartache that had never left him.
It had been too long. Liesl used to—God, she used to sit by his knee, staring up at him with those wonderful eyes of hers, just drinking in his voice as he—and Brigitta—Brigitta wouldn't even remember, now, how she'd climbed in his lap, and demanded his songs before bedtime, not her mother's—and Agathe—oh, Agathe. . .
He could hear Kurt's voice in among the others, because he had trouble controlling it; it was getting to the point where it broke at times. When had it started doing that? Why hadn't he heard it before? I taught them something to sing . . . something to sing . . . Because they had known nothing. Liesl, and perhaps Friedrich and Louisa, would be the only ones who would remember how it used to be, how they used to sit together . . .
He moved toward the house like a man in a dream—or perhaps, a man just awakening from a nightmare. Inside, he moved more slowly still, suddenly unsure what he would find—but at the open door, his eyes could not help but fall immediately upon the spot where they stood: in their uniforms and rows, smart, trim—exactly as he had wanted the baroness to see them. And yet not, strangely, how he had wanted to see them. These children—these were older. He could not even tell whether he remembered the song they sang.
He remembered Liesl on her knees, proffering a guitar; he remembered Kurt in the corner sulking, because he thought singing was for girls; he remembered Marta running and tripping over baby feet into her mother's arms—and Agathe, Agathe in white, looking at him with dark and loving eyes. He remembered this song as it was then—and yet, it was the same song, the same melody, the same words. He could feel it thrumming within him. These were his children. He remembered loving them; he remembered wanting them; he remembered needing them—And when he joined them he could tell that Liesl remembered too—that Friedrich wanted to remember, that Brigitta, even though she didn't know if there was anything to remember, wanted to know.
She was right. He had given her so little credit—understanding what she said, knowing it in his heart, but not knowing what to do about it. He hadn't acknowledged it; he'd brushed her mentions of it off—but she had known from the beginning. In fact, one of the very first things she'd said to him was: "Georg von Trapp, are you lost? Do you need finding?" She had been standing there, elegant as always, a glass of champagne in her hand, white-blonde hair twisted up above her neck as she tilted her chin and gazed up at him—smiling, teasing.
In that moment, Elsa Schraeder had brought meaning back into his life. He had been alone for too long, not wanting it to be different, not caring. Other women had noticed it too, perhaps, but it had been Elsa that made him realize it. It had been Elsa who had made him want to be whole again, made him want to find the things that had been missing in his life.
He'd just hadn't been looking in the right place. His family was here, in Salzburg, not Vienna. Even this morning, Elsa's insight had been clear: she had known—known that he was running away from this place. No other woman would have dared to challenge Captain Georg von Trapp that way, by accusing him of cowardice, except for Elsa. And except for—
That, perhaps, more than anything, was what was wrong with him: no one would stand up to him. His world was a mass of faceless enemies. He had raged against the death of his wife, but his anger had been hopeless. He could sense the Nazis now, converging on his country, but they were too many and too underhand, and no one would stand with him against them. Every breath he took, he felt as if he was striving and fighting for nothing. There was nothing he could do about anything.
"Edelweiss!" Elsa exclaimed.
The Captain looked up over Brigitta's head. It was easy to understand, seeing Gretl in Elsa's arms, edelweiss in Elsa's hands, that the reality Elsa had giving meaning to again hadn't been as bad as he'd thought. He loved his family; he loved his country. For the first time, he realized that one of these was perhaps not lost.
"You never told me how enchanting your children are."
The reply that hung before him was simple, obvious: I didn't know they were. I didn't tell you, because I didn't know.
He knew now. He knew that they had once captivated him—once made him want to know them, intimately, knowing every detail of their lives so that he could help them through it—he knew that they still possessed that quality, and that he regretted ignoring it for so long.
And that little governess Fräulein had known it; and, what's more, had known that he hadn't known. The children knew, too; they were looking toward the door, where he could see the edge of a dripping skirt. And then it was gone, and Fräulein Maria was hastily making her exit—because he had told her to. "Don't go away," he murmured to his children—something, perhaps, he should have once told himself. You're never home long enough to know them…
"Fräulein—" he called, striding into the hall after her. It was important that he do this now. In this world that seemed to be all fraud and loss, he didn't want to have been the first to shoot down someone who actually believed she could change things. He didn't know how long he'd allowed himself to believe things couldn't be changed; he just knew he didn't want to be a monster—or a weakling—in her eyes. "I—behaved badly." Not used to apologizing, he hesitated. "Forgive me."
"Oh, I'm far too outspoken. It's one of my worst faults."
"You were right," he confirmed. "I don't know my children." He hated the fact that he had come to this—a father who didn't know his own children—and yet, at the same time, he was marveling at the women before him. Somehow he'd become a cynic, ignoring the things around him that were important, that he loved—but he had once been like her, so full of conviction, so right, so strong.
"There's still time, Captain. They want so much to be close to you."
"And you brought music . . . back into the house again," he mused, ignoring her, letting the realizations strike him one after another: that she had been right; that she had forced him to face truth; that she had awakened him to love and beauty and so many things he hadn't remembered. "I'd forgotten . . ."
For all that Elsa might have awakened him to the fact that there were some things missing in his life, it was this little governess that had seen fit to do something about it. He had been so eager to show Elsa his children—and yet it was this woman who had made him see them as they really were, for the first time in a long time. He wouldn't have come to it, on his own. In a way he hated to admit—he needed her.
The governess had begun to turn away. "I want you to stay." At her startled look he realized suddenly—painfully—how accustomed he'd grown to command, even of his children. They fear you, she had told him.
Half the governesses had probably left on his account, not the children's—and yet he had the idea that this one would still be on the patio, bawling him out, if he hadn't played his trump card, dismissing her on the spot. He was ashamed, now, of having used that power over her. The truth was he had been afraid—afraid that if the argument had gone on any longer, he might have seen that she spoke truth. She had been strong where he had been weak, and deserved more than equal treatment, if not some modicum of civility. "I ask you—" he amended—"to stay."
"If I could be of some help," she replied, rather hopefully, looking at him with clear and brilliant eyes.
He wanted, strangely, to take her in his arms and shake her. Here she stood, dripping wet and shivering, looking almost vulnerable—prepared for his disapproval, knowing she was troublesome and outspoken, because everyone had always told her so. And yet, not ten minutes ago, she had been anything but weak, full of her impassioned pleas, reaming him out for everything he deserved.
What she was, he decided, was honest—and pure in a way that made him suddenly remember edelweiss and Gretl, 'clean and bright' in Elsa's hands. "You have already," he said steadily, remembering those symbols of the things he cherished most, safe in the baroness' delicate white hands. In that moment, he'd understood that he had only one choice, no matter how hopeless the world may seem: hold on. Hold on to his country, his family, his convictions, and never, ever let go. And it had been this governess who'd taught him how. "More than you know," he added, and turned away, before his heart could suddenly jump into his throat.
