For persaphones


So I'll be there when you arrive
The sight of you will prove to me I'm still alive
And when you take me in your arms and hold me tight
I know it's gonna mean so much tonight

{Super Trouper, ABBA (1980)}

The rain poured relentlessly that eveninglashing against the windows of the train. He looked outside the window with hope in his eyes, yet all he could see was a dark, black blurlandscape smudged effortlessly by the raindrops that fell continuously on his window, distorting the image, blending the various shades of green, red, and blue into one giant black mass. Georg slumped tiredly onto his seat, wishing that the rain would end soon. The train had already been delayed by three hours because of the horrid weather, and to be delayed once more? He frowned, he truly was in a hurry to get home.

He had been far from home too long.

Sitting quietly, he thumbed the pages of the worn copy of Dickens' Great Expectations he held in his hand, the sight and scent of its yellowed pages soothing to him. Yet it did not ease his mind, not even a bit. He was worried, his brow creasing with emotion. By the time he was to reach home, it would have already been an hour past bedtime. The knowledge that he wouldn't be there when his children needed him was eating him alive. Of course, Maria would be therebut she had been so tired as of lateor, at least, she had been when he had left more than a week ago. He couldn't imagine her being less tired in his absence, though. He was afraid of straining her too much. He could not bear it if

He sighed and opened his book, picking up where he left off last. Thumb toying with the piece of green ribbon that marked the page, his eyes followed the flow of the wordsyet it was the lettersindividual letters that had floated in his mind. Not forming paragraphs or sentences or phrases or even words. They were merely there in his mindentangled into a mess. As if weaving themselves into a black void, mirroring that of the world outside. He

The train slowed to a stop, and his eyes darted to the other side of the train, watching as colours filled the windowsochres and reds replacing the giant blackened mass. He watched as people alighted the trainintroducing new blobs of colour into the imagedulled reds and greens, and muted blues and yellows, greys and browns and beige dispersed across the image.

Yet, smudged as the painting-like scene before him was, he saw so clearly that their backs were slightly hunched, shoulders slightly slumped. Their families must have been waiting for them, too. And like him, all of them must be tired.

He focused on a particular greyish blob by the left. The grey blob seemed to be in a hurry, he thought. Itor, erhm, he—was moving quite rapidly, and was holding his black-coloured briefcase very close to him. Georg tilted his head slightlystill thinking about the grey-coloured blob. Harry, Georg named him. Harry, he thought to himself, must be a banker. He probably had two dogs at home, and had a familytwo children? No. One, possibly. One daughter whom he loved very dearlya daughter he probably named… Sophie.

Georg stared at the blobthat is, Harry, once more. Harry was disappearing now, his form diminishing into a small dot in the vast picture of the station. Georg continued to think of Harry, smiling sadly at the knowledge that the man's daughter must have been waiting for himcould not go to bed without a bedtime story from her father. She would be waiting up for himforcing her eyelids to stay awake.

He suddenly thought of

He sighed as he parked the car. Everything had not gone according to plan—the meetings took much longer than planned, and the traffic had made the trip longer than usual. He was tired and furious. Once he had reached home, he had already missed Brigitta's school play, and he had missed dinner. It was well past bedtime now, too. Of course, it was; it was already midnight. Quarter past, to be precise. He doubted that the doors were open now, so he fished for his keys from his pocket, and very cautiously opened the door, making sure that it would not creak.

Although he knew that he was more than late, he briskly made it to the nursery. Pausing outside Brigitta's room, he felt cemented to the ground—unable to take one step in front of the other. He was more than nervous—he was terrified, actually. He had promised—

Taking a deep breath, he turned the doorknob slowly, pushing the door gradually, hoping that it would not creak and wake her. Taking careful steps, he neared the bed and—

He was surprised to see that there on the bed, with an arm around Brigitta, was Fraulein Maria. She was still wearing her day clothes. She must have accidentally slept here, he thought, whilst she was comforting Brigitta. Slowly, he settled his briefcase on the ground, and took a good look at Brigitta—guilt and sadness ladening his heart. I should have been here for her, he thought woefully. He took in a sharp breath as he settled by Brigitta's side, sitting on the edge of the bed. Tear tracks still stained her cheeks, he noticed, as he brushed a knuckle across his daughter's cheek. Though guilt consumed him thoroughly, the small smile on Brigitta's face made him seem lighter, and he couldn't help but smile, too.

Fraulein Maria always knew how to make the children feel better.

As if he had called her name, Fraulein Maria stirred beside Brigitta, rubbing sleep from her eyes, yawning quietly.

"Captain?" she whispered, sitting up on the bed, his head turning immediately to the soft sound of her voice. "You're home," she said simply.

He nodded, placing a finger to his lip, motioning her to be silent. From the corner of his eye, he saw her slightly move her head. Perhaps indicating that she understood, he thought. His gaze returned to Brigitta, and, he noticed, so did hers. For minutes, they merely sat on the bed quietly—one on either side of Brigitta, one stroking her hair, the other smoothing the blanket atop the girl's form. Slowly, he stood from his place and kissed his daughter's forehead, and watched as Fraulein Maria, too, stood from her place and fixed the covers upon Brigitta once more. Tearing his eyes from the tender sight before him, he grabbed his suitcase, and—

Trying to swallow the lump forming in his throat, he made his way to the door, opening it slowly, wishing it wouldn't creak. He slipped outside, and waited for Fraulein Maria, who was right behind him, to emerge from the room before carefully closing the door behind them. He watched her blink. Once. Twice. Thrice.

"Have you eaten, Captain?" She asked, her eyes still narrowed—adjusting to the dim, yellowed light of the hall.

"I—I, uh—I haven't. But that is not the matter right now," he said, still quiet.

"Of course it is the matter!" She said firmly, surprising him. Her eyes, now adjusted to the light, glared at him—and suddenly, he felt small under her scrutiny. Mouth curved into a disapproving frown, she turned her back.

She began to walk briskly—to the staircase, presumably. With his eyebrow raised, he followed. She carefully walked down the stair steps, shoes not making a sound, and reaching the bottom of the staircase, she walked straight ahead… to the kitchen, he supposed.

As they entered the kitchen, she had used her teaching voice to instruct him to sit by the small table (really, he was left with no choice but to follow), then began to prepare a plate of food for him despite all his objections (she only glared at him, and he fell silent). Soon, a bowl of warm soup, two bread rolls, and a glass of water were in front of him, and he had no other option than to eat. When he asked if she herself wanted food, she waved it off, preparing only a mug of warm water for herself.

"I'm sorry," he blurted out, after he had finished the first bread roll. She was mid-sip, and her blue eyes widened, her eyebrows scrunched in confusion.

"Why are you apologizing to me?" She asked softly, confusedly, settling her glass on the table.

"I missed the play."

"My question still stands. Why are you apologizing to me, Captain? I am not the one you must be apologizing to—in fact, I don't know why you are apologizing at all," she said simply. As if he shouldn't be sorry. As if he—

"Of course, there is a need to apologize—I left the responsibility of being there for my child to you when I—"

"You make it sound as if it is a burden to do so," she narrowed her eyes at him, cutting him off. He could feel her gaze pierce through him—burn through him. He could only purse his lips and sit in silence. She was right, possibly, truly. He hadn't meant for his words to— "I'm sorry," she murmured, shaking her head, taking another sip of her water. "I hadn't meant to accuse you."

"Fraulein—"

"What happened was inevitable, Captain," she said, her gaze now softer, brighter. "Brigitta understood, so did the rest of the children, and so did I. Before the children and I left the house for the play, we did listen to the radio—and the announcer said that there had been an accident in Salzburg, causing heavy traffic. We all understood. No one blames you," she said softly, giving him a small smile—assuring him.

"But Brigitta had been crying," he pointed out, eyebrows still furrowed, hand clutching the glass of water a little too tightly.

"She was terrified that something dreadful had happened to you," she admitted. "She could not stop theorizing all night, and she had been crying uncontrollably because the mere thought that you had crashed... or died—no matter how untrue it may be, thank God—scared her," she gave him a sad smile. She was staring at him intently—the intensity of it making him jump slightly. Had she thought of it, too? Had she been concerned, too? He had wanted to ask, but he refrained himself from doing so. Instead, he took another bite of his remaining bread roll.

"I hadn't realized," he murmured, eyes cast down. "What did you tell her?"

"Tell her?"

"Yes, what did you tell her? She was… smiling in her sleep. If she had believed that, indeed, something dreadful had happened, I do not think she would be so—erhm—happy, unless—" the warning look he got from her had stopped him from saying another word, and he couldn't help but smile sheepishly at her.

"I told her that you would fight your way to make it back safely to them," she said. Sincerity sparkled in her eyes, and he found himself caught in its clarity and genuineness. "In fact, Captain, it was Brigitta's suggestion that you join our picnic tomorrow so she could re-enact her favourite scenes from the play… if you want to, of course. But please don't tell her that I told you! She wanted to invite you to our picnic herself," her finger circled the rim of the glass absentmindedly. A small smile was on her face, and he—

"I promise I won't tell," he winked at her, making her shake her head. A comfortable silence overcame them, and he couldn't help but smile at the far-away look in her eyes and the small smile that had graced her face earlier.

Then, her eyes flitted to his bowl, her hand quickly moving to grab his empty dishes. He immediately stopped her from taking it, his hand landing atop hers. Time seemed to stop for him—his heart beating faster, and— Her hand was smooth beneath his—small and dainty against his larger ones. He held her gaze, staring into her widened eyes for what could have been the thousandth time that evening. Emotions swirled in her eyes—blues and purples—reds and golds and emeralds filled them, and he found himself getting lost—

The clock in the hall sounded, her hands suddenly slipped from underneath his. An awkward silence hung around them—

He cleared his throat.

"You have done too much for one night, Fraulein. Now, let me."

Pursed lips, eyes cast down, she nodded (she would later on tell him, once they were already married, that she had been so mortified that night that it had rendered her speechless). The thundering of his heart was loud—echoing in his ears, he was almost certain that even she heard it.

Despite her silent protests, he had managed to pry her glass from her grip, and he washed and dried them together with his own glass, plate, bowl, and silverware (she had also attempted to dry the dishes but he had snatched the cloth from her hands, leaving her so adorably angry). Once he was done, he wiped his hand on a cloth, and found her staring at him with a curious look on her face.

"Why do you stare at me that way?" He asked.

She merely shook her head, she blinked once, twice, "nothing, it's just that… you don't look at all like a sea captain, sir."

He laughed heartily at her remark, and so did she—smiling brightly, face so alive with kindness and hope, his heart fluttering, and—

She cleared her throat, carefully positioning the chairs, cleaning the table thoroughly, as if it had never been used. When she was pleased with its appearance, she closed the kitchen lights. Together—side by side, they walked to the staircase. One step. Then another. Then another. Then another. Then—all too soon, they had reached the top. With a nod and a "good night, Fraulein," and "good night, Captain," they parted—proceeding to opposite sides of the house.

"Oh, uhm, and Captain?" She called, surprising him. He immediately turned around, only to see her smiling so brightly—a certain glint in her twinkling eyes.

"Yes, Fraulein?"

"You know, I think it was better that you were not there—at the play, I mean," she pursed her lips as she attempted to hide the smile spreading on her face.

"Hmm?"

"I don't think it would sit right with you to have seen Brigitta with her Romeo."

He couldn't help but smile.

Once more, he was pulled back to the present by the slowing of the train. The rain had stopped now, he observed, and with the window slightly cleared, he realized that he had reached his stop. He had been so lost in thought that he hadn't even realized that the train had begun to move… and now, he was at his stop. He was almost home, he thought with relief, a contented sigh escaping his lips. Briefcase in hand, he disembarked the train along with other passengers. With a small smile growing on his face, he started on his way home.

Perhaps, to another person looking out the window of the train, he, too, would be another Harry the grey blob in the great painting of the station. Yet, unlike Harry, he had a renewed bounce in his stepseager. Eager to be home. Georg sighed as he walked out of the station, he truly wished that Harry had made it back home to Sophie safely, just as he wished that he himself would be back home soon. Back home. Home.

It was too late to be calling a cab now, he thought, so he decided to walk, instead. His briefcase was not heavy, anyways, and the station was not too far from the lodgehe would manage, he thought.

As he walked, he thought of Maria—his Maria. His beloved. His wife.

He hadn't dared think it thenbut now as he reminisced and he thought back to that night, when he had seen her with her arms around Brigittasleeping so peacefully, she had looked like a mother to his daughter. In fact, at that point, he knew that all the children had already felt that they had a mother in herand he knew that deep in her heart, a connection so pure had already formedand they were hers for life.

Maria had captured all their heartsnot from the beginning, no. In fact, he could remember a time when he hated her with all his heart, and she was nothing but Number Twelve in his life. But as he looked back, he felt that he had never connected with another so closely as he did with Maria. Mariawho had been by his side through some of the most difficult and most joyous times of his life. Maria who had been by his sidefor better or for worse. Maria, who weathered through storms with him. Maria, and her sparkling blue eyes and the golden glint of her hair. Maria, and her tinkling laugh and her bright smiles that seemed to make the world stop. Maria, and her resilience and her perseverance, and strength and heart of gold. Maria, his love, his life.

Reaching the lodge, he doubted that the doors were open now, so he fished for his keys from his pocket, and very cautiously opened the door, making sure that it would not creak.

A smile spread on his face as his eyes scanned the lobby of the lodge—home. He was home. Then

On the sofa, knitting, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, legs tucked under her body, was Maria. His Maria.

As if he had called her name (though he knew that he probably wasn't too careful and the door had made a sound), her eyes immediately snapped up, and with a large grin on her face, she jumped to her feet, abandoning her knitting on the seat beside her. She immediately ran to him, throwing her arms around his form, pressing her lips against his. Passionately, fervently, lovingly. He lifted her off her feet and twirled her around. He heard her laugh with relief. Oh, how he loved her.

Home. He was home.

He didn't think that there was ever a time that he had felt so alive.

"You did not need to wait for me to arrive, my love," he said softly as he burrowed himself deeper into her embrace, inhaling her scent, calming his senses.

"After you being gone for a week and a half? I missed you too much," he could feel her smile against his shoulder, her arms tightening around himas if he weren't close enough. "I don't think I can ever bear to be parted with you again," she said softly.

"I know, my love, so do I," he whispered. "Next time, I will be taking you with me," his voice lowered, and he knew that she couldn't help but laugh. She broke away from his embrace and swatted him playfully on the shoulder.

"Say, have you eaten, Captain?" She asked, her eyes sparkling, concern evident, head tilted curiously.

"I—I, uh—I haven't. But that is not the matter right now," he cleared his throat.

"Of course it is the matter!" She scolded "Do you want bread? Louisa found this particular recipe and tested it immediately. It is heavenly," she smiled proudly.

"Well, why not give it a try? After all, I think I may need some... energy…"

"You are incorrigible!"

As he followed her to the kitchen, and watched as she walked with a newfound bounce, he couldn't help but smile. Stopping by the doors of the kitchen, he called her name.

"Maria?"

'Yes," she whirled around almost immediately, her smile bright—eyes gleaming.

"I love you," he said, taking her hand in his, squeezing it tightly.

"I love you, too, my Captain, you know that, don't you?" She pecked his cheek lovingly. "Now, let's get you fed! It won't do to leave you hungry… I mean..." she smiled, a certain gleam in her eyes. Hastily, he pulled her into the pantryand she let out a little yelp in surprise, followed by a light, tinkling, musical laugh that still made his heart flutter everyday.

Yes, he smiled to himself, he was home.


A/N

I hope you enjoyed that little piece (and the teensy ABBA and Mamma Mia! references that I had hidden in there hihi)! It was such a joy to write, and I couldn't help but smile while doing so. Also, big, big thanks to juliemadlydeeply for proofreading for me on such short notice!

Sending love :)