Prologue

Georg's senses awoke before he did. His body relaxed into the familiar rocking of the boat – the gentle lull of a habour breeze, not the demanding wind of the open seas he'd experienced the past few days. It was hot and humid, typical of a Mediterranean summer, and he could tell he'd be in a sweat if he so much as opened his eyes.

It was quiet. Peaceful. He lingered in the space between sleep and wakefulness, as though his subconscious knew that waking would bring about a very different man.

Then there was the matter of dealing with whichever woman he was certain to find in his bed – for the pressure that was already building in his head was a sure sign he'd had an extremely indulgent night (not to mention the fact he had no recollection of it), which for some reason women seemed to find inexplicably attractive. Not that he'd tried so hard to resist, these past few years. But one-night stands were one thing. Explaining to the women he had no interest in spending any more time with them, placating them with sweet words and little trinkets until they left his boat was becoming an ever-more tedious ordeal.

He sighed inwardly, surfacing reluctantly from sleep. When he finally opened his eyes, he found himself alone. Mercifully alone, but strangely so.

Confused and not quite awake, he rolled away from the sunlight flooding through the small circular window in his cabin – a harsh searing light suggesting noon or close to.

But even the dark wood panels of the cabin walls were too much this morning, and he felt his stomach lurch.

Scheisse. The headache that had been his companion for so many months it was almost a friend was definitely worse than usual. The room spun as he fought to get his bearings, his thoughts sluggishly emerging from the alcohol-induced haze that had not quite receded.

It was mid-June, 1929.

He was in the Adriatic. No. He swore again. He had sailed through that way already, sometime last week. He was somewhere in the Aegean Sea. Milos, a small, sleepy Greek island he hadn't been since he was a lad sailing with his father.

His name was Georg Von Trapp.

When. Where. Who. He had received a bad concussion once during his time in the navy, and the ship doctor had forced him to recite it every day. It had taken a month then to get it right.

By that standard, he was doing well this morning. His Captain would have cleared him for duty.

But Georg wasn't in the navy anymore, wasn't living aboard a war vessel. He was a vagabond, sailing in a one-man yacht. His disorientation had nothing to do with receiving a hit to the head. In fact, it was very much self-imposed. Disgraceful, Elsa would have said – probably had said, behind his back – but why did it matter? She had removed herself from his life, and he no longer had a family to fight for or return to.

At least Georg knew where he was, and, in a manner of speaking, how he had gotten here.

But where was the little guitar player? He had met her last night, he was sure.

He could see her face in his mind, the image nearly as blinding as the offensive sunlight. She had an ethereal sort of attractiveness, more like a moonbeam than sunshine, really – pale skin even underneath her tan, soft lips, light blue eyes, framed by a halo of light blonde hair that fringed rather crookedly across her forehead. The stubborn lift of her chin had been a surprising contrast to her delicate features. Not his usual type of woman, but somehow she had left a far sharper longing.

The need, it seemed, had gone unfulfilled.

Georg swung his legs over the edge of the bed and pulled himself into a sitting position, ignoring the sickening swoop in his gut as his surroundings spun.

Painfully, he thought back to the previous evening. It had been late afternoon when he'd docked his yacht in the small harbor in Adamas, the only notable town on the island of Milos. He vaguely recalled prowling the narrow dusty streets, and stumbling into the first bar he came across. He'd had had a dry spell – relatively speaking – during his week at sea, and desperately wanted to stop somewhere for a drink. Georg never allowed himself to sail drunk. It might have been more reflex – he would have been skinned alive for showing up intoxicated in the navy – but there was still a part of him that understood even though he had given up, he wasn't completely ready to forfeit his life.

Thinking about the bar now turned his stomach. He could feel a bitterness in his mouth, although his lips were parched in the heat. Georg navigated the length of the cabin into the galley, helping himself to a glass of water at the sink. It felt cooler here, and he sat gratefully at the small table. Summer on the Greek islands was a very different beast from summers in the Austrian Alps. Although he hated the heat, the stark difference was welcome. Georg didn't want to think about Austria. Didn't want to think about what he'd left behind.

He returned to the problem of last night. He remembered the owner of the bar had been short, stout, tanned, and eager to please, though it may have had something to do with his own generosity. He remembered making small talk with the man – his name was Stavros… or was it Nico? – as the waiter served him drink after drink. Georg's Greek was shoddy, but like everyone in port towns, they managed to get by with a medley of languages and the occasional hand gesture.

Georg must have stayed for the better part of the evening, although he remembered less and less of it as the night wore on. The bar turned out to be sort of a cabaret, with a parade of musical numbers and showgirls lighting up the makeshift stage. The set up wasn't uncommon for small port towns like these, where sailors passing by could have their needs seen to in one fell swoop. Georg had fleeting recollections of the dancing girls, whom he had liked. They had flirted shamelessly with him in between acts, taking turns sitting on his lap like a game of musical chairs.

There had been bold caresses, teasing fingers, voluptuous curves and generous bosoms. A guitar supplied the sensual background music, encouraging romantic liaisons, encouraging him to sit longer, to buy all the girls drinks…

He would have stayed until the bar closed, and might very well have gone back to the yacht with one of them, if it hadn't been for the music.

If she hadn't played the only song that could have touched him in his drunken stupor, reaching across the span of months – years, now – across thousands of miles and countless forgettable nights and meaningless nighttime trysts…

Even on the morning after, Georg remembered the feeling that held him, suddenly oblivious to his flock of dancing ladies.

Edelweiss.

How could he be hearing it, here?The edelweiss of Austria. The edelweiss of home. For, despite having buried a beloved wife, lost seven children, and lost a most acceptable second marriage, Austria would always be home.

It was a soft, halting rendition, as though the musician had become lost in memories of her own, while playing a song no one was supposed to notice.

Georg had searched for her, the girl who had the unfortunate job of filling in between the colorful cabaret acts. She was easy to spot, for she was sitting right there on the makeshift stage, the area now cleared of everything but the lone chair set out for her. He supposed she too, was a showgirl, with her slender silhouette, long legs, and talented fingers, but she looked so inconspicuous his eyes must have passed over her a dozen times while she had played the evening. She wore a light green dress, the hemline long and neckline modest – a dress more suited for country life back home than for a stage in Milos. Her head was bent over her guitar as she coaxed the familiar melody. Everything about her, from her blond hair to her stubborn pointed chin to her wool-spun dress, looked so Austrian.

How could she be here?

Georg remembered watching her, feeling sad, sad, sad, unable to tell if the sorrow was exuding from her, or him.

He didn't remember beckoning over the bar's owner, didn't remember delivering the request, but he remembered Stavros – or was it Nico? – shooing the dancing girls unceremoniously away from him, remembered being led to a private booth…

Remembered waiting. Remembered the whispered voices – his cajoling, hers angry, nearly tearful. He managed to pick out a few words. Her Greek was nearly as broken and halting as his own.

… private clientele…

… promised you wouldn't…

… very wealthy…

…not that kind of service…

Then, in very clear German with an unmistakable Austrian lilt, the words desperate. "Please, I can't do what you're asking."

If Georg had been sober, he would have stopped everything right there. Perhaps he was depraved, but he would never have encouraged the kind of nightmare the girl thought she was walking into, the kinds of encounters that frequently occurred in shadowy booths like these. Stavros/Nico evidently didn't understand a word of it, for then she was standing in front of him, sans guitar, and he heard retreating steps that underscored the privacy the bar's owner was granting them.

She was a slender slip of a woman. A small, fragile thing. But she looked right at him, meeting him stare for stare, her luminous blue eyes steady and determined, if not entirely fearless.

That look, that face… he couldn't stop seeing it even if he wanted to.

She looked at him, waiting. Her expression, though wary, was neutral – too mild to be considered resentment. Had she practiced it? How to hide her revulsion for this part of her job when men came calling?

Even in his state, the thought was bitter in his mind. But had he rushed to reassure her? To explain that he desperately wanted to see her face to face, wanted to speak with her, wanted her closer – not for sex, God knows he could have had his pick of any of the girls for that – but for the haunting melody that still wrung his heart? For her dress, for her mannerisms, for everything about her that made him heartsick and yet, he found himself clinging to it like a liferaft. Surely he had not. Even if he hadn't been intoxicated, Georg doubted he could have put any of that into words.

He couldn't recall what he'd said to her, or what she'd said to him. All he could remember were the variations in her expressions, the changing light in her eyes.

Uncertainty.

Fear.

Surprise.

Curiosity.

What had he done with her? Georg wondered now, with an increasing sense of shame and trepidation.

Surely he had not… he wouldn't have pressured a young woman who so obviously wanted nothing to do with him, showgirl or not, intoxicated or not.

But he had been very very drunk. He couldn't remember, try as he might, what they had done.

He rifled through his time with the haunting young guitarist as though he were looking through a series of stills. There was one where they sat together, side by side. Another of her leaning in toward him, with no hint of distaste. Another where she looked at him with a spark in her eye – not of fear, but of… anger? Exasperation?

They had talked, Georg was certain of that. She had a sweet, slightly prim, feminine voice. He couldn't recall a single verbal exchange between them, but he followed the conversation through her hands, which were almost as expressive as her eyes. The saw them clasped together in nervousness. Saw the way they raked through her short bob in what might have been frustration, or perhaps helplessness. Saw them gesturing animatedly in excitement.

So their conversation hadn't been an absolute failure, at least.

At one point, she had held a glass in her hand. Had he coaxed her into having a drink or two?

Yes, yes he had. And – morning-after Georg inhaled at the picture – they had even shared a drink. It hadn't been intimate. Rather, it had felt… easy. Relaxed.

Had he gotten her drunk as well? Had he touched her? Offered to bring her back to his boat?

Georg couldn't remember. How could he not recall anything they said? Why could he only seem to remember how she looked, and how he had felt? Perhaps that was the strangest part – that he could remember feelingat all.

He called up the memory of leaving the bar with her, and walking out into the seeming darkness (Milos was a black hole compared to the glitz of Vienna… or even Salzburg). With it, he felt a sharp pang of wanting that had somehow run deeper than any feelings of lust.

He reached further, managing to conjure the image of her standing with him at the pier. His boat would have been berthed right in front of them. But sometime between that image and this morning, they had parted ways.

Georg searched his memory for any further recollections, now vastly relieved he hadn't woken to her in his bed. Somehow, the little he did remember had become precious to him; sparkling moments in time, gems along a string of meaningless nights. He could only be grateful that he could hold this apart from all those others, spare her from an awkward morning encounter, from the resentment and regret that would have inevitably followed for both of them.

Before he could feel completed relieved, one more moment came to him. So he had kissed her, after all. A glance into eyes that had become alluring blue pools in the night, so close to his. A stolen kiss, breathless and brief, against soft lips that had yielded against his. But he also remembered that when he let her go, she had been shaking like a leaf.

Georg groaned, holding his aching head in his hands, palms digging against his closed eyelids as though he could wipe away the stains in his conscience. Something about her vulnerability shook straight through her and into him.

She had only been doing her job, reluctantly entertaining an old sailor just passing through – and yet somehow she'd manage to illuminate the path of destruction he'd left in his wake.

How had he gotten here, to be seducing a strange young woman in a land so far away?

What had he become that he had frightened her so?

Perhaps Georg Von Trapp did not know who he was, after all.

A/N: Welcome to the start of my next story! I've had this scene in my mind for a very long time, but have been reluctant to weave it into anything as there are so many stories that write darker!Georg better than I ever could. (In fact, when this story was born it was quite a bit darker, but I couldn't handle it!)

Please bear with me as returning readers will know I am generally slow to update and respond to messages - but I really love and am inspired by this community so much I just can't stay away from it, no matter how busy life gets.

Thank you for reading and embarking on this new journey with me! All feedback appreciated. xx