[fic] Heartbeats [Part I]
Title: Heartbeats
Fandom: Spring Awakening
Pairing: Melchior/Wendla
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 16,389
Summary: Wendla was supposed to die that night, but sometimes things don't go quite as planned.
Disclaimer: I am in no way affiliated with Spring Awakening, the characters thereof, or Steven Sater. This is purely fictional and entirely for fun, and no offense is meant to anyone.
London bustled like a city under siege. Underfoot, the cobblestones sounded as if to complain of the rain's constant harassment of them.
Melchior understood. It had certainly been a hard year and a half.
Even now, having found work and shelter in this city that devoured the weak, Melchior did not feel safe.
He'd been offered the apprenticeship through healthy doses of both good will-- on the part of the seemingly ancient librarian-- and begging-- on the part of Melchior. Even if it meant sleeping in a small room above the library that could only be considered an attic by those looking rather kindly upon it, otherwise simply a small, poor excuse for a servant's quarters, Melchior was grateful. His English was good, but not perfect. He was well-read for his age, but he was still young, and had, as the old man had put it, still much to read.
And as much as that excited Melchior, there was only so much opportunity to put his abilities to good use with the work before him.
&
November 13st, 1893
Mama,
Thank you for your letter. I am doing well. London is wonderful and appears to have taken me into its arms as much as any rogue could expect it to. Everything here is much busier than at home-- even the library where I have found work. I am afraid that the stipend you so generously offered me is gone and used up, but it is not so bad, earning my living. Sometimes I even rather enjoy it.
I must confess that I have been spending rather more time reading than I have working, but the temptation is simply too great-- the library is so vast, and there are so many nooks and crannies in which to hide myself with many a book in hand. Sometimes I become so engrossed that the old man will catch me, and I must suffer the beatings for my insubordination, but it is worth it for the books. They seduce me far too easily with their beautiful words, I do not hardly know what to do with myself.
I do apologize for waiting so long to write to you, but I must confess that my current lodgings are rather cramped and leave much to be desired. It has taken me longer than I had hoped to procure a writing desk and accompanying parchment and ink.
Now that I have these at my disposal, however-- the old man I am apprenticing under having taken some measure of pity on me-- I look forward to hearing from you soon, and I do promise that my next letter shan't be quite so delayed as this one.
With love,
Yours truly,
Melchior
&
In Memory to December 18th, 1891
For a girl in her position, Wendla had it extremely well. Working as a hand-maiden for the Von --'s, cleaning, washing, she had even been lucky enough to have made friends amongst the other servants, taken in with them as if she were family.
To say that she was grateful was putting things mildly. There was only so much a mother could do with a child in her situation, even if Wendla did not understand the exact circumstances.
"You're a disgrace to the whole family," Frau Bergman had said rather quietly, darkly, as if everything about this was entirely Wendla's fault for not knowing better. "I no longer have a choice, you understand? We'll have to tell your father tonight and leave him to decide if there's anything we can do with you."
As it turned out, there wasn't. Locked into her room, the only thing Wendla could make out were muffled snippets of their conversation, most of it the bellowing of her father and the cries of her mother.
"Abortion -- doctor -- damn fraud -- all the money -- no choice," and finally just, "she has to go."
As stony-faced as her mother looked when she retrieved her from her room, the bloodshot redness in her eyes gave her away, and Wendla felt lighter for it, somehow.
"I've already found an opening not far from here. They're a rich family who should be moving soon, and they were looking to hire extra help. I've already sent a letter, so we should be hearing back from them soon, I hope. You are not to leave this house, understood?"
&
The funeral was held three days later, Wendla put on a coach headed to Hamburg the following week. Within the confines of their small town, Wendla Bergman had effectively ceased to exist.
&
Two weeks following his discovery of her gravestone beside that of Moritz, Melchior began to write letters.
He hadn't been entirely honest with his mother, really, if he considered the lack of space for a desk cumbersome. It was a question of what really mattered, and despite the fact that his mother was, of course, important to him, he'd promised them.
Every night before bed, with near-religious adherence to his cause, he pulled out parchment and ink, and began to write.
&
Moritz, my dear friend,
Sometimes I wish you were still here for the strangest reasons. Pirates! Do you remember? Those were some of my favorite memories to relive in darker times, and trust, there have been many as of late. I must confess I've been quite lucky, really, and still I miss the things I do not have, your companionship in particular.
I have so much still to tell you, to teach you, and yet I wish not for you, my dear, dead friend, to think of me as your mentor, let alone your instructor. I will always be your equal, your friend. I pray beg you to realize how much you've taught me. You've always underestimated yourself when you were so full of vigor and worth. Sometimes I feel the whole world misses you, truly.
Your friend,
M.
My lovely, dearest Wendla,
Even in the whole city of London I cannot seem to find a single beauty that so much as rivals your own, can you believe it? They all pale in comparison to my memory of you. I know it seems silly to place you upon a pedestal when I ought not to hope to ever see your beautiful face again, but I cannot help it.
I realized last night that I still hear your heartbeat, even now, after all this time. I wonder whether you might hear mine, as well, wherever you are now. If it is meant to haunt me for the rest of my days, so be it, I say, I will take my punishment like a man with valor.
Your smell, your touch, the feel of your skin beneath my hands-- the things I would offer if only I could have one more moment, one more lifetime with you.
I miss you. Most ardently. Sometimes I will turn my head and think I smell you, but when I turn to look for your face, there is nothing there. How I wish to hold you and touch you one last time.
Every night when I think back to our time in the hayloft together, I can hardly control myself from the urges and passions I feel. Some nights I will even imagine it is your hands instead of my own that touch me, and the feelings are only heightened. At times when I am shelving for the old man, it can be quite distracting, and I cannot help but wonder if I, too, am distracting to you where you are.
With all my love,
Your Melchior.
&
December 1st, 1893
"Let me tell you, it's not good to do that for a child for too long."
"She's just attached," Wendla retorted quietly, clutching her daughter to her chest as she suckled on her breast. "She should be ready for her nap soon. I promise I will then go out for the wash."
"The child is too attached. I heard you complain to Margarete of your aching back just yesterday. It's because you carry that child around with you too much. You need to go out to the market, she starts screaming, and of course you pick her up. You're too soft on her. That child needs a father to put his foot down."
It was hardly that Ingrid, the head cook of the household, was not right. But every time the subject of a father came up, Wendla did everything to dodge the topic as fast as she could, quick to fall silent.
What was she supposed to do? Was it not enough already to look upon their daughter and see Melchior in every feature? She hardly looked like her mama at all, a shock of dark-blonde curls gracing her head and big blue-green eyes peering up at her as if she had all the answers.
But Wendla hardly even knew how she'd ended up here. Melchior was the one with the answers, not her.
"I'll take her, if you need me to."
"Oh, it's all right. I'll just take her with me in a moment if she doesn't wish to fall asleep."
Ingrid scoffed. "As if the labor wasn't hard enough already, now we've got another umbilical cord to cut."
"Don't be unkind. It's all she has left."
"Yes, since she can't seem to want to open her mouth about the father. It's like he never even existed and she just decided one day to have a child all on her own."
"I'm going out to do the laundry," Wendla announced, tucking her breast back into her shirt and hoisting Sophie onto her hip. "I'll be back later."
Wendla always hated this kind of talk. It was the kind of thing she'd hoped to escape by avoid by steering clear of the public sector, but it wasn't to be. Still, memories of Melchior haunted her wherever she went, whether it was from looking at Sophie, listening to the others' gossip, and most recently, the way Sophie had turned into a little copycat, sometimes repeating things she was supposed to, and more often, not supposed to.
Like daddy. Dada. Papa.
And as much as she tried not to care, not to listen, she couldn't help but hear the sound of that question mark at the end of the word, like a direct accusation aimed straight at Wendla.
Where is Papa? Don't you care about him, Mama? Other girls have their daddy. Don't you miss him? Where is he?
It was all she could do not to cry whenever she retreated to hang up the laundry, foot on the edge of the small crib to rock Sophie into sleep. But she didn't know where Melchior was. For all the letters she'd sent to him, she'd feared that not a single had reached him. In spite of her mother's wishes, she'd even attempted to write to Fanny Gabor, but nothing had come of that, either. Was he still alive? Did he even still remember her? Care about her? For all she knew, he very well could think her dead, eradicating all hope of seeing him again.
Was he all right where he was? Safe? Happy? Did he miss her at all? If he'd heard of her sudden departure from this world, did he have the strength to carry on after Moritz's death? Or had he followed him to his untimely demise, leaving Sophie truly without a father? It was hard enough trying not to think of him all on her own; the last thing she needed was someone else reminding her of what she'd lost in him, what they'd both lost.
&
Loneliness had become a good friend to Melchior since he'd been left behind by the two of them, sucking him dry like quicksand, gutting him. The old man who had taken him in already had Death knocking on his door and he knew it, leaving Melchior truly wary of any other attachments for fear of more death around him as he walked with his memories of Wendla and Moritz by his side.
There was a small window in his pitiful excuse of a room out of which Melchior was content to gaze nightly, the sky beautifully visible from the small building peak.
Moritz would have loved it, he knew.
"Is it not breathtakingly awe-inspiring?" he asked, knowing fully well that his old friend was not there to hear it. "If only you were here now, my friend. We could conquer London by storm, just you and me. I know you were never particularly good at English, but I could have helped you, fear not."
Letting his eyes drift closed, his head thrummed softly against the wall behind him.
"I wish you'd have stayed just a bit longer in this life, Moritz. So much has happened that I hardly know what to do with myself."
So soon after his time with Wendla, Moritz had left him, leaving him unable to ever tell him about any of it. If he'd have known how good it could be, would he have still left? It wasn't fair. The things Melchior would do to only have his friend back just for a moment, get the sickeningly heavy weight of his actions off of his chest, make him feel less like a criminal for what he and Wendla had done.
What he'd done to Wendla.
"I know that I have never written to you of Wendla, but I simply must tell you what happened today. I could not so much as fathom telling her this, I'm sure you understand." Realizing how truly odd it was to speak to someone who was not there, he righted himself in his seat just slightly, tucking one knee up and close to his chest. Who else was he to speak with? He surely could not tell his mother of such things.
"I saw an angel today," he said softly, licking his lips as he let his eyes close, and his head fall back against the wall. "I was at the market, you see, and-- god, Moritz, she looked just like Wendla. Her face-- I only saw her for a moment before she disappeared into the crowd, but-- m-my mind must have been deceiving me, surely, but for a moment I wondered if I would ever be able to love another. I ought not to. I promised her, just as I did you, to walk with her in my heart for as long as I am alive.
"But am I not cheating her whence my eyes fall prey to other women? How can I possibly bear to look at myself with a clear conscience? And it's-- it's not just that time it's happened. There have been others. It's as if I see Wendla in my mind's eye wherever I go. But I saw her grave, Moritz! It is not as though she still walks among us, my angel. It's not possible! Either I am disloyal, or I am losing my sanity, truly.
"I must confess, I have not seen you, my friend, so my mind cannot be deceiving me that greatly." Taking a deep, shaky breath, he tore at his hair. He needed to depart from this topic. "I wish you'd have seen her the way I was able, Moritz. Her breasts-- oh god, her breasts, they were perfect in my hands. I even dared to taste them briefly before my impatience overtook my senses and robbed me of my sanity. How I wish to taste her skin again, to kiss her once more. She resisted my advances at first, but she wished it, too, I know. I could see it in her eyes, Moritz--
"Don't-- don't think ill of me, I did not force her. I wished her to say yes, and my beautiful angel did, god--" The back of his neck was starting to feel warm. He was getting hard. "I touched her Moritz. She let me part her legs, and I-- I could hardly tear my eyes off of her, she was so beautiful, so warm and slick and--" groaning, he bit down on his lip, one hand slowly moving to rub his length through his pants with awkward desperation. "I-I took her as my own, I-- we-- we made love in the hay, I--" Fumbling with his suspenders and the fastening of his pants, he swallowed hard, finally taking himself in his hand. "She felt so good around me, so completely different from just... when I touch myself. So much better than anything I could have ever imagined. I know I shouldn't have, she didn't know-- she cried out when I pushed inside of her--"
His breathing was coming out ragged just as his words. "I should have been more careful with her, but I just-- I could not control myself, I wished to be with her so badly. It was finally happening, and if I'd had to stop then, I would have died, she--" With another low cry, he came, emptying himself, the sticky white liquid running down his knuckles as he bucked up into his hand, eyes still closed as he rode out his orgasm, Wendla's name spilling from his lips with a cry.
&
December 10th, 1893
Sophie had begun sleeping through the night, only taking one nap in the afternoon now. Walking around more sure-footedly since she'd taken her first, faltering steps about a month prior, Wendla almost preferred her asleep, content to know for certain that she was safe. If she was anything like her parents, she was bound to be tenacious, overly inquisitive, and rebellious at best.
As a mother, Wendla was quickly learning just how lethal of a combination this turned out to be, desperately wishing, once again, that she had Melchior by her side to support her and help her.
He was missing out on everything. The ups, downs, excitements. He was supposed to have been there when her first word had been dada, when she rolled over for the first time, when she started to take her first steps and made her first falls. Soothing her back to get her to burp, or cleaning the scrape on her forehead from being a bit too overeager in her walking.
If only she had some means, some way by which to find him, look up if he was anywhere near her-- though it didn't seem like a likely possibility-- maybe she could get somewhere. But for all the asking around she'd done, no one had ever heard of Melchior Gabor.
It was stupid, of course, going off a hunch. But she could have sworn she'd seen him-- a number of times by now, even, whenever she left the estate to escape to the market.
But Melchior would be well-known around if he was here, surely, just as he would, more than likely, look distinctly different from the boy she'd seen, happier, brighter.
The stranger had looked saddened, and deeply so. Sallowed, deeply sunken cheeks, more so even than before, as if he'd not been eating much. A steady frown on his face, as though all the joy had gone from his life. It was certainly not the Melchior she'd known.
Then again, she wasn't the same Wendla he'd known, either. She'd had it so good, before; so easy. No need to work or care for anyone but herself. Ever since their time spent in the hayloft, he had become her world, her everything. And as all that had crumbled before her as she lost him, her reality had shifted once more.
Sophie, even before she was born, required constant attention doted upon her, and Wendla could not help but give it to her whenever she demanded. But it wasn't until she was born that Wendla finally understood.
Her world had not truly changed. Sophie looked just as Melchior did, reminding her every day who was still, after all this time, most important to her. It hurt far worse than she cared to admit, knowing that he was gone only to leave her with a child to care for that looked as though she had been crafted to look as the very apple of his eye.
&
"Strand! Strand! Get the Strand! Just five pence, get it here!"
With Sophie on her arm and her small purse of money clutched tightly in her palm, Wendla rarely stalled as she sifted her way through the dense crowds of the London Saturday afternoon market. Told not to trust anyone, Wendla repeatedly had to resist the urge to ask the merchants about their fare, the fruits and vegetables they had to offer. It was pure necessity that she do just as she was told, not looking twice at anyone.
Except him.
She nearly missed it, but the shock of dark-blonde curls drew her gaze despite her best efforts to the contrary.
It had happened a number of times prior by now. This time it had been just two weeks to Sophie's half-birthday, snow already coating the world in a sea of white that felt fake, wrong somehow.
Her eyes had first caught hold of the snow-covered hair on the back of his head, causing Wendla to do a double-take, terrified, suddenly, to blink. Hitching Sophie higher on her hip, she couldn't help the way she stared upon his turning around, looking back at her as if he'd seen a ghost.
And in a way, he might have, hadn't he? Wasn't that precisely what she was supposed to be to the outside world?
Sophie's tiny fingers reached out to him before she could stop her-- she was always far too eager to be friendly to those around her-- and Wendla turned away, abruptly, deciding on the spot to lie to Ingrid for the first time and simply say that they had been entirely out of cabbage at the market, and that they would need to make do without that day.
The snow turned bitterly vehement in its anger overnight, and Sophie cried far more than she should have. She was a testy baby at best-- something Ingrid condemned to being caused by an erroneously heightened intellect, tenacity, and rebellion in girls (none of which was a great surprise if she spared even a single thought to the father)-- but for her to start teething when she'd barely just begun to sleep for longer periods felt like a judgment from God. Of course she had to end up with the intelligent daughter when obedient would have been far preferable what with her absentee father, Ingrid's words echoing as resentment rose in her chest like bile.
Surely, surely he couldn't have known that this would happen, or he would have told her, would have stopped before doing what he did, leaving her with child.
But if there was one thing she could not forget, it was the guilt etched on his features upon withdrawing from her.
And still, even despite this, more than anything, she wished to lie with him again.
&
December 21st, 1893
My dearest Wendla,
I fear you may think me losing my wits, but this morning at the market, I saw an angel.
I must confess, I do not believe in much, that I am indeed, yes, a skeptic, but I dare say I know an angel whence I do see one.
It's just started snowing here in London, you see, and everything looks so beautiful blanketed in white. I know I hardly deserve to look at such purity, but then, I did gaze upon you once, did I not? My sweet, perfect Wendla.
I fear I am seeing you everywhere. Is this, perhaps, what insanity feels like? Or is it love? I know I denounced such foolish notions long ago, but if I dare say it, I do, perhaps, think more of it now than I did before. But then, what we did in the hayloft can hardly be defined as love. It was far too physical. What I feel now... I am not certain. I certainly long for you, but then, I long for Moritz's presence by my side, as well.
All I know for certain is that your hair, covered in snowflakes, is the most beautiful thing fate has dared to bestow upon me. And little fingers, reaching out, as if my finger belonged in that tiny little grip, as if that darling child knew me. I must have been dreaming, seeing you there today. Surely I was dreaming.
How I long to see you again. To touch you again. To lie beside you and take my time-- to caress and kiss every part of you. Our last meeting was so fleeting, I hardly knew what to do of myself, and yet... I know I cannot have m--
The writing smeared just there, the writers seemingly distracted briefly as the tip of his quill seemed to trail off to the side, or perhaps written in a coach, the roads bumpy enough to lead one's ink trail astray. Regardless of the circumstances, the letter that sailed off into the distance and over the grand estate walls was unfinished as ever, and Melchior stared after it, his gaze hurriedly darting from the lost letter to the remainder of his things on the ground, his journal strewn open on the ground, several of his letters scattered about it.
Scrambling to pick up his things, he clutched them to his chest as if he'd nearly just lost Wendla and Moritz themselves amongst the pages, staring forlornly after the lost letter.
No one else could read it. No one else could see it. He bared his heart, his soul--
Quickly tucking his journal into his satchel, he cast another glance at the rather large, formidable-looking wall, his eyes scrambling to find some way to get up it. It certainly seemed far too difficult to climb, but the tree situated nearby seemed the perfect opportunity.
Nodding resolutely as though someone were watching, he grabbed hold of a branch, swinging one leg up and doing his best to hoist his body onto the lower point, working his way up the tree, only shifting slightly with his weight as he finally found himself looking over the edge.
As one leg carefully reached out for some footing on the top of the wall, his hand finally let go of the branch it had been holding onto.
There was no way he could have expected the thing patch of ice underneath his toes, making him slip and plummet, after a terrible landing on his leg, face-first onto a rather large rock on the ground, something he had been planning to use as a jumping point before, and the world went dark for Melchior Gabor.
&
It wasn't until that next morning that Edith discovered the body, having crushed several of her owner's viburnum bushes in its descent from the estate wall. And it wasn't until that next evening until Wendla learned of its sudden appearance, too busy with folding linens and calming Sophie to care much of everyone else's hustle and bustle about some man the stork had apparently dropped onto them from the sky.
"I suppose we'll have to call on Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard. Oh-- there you are, Wendla. Yes, he'd just lain here."
As the proverbial head of the roost, Ingrid generally tended to have her finger on the sometimes barely-beating pulse of every gossip-worthy topic. As much as such a tendency sometimes proved to come quite in handy, right now all Wendla could think of was how grateful she was that the formidable woman did not, in fact, know everything that she tried to lay claim to, her heart hardly bearing to beat as she gazed upon Melchior.
A million questions seemed to flood her mind all at once. If it had been him who she'd seen at the market all those times-- and it had-- what was he doing in London, of all places? Had he been looking for her? Had he known he'd find her here? How had he known? And if he had actually climbed the wall just for her, why had he not simply thought to request an audience with her?
"Anyway, yes, like I said, we'll need to notify Scotland Yard."
"No!" Wendla said suddenly, pulling her arms around herself. "This man clearly is in desperate need of medical care."
Throwing her a stern look, Ingrid offered a guiltless sigh, placing her fists resolutely at her waist with a huff. "I suppose the Hospital will have to do then."
"They-- no. I'll take him in my care."
The collective gasp and subsequent murmur that erupted felt reminiscent of her classroom at home, each girl more preoccupied with the others' business than the next.
"And how exact--"
"I'll pay for his lodgings here." As small of a sum as her mother had offered her prior to her departure, she'd truly only used a minimal amount of it, and it would be more than sufficient. Now she couldn't help but be grateful for it. "I'll pay for his care personally. He can stay in my room."
"He most certainly will do no such thing! Or are you attempting to offer the world another bastard child?"
&
She'd been regrettably right in regard to his wounds, and she couldn't help but be grateful that he'd been unconscious when Edith had helped her bring him into the room.
His leg at least seemed to be, thankfully, not broken, and with the exception of the gash at his forehead, he appeared to be mostly all right, but she couldn't be certain in the state of dress he was currently in.
Sophie had refused to stop screaming for all her care, and finally Anna had offered to take her, a tremendous relief to Wendla.
Now, gazing upon Melchior, the need for her to face her demons felt more pressing than ever, Wendla careful to peel his suspenders off without hurting him further as the memory of their time together stung almost viscerally upon her every touch to him.
Moving to unbutton his shirt, she did her best to pull it off his body just enough to inspect him for further injuries and nothing more.
Other than another shallow gash in his shoulder, however, his chest looked fine, and she strained to keep looking upon him with a gaze that was purely clinical, and nothing else. As she shifted her attention lower, trembling hands unbuttoned his pants to slowly start slipping them down his legs, careful not to touch and hurt him further than she already feared she had.
He shifted, suddenly, groaning softly, and Wendla had to bite her lip to keep herself calm. She hadn't even gotten to process her own thoughts on any of this; if he woke up now, it would be far too soon. He'd have so many questions, and she, none of the answers.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, she forced her eyes open as she shifted his pants over his groin, continuing down until the large gash on his leg began to show itself to her, stretching all the way from his knee to his ankle. At the very least, his leg did not appear to be broken, though at this rate, it appeared as though he might be walking with some amount of support for quite some time, if nothing else.
Fetching bandages, she did her best to try to clean his festering wounds with soap and water, cleaning off the encrusted, dried up blood around it first. He'd been left out there for a good day and a half, and she couldn't help but be thankful that he'd been wearing as much as he had and had only lost a moderate amount of blood.
If he'd bled out and died only for her to find him there-- she had no idea what she would have done.
Losing him once had been hard enough, but losing him twice...
The wound looked incredibly painful, but at least it had stopped bleeding. Tending to the wound itself earned her several moans of pain from him, his body recoiling from her touch. Taking a deep breath, she bit down on her lower lip and kept going despite his unconscious protests, wincing with every pained whimper from him.
Dressing his leg with the bandages she'd brought, she watched his face carefully, the rise and fall of his chest, the way his face would sometimes reveal twinges of pain or turmoil to her of which she'd otherwise never learn.
&
It took Wendla three hours to properly clean and dress his wounds. From the look of his head, he'd suffered a decent concussion, and it was no wonder that he was unconscious for the time being. He'd taken a terrible fall and landed rather unfortunately, and she could just hope that he'd have even just half of his wits about him when he came to.
When he came to. It seemed as foreign of an idea to Wendla now as ever. She'd barely acclimated to the fact that he was back in her life, but conscious, too? Able to talk to her, kiss her once more?
She'd kept his clothing neatly folded at the foot of his bed, leaving him bare in only his drawers, and her fighting not to stare at him. His still-boyish chest was broader than she'd remembered it, but there was no hair that graced it to show that he'd grown even remotely, much like his face.
His ribcage was showing just slightly-- that much she knew-- though his somewhat sallowed cheeks had given him away even before she'd removed his shirt to gaze unto his chest. He was hardly eating.
Still, he was in her care now, and therefore there was no reason to worry for him any longer.
Taking the small basin of warm water and the accompanying cloth, she began the slow task of washing him, moving the soft rag over his skin as she cleaned off the dirt that seemed to have been left to accumulate over several months, doing her best not to care of the way her heartbeat seemed to race as she tended to his private areas.
To think that she'd been so close with him once before, only to now feel a heated blush creep over her face and neck, felt disappointing, somehow. Had she really been close to him at all? Had their intimacy even meant anything to him?
As she finished cleaning his legs, arms, and torso, she halted at the edge of his drawers, reluctance and embarrassment getting the better of her.
Taking a deep breath, she squeezed her eyes shut as she lifted up the waistband of his drawers and slowly slid them over his hipbones and thighs, his member seemingly asleep as it lay nestled at the slight dip where his thigh met his pelvis.
Wendla couldn't help but stare, only swallowing the lump in her throat when she realized that she'd been neglecting her duties.
She couldn't help but pray that he not wake with her doing this, lest he find her staring, face hot from shame.
She wished, so badly, to touch him.
Steeling herself, she refused her urges and continued on her task, slowly washing off the remaining parts of him before hurriedly replacing his drawers where they belonged. She'd wash his clothing tomorrow and redress him, but until then, she'd have to be content with covering him in several layers of blankets. It was bitterly cold out, and the last thing she wished was for him to freeze after she'd done everything she could to keep his injuries from becoming infected.
Taking back Sophie from Anna to place her into her cradle, Wendla crafted a small makeshift bed for her on the floor between the two in her tiny room, Sophie's cradle to her left, Melchior's sleeping form to her right.
For the first time in a long time, Wendla slept well.
&
December 26th, 1893
He felt like he'd been out for days when Moritz finally walked into the room where he laid, feverish, delirious, to take a seat beside him.
He'd been unable to make a sound whenever his angel, Wendla, walked into the room these past days, confined just to watching her move, change his bedpan, wipe his forehead with a cold cloth, and he couldn't help but wonder whether he'd died, whether it was finally time for him to walk beside Moritz and Wendla and join them in the silence of death-- but now that Moritz was sitting by him, his throat felt free, the pain just a distant echo as he smiled at his old friend.
"Words usually come so easily to me, but I do not yet understand what this means, my old friend. Have I truly died? Will you tell me?"
Moritz remained silent.
"But if it is you who can't talk, that means that I must still be alive. Am I-- hallucinating? Is this real?"
There was no answer, Moritz bowing his head as he smiled, making Melchior's heart leap in his chest.
"You know of her, don't you? My angel? Who rescued me? Moritz, she looks just like Wendla, I--"
Both boys froze suddenly, the familiar brunette walking in to cast a worried look at the bed before disappearing again, wiping her hands at the front of her apron.
"Moritz, I swear, I have never seen a girl so beautiful, so perfect. But she's-- I can't hear her, is she still alive?" Panic rose in his chest as he shook his head. "Moritz, I wish to believe in heaven only in the hopes that you may have found some peace in that refuge, and yet if it does exist, I do not wish my Wendla to be there, I-- not after I felt so certain that she was alive, that she saved me! If it's not her, I will surely die, just as I died in her arms that fateful night that I took her as my own. I-I do not know why words fail me, still, my friend. She must be alive! Am I wrong?! Or is it that I am simply dreaming? My mind lulling me into its comforts only to let me wake in sorrow, knowing I may never again feel her hands' caress on my face? I long to touch her, Moritz, I--"
Melchior woke with a start, eyes wide, dizziness gripping him like an old friend too long gone. Had he just been dreaming his angel, his eyes playing tricks on him as he looked on perfect chestnut curls? Or was she really there, still alive for him to touch, should she let him?
His head ached horribly as he looked around himself, the small room stifling despite how cold he felt.
Moving to get up out of the bed, his leg screamed in pain, Melchior's eyes going wide as he stopped himself, holding his breath to keep from making any noise as blood continued to seep through the bandages that had been expertly wound around his leg by his angel. To think, that a task as foolish as losing his letter to Wendla had resulted in his finding his angel-- perhaps Wendla was right, and there was a reason to believe in fate, heaven.
Knowing that just lying beside Wendla once more would be heaven for him, the need to get up and find her felt more pressing than ever, and he struggled as he managed to stand on his good leg, staggering just slightly.
That was when his eyes fell on the wooden bassinet before him, a small crib clearly intended for a young child.
Was he going mad? Thinking his angel was Wendla only because coincidence seemed to wish to drive him to insanity? Wendla had mentioned in her last letter to him at the reformatory that she was pregnant. With her no longer on this fateful earth, it didn't-- shouldn't have mattered, and there had been no point in dwelling on the thought of their unborn child, lost too soon, the child Wendla had wished to raise in a better world, with him.
But if she was alive, did that mean that the child-- their child-- was, too? That he was, truly, a father?
Running a slow, gentle hand over the inside of the bassinet, he held his breath, trying to think back. Had the little girl he'd seen stretch her arm out towards him in the market been his own? Had he been so blind as to miss each and every one of the signs that Wendla truly was, not only alive, but alive and well in London, with him?
If she had been kind enough to save him, it had to mean that she still felt some affection for him, not repulsed at his actions, at the way he'd-- he hadn't meant to force her, hadn't ever meant to impregnate her against her will. In that moment, with her in the hayloft, it had been impossible to stop himself, the need to be with her, completely, to take her as his, overwhelming. And even now, knowing the consequences, he would not think twice to lie beside her again, to share that little bit of heaven with her once more.
His sweet, perfect angel.
The door creaked open, Melchior stumbling for a moment as he fought to regain his footing once more, eyes wide as he took her in.
"Wendla," he breathed, her face frozen in shock for a moment as she strained not to drop the dish she was holding. Nodding briefly for a moment as she blinked, Wendla set the soup down on the floor, her body quick to close the door behind her, looking very much as though she wished she could shrink against it.
"Y-you look as though you've seen a ghost," he whispered softly, watching her carefully as she bit on her bottom lip, her body still pressed against the door.
"Melchi," she shook her head, her voice trembling. "You-- you should lie down again, your wounds-- they're just terrible."
"You sound just like her, too," he muttered softly, not moving from his spot on the floor, as though his body had anchored itself there, adamant to stay as close to her as possible as he could be, even as he knew of his leg's present limitations. "You are her, aren't you," he swallowed hard, shaking his head as he felt tears in his eyes. "I would know her face anywhere. She's the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."
Wendla stayed frozen to the spot for a moment before finally averting her eyes from him, trying hard not to cry. "You-- you should rest. You suffered a great fall. Please don't make me ask you again."
"But how can I rest?" he demanded, fighting his body to take a step towards her, his leg screaming in pain. "When I just found you again? I-I couldn't possibly, it's--"
"Please," she whispered, her hands clasped tightly behind her back as she stared to the side, anywhere but at him.
"Please what, Wendla? You-- must have known that I would wake up eventually! Or you wouldn't have saved me! My... sweet, perfect angel."
His hand reached out to touch on her cheek, Wendla squeezing her eyes shut even as she seemed to relax, leaning into him despite her best efforts to stay as far away as possible, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"Melchi, please."
"Wendla, look at me," he whispered, his thumb drawing patterns on her cheek even as she shook her head no, adamant. "Wendla, please, I beg of you. Just let me see you! I thought I'd lost you forever, I--"
"Do you not think this is hard enough already?! Losing you-- Melchi, I can't. I can't look at you and watch you tell me things that I know aren't true."
"I saw your gravestone, Wendla," he finally said, letting his hand fall from her face as he stared at her. "I saw it with my own eyes, right next to Moritz's. I was about to follow Moritz when--"
"What?" she whispered, big eyes giving in to blink up at him, tears still streaming down her cheeks, relentless in their assault of her as he fought to keep them at bay himself.
"I-I thought I felt you touch my shoulder," he whispered. "It was like both of you were begging me not to follow you, and I couldn't-- I couldn't--"
It was too much, watching Wendla cry, talking about the graveyard, fresh tears pooling in his eyes as he blinked, wishing he could be stronger, more for her.
"Your leg must be aching horribly," she whispered. "Please just-- sit."
Taking him by the arm, she led him back over to the bed, moving to kneel before him as she touched on his face, her hand cupping his cheek.
"I thought I'd never see you again," she whispered, shaking her head. "That you'd... found another, gone on to do wonderful things."
"Without you?" Melchi shook his head frantically, reaching out to cup her face in his hands, fighting to memorize all of her features at once, again. "I couldn't. I would-- I could never find another, Wendla. Never."
"I wrote to you so often," she whispered. "In-- in that horrible place, and even after, I never gave up trying to reach you. I wrote to your mother, but... who knows how many letters our parents intercepted from each other. To think that... we had been missing each other all this time..."
"I will never let you out of my sight again," Melchior vowed, shaking his head as he studied her face for some glimmer of hope in her features, so that he might grab hold of it and let it roam freely. "That alone, I promise you above all else. Never, Wendla."
Hesitation flittered across her face before he could catch it, and she frowned, refusing to look at him. "I must ask you--"
The sound of a child's crying sent a wave of shock over her features, and she stood, abrupt. "I-I'll be back, I--" Staring at him, she shook her head, tucking trembling hands behind her back as he watched her move. "Please-- you should rest. You are still unwell, and I-- I need to return to my duties. But-- I promise you, I will return. Until then, try to eat your soup. It will help, I promise. Both against the cold and an uneasy stomach. You've been hardly eating, I could tell when I dressed your bandages," she nodded, frowning sternly for a moment, looking as though she was struggling to reign herself in as much as he was, slipping out the door a moment later to leave him alone, a slave to his thoughts.
The temptation to go after her was almost too great, his leg the only thing holding him back from following her as he held his breath, praying that his mind wasn't playing tricks on him, that he would wake up any moment now to find that all of it-- even his losing his letter in the market-- had just been an elaborate dream.
&
Part II
Fandom: Spring Awakening
Pairing: Melchior/Wendla
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 16,389
Summary: Wendla was supposed to die that night, but sometimes things don't go quite as planned.
Disclaimer: I am in no way affiliated with Spring Awakening, the characters thereof, or Steven Sater. This is purely fictional and entirely for fun, and no offense is meant to anyone.
London bustled like a city under siege. Underfoot, the cobblestones sounded as if to complain of the rain's constant harassment of them.
Melchior understood. It had certainly been a hard year and a half.
Even now, having found work and shelter in this city that devoured the weak, Melchior did not feel safe.
He'd been offered the apprenticeship through healthy doses of both good will-- on the part of the seemingly ancient librarian-- and begging-- on the part of Melchior. Even if it meant sleeping in a small room above the library that could only be considered an attic by those looking rather kindly upon it, otherwise simply a small, poor excuse for a servant's quarters, Melchior was grateful. His English was good, but not perfect. He was well-read for his age, but he was still young, and had, as the old man had put it, still much to read.
And as much as that excited Melchior, there was only so much opportunity to put his abilities to good use with the work before him.
&
November 13st, 1893
Mama,
Thank you for your letter. I am doing well. London is wonderful and appears to have taken me into its arms as much as any rogue could expect it to. Everything here is much busier than at home-- even the library where I have found work. I am afraid that the stipend you so generously offered me is gone and used up, but it is not so bad, earning my living. Sometimes I even rather enjoy it.
I must confess that I have been spending rather more time reading than I have working, but the temptation is simply too great-- the library is so vast, and there are so many nooks and crannies in which to hide myself with many a book in hand. Sometimes I become so engrossed that the old man will catch me, and I must suffer the beatings for my insubordination, but it is worth it for the books. They seduce me far too easily with their beautiful words, I do not hardly know what to do with myself.
I do apologize for waiting so long to write to you, but I must confess that my current lodgings are rather cramped and leave much to be desired. It has taken me longer than I had hoped to procure a writing desk and accompanying parchment and ink.
Now that I have these at my disposal, however-- the old man I am apprenticing under having taken some measure of pity on me-- I look forward to hearing from you soon, and I do promise that my next letter shan't be quite so delayed as this one.
With love,
Yours truly,
Melchior
&
In Memory to December 18th, 1891
For a girl in her position, Wendla had it extremely well. Working as a hand-maiden for the Von --'s, cleaning, washing, she had even been lucky enough to have made friends amongst the other servants, taken in with them as if she were family.
To say that she was grateful was putting things mildly. There was only so much a mother could do with a child in her situation, even if Wendla did not understand the exact circumstances.
"You're a disgrace to the whole family," Frau Bergman had said rather quietly, darkly, as if everything about this was entirely Wendla's fault for not knowing better. "I no longer have a choice, you understand? We'll have to tell your father tonight and leave him to decide if there's anything we can do with you."
As it turned out, there wasn't. Locked into her room, the only thing Wendla could make out were muffled snippets of their conversation, most of it the bellowing of her father and the cries of her mother.
"Abortion -- doctor -- damn fraud -- all the money -- no choice," and finally just, "she has to go."
As stony-faced as her mother looked when she retrieved her from her room, the bloodshot redness in her eyes gave her away, and Wendla felt lighter for it, somehow.
"I've already found an opening not far from here. They're a rich family who should be moving soon, and they were looking to hire extra help. I've already sent a letter, so we should be hearing back from them soon, I hope. You are not to leave this house, understood?"
&
The funeral was held three days later, Wendla put on a coach headed to Hamburg the following week. Within the confines of their small town, Wendla Bergman had effectively ceased to exist.
&
Two weeks following his discovery of her gravestone beside that of Moritz, Melchior began to write letters.
He hadn't been entirely honest with his mother, really, if he considered the lack of space for a desk cumbersome. It was a question of what really mattered, and despite the fact that his mother was, of course, important to him, he'd promised them.
Every night before bed, with near-religious adherence to his cause, he pulled out parchment and ink, and began to write.
&
Moritz, my dear friend,
Sometimes I wish you were still here for the strangest reasons. Pirates! Do you remember? Those were some of my favorite memories to relive in darker times, and trust, there have been many as of late. I must confess I've been quite lucky, really, and still I miss the things I do not have, your companionship in particular.
I have so much still to tell you, to teach you, and yet I wish not for you, my dear, dead friend, to think of me as your mentor, let alone your instructor. I will always be your equal, your friend. I pray beg you to realize how much you've taught me. You've always underestimated yourself when you were so full of vigor and worth. Sometimes I feel the whole world misses you, truly.
Your friend,
M.
My lovely, dearest Wendla,
Even in the whole city of London I cannot seem to find a single beauty that so much as rivals your own, can you believe it? They all pale in comparison to my memory of you. I know it seems silly to place you upon a pedestal when I ought not to hope to ever see your beautiful face again, but I cannot help it.
I realized last night that I still hear your heartbeat, even now, after all this time. I wonder whether you might hear mine, as well, wherever you are now. If it is meant to haunt me for the rest of my days, so be it, I say, I will take my punishment like a man with valor.
Your smell, your touch, the feel of your skin beneath my hands-- the things I would offer if only I could have one more moment, one more lifetime with you.
I miss you. Most ardently. Sometimes I will turn my head and think I smell you, but when I turn to look for your face, there is nothing there. How I wish to hold you and touch you one last time.
Every night when I think back to our time in the hayloft together, I can hardly control myself from the urges and passions I feel. Some nights I will even imagine it is your hands instead of my own that touch me, and the feelings are only heightened. At times when I am shelving for the old man, it can be quite distracting, and I cannot help but wonder if I, too, am distracting to you where you are.
With all my love,
Your Melchior.
&
December 1st, 1893
"Let me tell you, it's not good to do that for a child for too long."
"She's just attached," Wendla retorted quietly, clutching her daughter to her chest as she suckled on her breast. "She should be ready for her nap soon. I promise I will then go out for the wash."
"The child is too attached. I heard you complain to Margarete of your aching back just yesterday. It's because you carry that child around with you too much. You need to go out to the market, she starts screaming, and of course you pick her up. You're too soft on her. That child needs a father to put his foot down."
It was hardly that Ingrid, the head cook of the household, was not right. But every time the subject of a father came up, Wendla did everything to dodge the topic as fast as she could, quick to fall silent.
What was she supposed to do? Was it not enough already to look upon their daughter and see Melchior in every feature? She hardly looked like her mama at all, a shock of dark-blonde curls gracing her head and big blue-green eyes peering up at her as if she had all the answers.
But Wendla hardly even knew how she'd ended up here. Melchior was the one with the answers, not her.
"I'll take her, if you need me to."
"Oh, it's all right. I'll just take her with me in a moment if she doesn't wish to fall asleep."
Ingrid scoffed. "As if the labor wasn't hard enough already, now we've got another umbilical cord to cut."
"Don't be unkind. It's all she has left."
"Yes, since she can't seem to want to open her mouth about the father. It's like he never even existed and she just decided one day to have a child all on her own."
"I'm going out to do the laundry," Wendla announced, tucking her breast back into her shirt and hoisting Sophie onto her hip. "I'll be back later."
Wendla always hated this kind of talk. It was the kind of thing she'd hoped to escape by avoid by steering clear of the public sector, but it wasn't to be. Still, memories of Melchior haunted her wherever she went, whether it was from looking at Sophie, listening to the others' gossip, and most recently, the way Sophie had turned into a little copycat, sometimes repeating things she was supposed to, and more often, not supposed to.
Like daddy. Dada. Papa.
And as much as she tried not to care, not to listen, she couldn't help but hear the sound of that question mark at the end of the word, like a direct accusation aimed straight at Wendla.
Where is Papa? Don't you care about him, Mama? Other girls have their daddy. Don't you miss him? Where is he?
It was all she could do not to cry whenever she retreated to hang up the laundry, foot on the edge of the small crib to rock Sophie into sleep. But she didn't know where Melchior was. For all the letters she'd sent to him, she'd feared that not a single had reached him. In spite of her mother's wishes, she'd even attempted to write to Fanny Gabor, but nothing had come of that, either. Was he still alive? Did he even still remember her? Care about her? For all she knew, he very well could think her dead, eradicating all hope of seeing him again.
Was he all right where he was? Safe? Happy? Did he miss her at all? If he'd heard of her sudden departure from this world, did he have the strength to carry on after Moritz's death? Or had he followed him to his untimely demise, leaving Sophie truly without a father? It was hard enough trying not to think of him all on her own; the last thing she needed was someone else reminding her of what she'd lost in him, what they'd both lost.
&
Loneliness had become a good friend to Melchior since he'd been left behind by the two of them, sucking him dry like quicksand, gutting him. The old man who had taken him in already had Death knocking on his door and he knew it, leaving Melchior truly wary of any other attachments for fear of more death around him as he walked with his memories of Wendla and Moritz by his side.
There was a small window in his pitiful excuse of a room out of which Melchior was content to gaze nightly, the sky beautifully visible from the small building peak.
Moritz would have loved it, he knew.
"Is it not breathtakingly awe-inspiring?" he asked, knowing fully well that his old friend was not there to hear it. "If only you were here now, my friend. We could conquer London by storm, just you and me. I know you were never particularly good at English, but I could have helped you, fear not."
Letting his eyes drift closed, his head thrummed softly against the wall behind him.
"I wish you'd have stayed just a bit longer in this life, Moritz. So much has happened that I hardly know what to do with myself."
So soon after his time with Wendla, Moritz had left him, leaving him unable to ever tell him about any of it. If he'd have known how good it could be, would he have still left? It wasn't fair. The things Melchior would do to only have his friend back just for a moment, get the sickeningly heavy weight of his actions off of his chest, make him feel less like a criminal for what he and Wendla had done.
What he'd done to Wendla.
"I know that I have never written to you of Wendla, but I simply must tell you what happened today. I could not so much as fathom telling her this, I'm sure you understand." Realizing how truly odd it was to speak to someone who was not there, he righted himself in his seat just slightly, tucking one knee up and close to his chest. Who else was he to speak with? He surely could not tell his mother of such things.
"I saw an angel today," he said softly, licking his lips as he let his eyes close, and his head fall back against the wall. "I was at the market, you see, and-- god, Moritz, she looked just like Wendla. Her face-- I only saw her for a moment before she disappeared into the crowd, but-- m-my mind must have been deceiving me, surely, but for a moment I wondered if I would ever be able to love another. I ought not to. I promised her, just as I did you, to walk with her in my heart for as long as I am alive.
"But am I not cheating her whence my eyes fall prey to other women? How can I possibly bear to look at myself with a clear conscience? And it's-- it's not just that time it's happened. There have been others. It's as if I see Wendla in my mind's eye wherever I go. But I saw her grave, Moritz! It is not as though she still walks among us, my angel. It's not possible! Either I am disloyal, or I am losing my sanity, truly.
"I must confess, I have not seen you, my friend, so my mind cannot be deceiving me that greatly." Taking a deep, shaky breath, he tore at his hair. He needed to depart from this topic. "I wish you'd have seen her the way I was able, Moritz. Her breasts-- oh god, her breasts, they were perfect in my hands. I even dared to taste them briefly before my impatience overtook my senses and robbed me of my sanity. How I wish to taste her skin again, to kiss her once more. She resisted my advances at first, but she wished it, too, I know. I could see it in her eyes, Moritz--
"Don't-- don't think ill of me, I did not force her. I wished her to say yes, and my beautiful angel did, god--" The back of his neck was starting to feel warm. He was getting hard. "I touched her Moritz. She let me part her legs, and I-- I could hardly tear my eyes off of her, she was so beautiful, so warm and slick and--" groaning, he bit down on his lip, one hand slowly moving to rub his length through his pants with awkward desperation. "I-I took her as my own, I-- we-- we made love in the hay, I--" Fumbling with his suspenders and the fastening of his pants, he swallowed hard, finally taking himself in his hand. "She felt so good around me, so completely different from just... when I touch myself. So much better than anything I could have ever imagined. I know I shouldn't have, she didn't know-- she cried out when I pushed inside of her--"
His breathing was coming out ragged just as his words. "I should have been more careful with her, but I just-- I could not control myself, I wished to be with her so badly. It was finally happening, and if I'd had to stop then, I would have died, she--" With another low cry, he came, emptying himself, the sticky white liquid running down his knuckles as he bucked up into his hand, eyes still closed as he rode out his orgasm, Wendla's name spilling from his lips with a cry.
&
December 10th, 1893
Sophie had begun sleeping through the night, only taking one nap in the afternoon now. Walking around more sure-footedly since she'd taken her first, faltering steps about a month prior, Wendla almost preferred her asleep, content to know for certain that she was safe. If she was anything like her parents, she was bound to be tenacious, overly inquisitive, and rebellious at best.
As a mother, Wendla was quickly learning just how lethal of a combination this turned out to be, desperately wishing, once again, that she had Melchior by her side to support her and help her.
He was missing out on everything. The ups, downs, excitements. He was supposed to have been there when her first word had been dada, when she rolled over for the first time, when she started to take her first steps and made her first falls. Soothing her back to get her to burp, or cleaning the scrape on her forehead from being a bit too overeager in her walking.
If only she had some means, some way by which to find him, look up if he was anywhere near her-- though it didn't seem like a likely possibility-- maybe she could get somewhere. But for all the asking around she'd done, no one had ever heard of Melchior Gabor.
It was stupid, of course, going off a hunch. But she could have sworn she'd seen him-- a number of times by now, even, whenever she left the estate to escape to the market.
But Melchior would be well-known around if he was here, surely, just as he would, more than likely, look distinctly different from the boy she'd seen, happier, brighter.
The stranger had looked saddened, and deeply so. Sallowed, deeply sunken cheeks, more so even than before, as if he'd not been eating much. A steady frown on his face, as though all the joy had gone from his life. It was certainly not the Melchior she'd known.
Then again, she wasn't the same Wendla he'd known, either. She'd had it so good, before; so easy. No need to work or care for anyone but herself. Ever since their time spent in the hayloft, he had become her world, her everything. And as all that had crumbled before her as she lost him, her reality had shifted once more.
Sophie, even before she was born, required constant attention doted upon her, and Wendla could not help but give it to her whenever she demanded. But it wasn't until she was born that Wendla finally understood.
Her world had not truly changed. Sophie looked just as Melchior did, reminding her every day who was still, after all this time, most important to her. It hurt far worse than she cared to admit, knowing that he was gone only to leave her with a child to care for that looked as though she had been crafted to look as the very apple of his eye.
&
"Strand! Strand! Get the Strand! Just five pence, get it here!"
With Sophie on her arm and her small purse of money clutched tightly in her palm, Wendla rarely stalled as she sifted her way through the dense crowds of the London Saturday afternoon market. Told not to trust anyone, Wendla repeatedly had to resist the urge to ask the merchants about their fare, the fruits and vegetables they had to offer. It was pure necessity that she do just as she was told, not looking twice at anyone.
Except him.
She nearly missed it, but the shock of dark-blonde curls drew her gaze despite her best efforts to the contrary.
It had happened a number of times prior by now. This time it had been just two weeks to Sophie's half-birthday, snow already coating the world in a sea of white that felt fake, wrong somehow.
Her eyes had first caught hold of the snow-covered hair on the back of his head, causing Wendla to do a double-take, terrified, suddenly, to blink. Hitching Sophie higher on her hip, she couldn't help the way she stared upon his turning around, looking back at her as if he'd seen a ghost.
And in a way, he might have, hadn't he? Wasn't that precisely what she was supposed to be to the outside world?
Sophie's tiny fingers reached out to him before she could stop her-- she was always far too eager to be friendly to those around her-- and Wendla turned away, abruptly, deciding on the spot to lie to Ingrid for the first time and simply say that they had been entirely out of cabbage at the market, and that they would need to make do without that day.
The snow turned bitterly vehement in its anger overnight, and Sophie cried far more than she should have. She was a testy baby at best-- something Ingrid condemned to being caused by an erroneously heightened intellect, tenacity, and rebellion in girls (none of which was a great surprise if she spared even a single thought to the father)-- but for her to start teething when she'd barely just begun to sleep for longer periods felt like a judgment from God. Of course she had to end up with the intelligent daughter when obedient would have been far preferable what with her absentee father, Ingrid's words echoing as resentment rose in her chest like bile.
Surely, surely he couldn't have known that this would happen, or he would have told her, would have stopped before doing what he did, leaving her with child.
But if there was one thing she could not forget, it was the guilt etched on his features upon withdrawing from her.
And still, even despite this, more than anything, she wished to lie with him again.
&
December 21st, 1893
My dearest Wendla,
I fear you may think me losing my wits, but this morning at the market, I saw an angel.
I must confess, I do not believe in much, that I am indeed, yes, a skeptic, but I dare say I know an angel whence I do see one.
It's just started snowing here in London, you see, and everything looks so beautiful blanketed in white. I know I hardly deserve to look at such purity, but then, I did gaze upon you once, did I not? My sweet, perfect Wendla.
I fear I am seeing you everywhere. Is this, perhaps, what insanity feels like? Or is it love? I know I denounced such foolish notions long ago, but if I dare say it, I do, perhaps, think more of it now than I did before. But then, what we did in the hayloft can hardly be defined as love. It was far too physical. What I feel now... I am not certain. I certainly long for you, but then, I long for Moritz's presence by my side, as well.
All I know for certain is that your hair, covered in snowflakes, is the most beautiful thing fate has dared to bestow upon me. And little fingers, reaching out, as if my finger belonged in that tiny little grip, as if that darling child knew me. I must have been dreaming, seeing you there today. Surely I was dreaming.
How I long to see you again. To touch you again. To lie beside you and take my time-- to caress and kiss every part of you. Our last meeting was so fleeting, I hardly knew what to do of myself, and yet... I know I cannot have m--
The writing smeared just there, the writers seemingly distracted briefly as the tip of his quill seemed to trail off to the side, or perhaps written in a coach, the roads bumpy enough to lead one's ink trail astray. Regardless of the circumstances, the letter that sailed off into the distance and over the grand estate walls was unfinished as ever, and Melchior stared after it, his gaze hurriedly darting from the lost letter to the remainder of his things on the ground, his journal strewn open on the ground, several of his letters scattered about it.
Scrambling to pick up his things, he clutched them to his chest as if he'd nearly just lost Wendla and Moritz themselves amongst the pages, staring forlornly after the lost letter.
No one else could read it. No one else could see it. He bared his heart, his soul--
Quickly tucking his journal into his satchel, he cast another glance at the rather large, formidable-looking wall, his eyes scrambling to find some way to get up it. It certainly seemed far too difficult to climb, but the tree situated nearby seemed the perfect opportunity.
Nodding resolutely as though someone were watching, he grabbed hold of a branch, swinging one leg up and doing his best to hoist his body onto the lower point, working his way up the tree, only shifting slightly with his weight as he finally found himself looking over the edge.
As one leg carefully reached out for some footing on the top of the wall, his hand finally let go of the branch it had been holding onto.
There was no way he could have expected the thing patch of ice underneath his toes, making him slip and plummet, after a terrible landing on his leg, face-first onto a rather large rock on the ground, something he had been planning to use as a jumping point before, and the world went dark for Melchior Gabor.
&
It wasn't until that next morning that Edith discovered the body, having crushed several of her owner's viburnum bushes in its descent from the estate wall. And it wasn't until that next evening until Wendla learned of its sudden appearance, too busy with folding linens and calming Sophie to care much of everyone else's hustle and bustle about some man the stork had apparently dropped onto them from the sky.
"I suppose we'll have to call on Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard. Oh-- there you are, Wendla. Yes, he'd just lain here."
As the proverbial head of the roost, Ingrid generally tended to have her finger on the sometimes barely-beating pulse of every gossip-worthy topic. As much as such a tendency sometimes proved to come quite in handy, right now all Wendla could think of was how grateful she was that the formidable woman did not, in fact, know everything that she tried to lay claim to, her heart hardly bearing to beat as she gazed upon Melchior.
A million questions seemed to flood her mind all at once. If it had been him who she'd seen at the market all those times-- and it had-- what was he doing in London, of all places? Had he been looking for her? Had he known he'd find her here? How had he known? And if he had actually climbed the wall just for her, why had he not simply thought to request an audience with her?
"Anyway, yes, like I said, we'll need to notify Scotland Yard."
"No!" Wendla said suddenly, pulling her arms around herself. "This man clearly is in desperate need of medical care."
Throwing her a stern look, Ingrid offered a guiltless sigh, placing her fists resolutely at her waist with a huff. "I suppose the Hospital will have to do then."
"They-- no. I'll take him in my care."
The collective gasp and subsequent murmur that erupted felt reminiscent of her classroom at home, each girl more preoccupied with the others' business than the next.
"And how exact--"
"I'll pay for his lodgings here." As small of a sum as her mother had offered her prior to her departure, she'd truly only used a minimal amount of it, and it would be more than sufficient. Now she couldn't help but be grateful for it. "I'll pay for his care personally. He can stay in my room."
"He most certainly will do no such thing! Or are you attempting to offer the world another bastard child?"
&
She'd been regrettably right in regard to his wounds, and she couldn't help but be grateful that he'd been unconscious when Edith had helped her bring him into the room.
His leg at least seemed to be, thankfully, not broken, and with the exception of the gash at his forehead, he appeared to be mostly all right, but she couldn't be certain in the state of dress he was currently in.
Sophie had refused to stop screaming for all her care, and finally Anna had offered to take her, a tremendous relief to Wendla.
Now, gazing upon Melchior, the need for her to face her demons felt more pressing than ever, Wendla careful to peel his suspenders off without hurting him further as the memory of their time together stung almost viscerally upon her every touch to him.
Moving to unbutton his shirt, she did her best to pull it off his body just enough to inspect him for further injuries and nothing more.
Other than another shallow gash in his shoulder, however, his chest looked fine, and she strained to keep looking upon him with a gaze that was purely clinical, and nothing else. As she shifted her attention lower, trembling hands unbuttoned his pants to slowly start slipping them down his legs, careful not to touch and hurt him further than she already feared she had.
He shifted, suddenly, groaning softly, and Wendla had to bite her lip to keep herself calm. She hadn't even gotten to process her own thoughts on any of this; if he woke up now, it would be far too soon. He'd have so many questions, and she, none of the answers.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, she forced her eyes open as she shifted his pants over his groin, continuing down until the large gash on his leg began to show itself to her, stretching all the way from his knee to his ankle. At the very least, his leg did not appear to be broken, though at this rate, it appeared as though he might be walking with some amount of support for quite some time, if nothing else.
Fetching bandages, she did her best to try to clean his festering wounds with soap and water, cleaning off the encrusted, dried up blood around it first. He'd been left out there for a good day and a half, and she couldn't help but be thankful that he'd been wearing as much as he had and had only lost a moderate amount of blood.
If he'd bled out and died only for her to find him there-- she had no idea what she would have done.
Losing him once had been hard enough, but losing him twice...
The wound looked incredibly painful, but at least it had stopped bleeding. Tending to the wound itself earned her several moans of pain from him, his body recoiling from her touch. Taking a deep breath, she bit down on her lower lip and kept going despite his unconscious protests, wincing with every pained whimper from him.
Dressing his leg with the bandages she'd brought, she watched his face carefully, the rise and fall of his chest, the way his face would sometimes reveal twinges of pain or turmoil to her of which she'd otherwise never learn.
&
It took Wendla three hours to properly clean and dress his wounds. From the look of his head, he'd suffered a decent concussion, and it was no wonder that he was unconscious for the time being. He'd taken a terrible fall and landed rather unfortunately, and she could just hope that he'd have even just half of his wits about him when he came to.
When he came to. It seemed as foreign of an idea to Wendla now as ever. She'd barely acclimated to the fact that he was back in her life, but conscious, too? Able to talk to her, kiss her once more?
She'd kept his clothing neatly folded at the foot of his bed, leaving him bare in only his drawers, and her fighting not to stare at him. His still-boyish chest was broader than she'd remembered it, but there was no hair that graced it to show that he'd grown even remotely, much like his face.
His ribcage was showing just slightly-- that much she knew-- though his somewhat sallowed cheeks had given him away even before she'd removed his shirt to gaze unto his chest. He was hardly eating.
Still, he was in her care now, and therefore there was no reason to worry for him any longer.
Taking the small basin of warm water and the accompanying cloth, she began the slow task of washing him, moving the soft rag over his skin as she cleaned off the dirt that seemed to have been left to accumulate over several months, doing her best not to care of the way her heartbeat seemed to race as she tended to his private areas.
To think that she'd been so close with him once before, only to now feel a heated blush creep over her face and neck, felt disappointing, somehow. Had she really been close to him at all? Had their intimacy even meant anything to him?
As she finished cleaning his legs, arms, and torso, she halted at the edge of his drawers, reluctance and embarrassment getting the better of her.
Taking a deep breath, she squeezed her eyes shut as she lifted up the waistband of his drawers and slowly slid them over his hipbones and thighs, his member seemingly asleep as it lay nestled at the slight dip where his thigh met his pelvis.
Wendla couldn't help but stare, only swallowing the lump in her throat when she realized that she'd been neglecting her duties.
She couldn't help but pray that he not wake with her doing this, lest he find her staring, face hot from shame.
She wished, so badly, to touch him.
Steeling herself, she refused her urges and continued on her task, slowly washing off the remaining parts of him before hurriedly replacing his drawers where they belonged. She'd wash his clothing tomorrow and redress him, but until then, she'd have to be content with covering him in several layers of blankets. It was bitterly cold out, and the last thing she wished was for him to freeze after she'd done everything she could to keep his injuries from becoming infected.
Taking back Sophie from Anna to place her into her cradle, Wendla crafted a small makeshift bed for her on the floor between the two in her tiny room, Sophie's cradle to her left, Melchior's sleeping form to her right.
For the first time in a long time, Wendla slept well.
&
December 26th, 1893
He felt like he'd been out for days when Moritz finally walked into the room where he laid, feverish, delirious, to take a seat beside him.
He'd been unable to make a sound whenever his angel, Wendla, walked into the room these past days, confined just to watching her move, change his bedpan, wipe his forehead with a cold cloth, and he couldn't help but wonder whether he'd died, whether it was finally time for him to walk beside Moritz and Wendla and join them in the silence of death-- but now that Moritz was sitting by him, his throat felt free, the pain just a distant echo as he smiled at his old friend.
"Words usually come so easily to me, but I do not yet understand what this means, my old friend. Have I truly died? Will you tell me?"
Moritz remained silent.
"But if it is you who can't talk, that means that I must still be alive. Am I-- hallucinating? Is this real?"
There was no answer, Moritz bowing his head as he smiled, making Melchior's heart leap in his chest.
"You know of her, don't you? My angel? Who rescued me? Moritz, she looks just like Wendla, I--"
Both boys froze suddenly, the familiar brunette walking in to cast a worried look at the bed before disappearing again, wiping her hands at the front of her apron.
"Moritz, I swear, I have never seen a girl so beautiful, so perfect. But she's-- I can't hear her, is she still alive?" Panic rose in his chest as he shook his head. "Moritz, I wish to believe in heaven only in the hopes that you may have found some peace in that refuge, and yet if it does exist, I do not wish my Wendla to be there, I-- not after I felt so certain that she was alive, that she saved me! If it's not her, I will surely die, just as I died in her arms that fateful night that I took her as my own. I-I do not know why words fail me, still, my friend. She must be alive! Am I wrong?! Or is it that I am simply dreaming? My mind lulling me into its comforts only to let me wake in sorrow, knowing I may never again feel her hands' caress on my face? I long to touch her, Moritz, I--"
Melchior woke with a start, eyes wide, dizziness gripping him like an old friend too long gone. Had he just been dreaming his angel, his eyes playing tricks on him as he looked on perfect chestnut curls? Or was she really there, still alive for him to touch, should she let him?
His head ached horribly as he looked around himself, the small room stifling despite how cold he felt.
Moving to get up out of the bed, his leg screamed in pain, Melchior's eyes going wide as he stopped himself, holding his breath to keep from making any noise as blood continued to seep through the bandages that had been expertly wound around his leg by his angel. To think, that a task as foolish as losing his letter to Wendla had resulted in his finding his angel-- perhaps Wendla was right, and there was a reason to believe in fate, heaven.
Knowing that just lying beside Wendla once more would be heaven for him, the need to get up and find her felt more pressing than ever, and he struggled as he managed to stand on his good leg, staggering just slightly.
That was when his eyes fell on the wooden bassinet before him, a small crib clearly intended for a young child.
Was he going mad? Thinking his angel was Wendla only because coincidence seemed to wish to drive him to insanity? Wendla had mentioned in her last letter to him at the reformatory that she was pregnant. With her no longer on this fateful earth, it didn't-- shouldn't have mattered, and there had been no point in dwelling on the thought of their unborn child, lost too soon, the child Wendla had wished to raise in a better world, with him.
But if she was alive, did that mean that the child-- their child-- was, too? That he was, truly, a father?
Running a slow, gentle hand over the inside of the bassinet, he held his breath, trying to think back. Had the little girl he'd seen stretch her arm out towards him in the market been his own? Had he been so blind as to miss each and every one of the signs that Wendla truly was, not only alive, but alive and well in London, with him?
If she had been kind enough to save him, it had to mean that she still felt some affection for him, not repulsed at his actions, at the way he'd-- he hadn't meant to force her, hadn't ever meant to impregnate her against her will. In that moment, with her in the hayloft, it had been impossible to stop himself, the need to be with her, completely, to take her as his, overwhelming. And even now, knowing the consequences, he would not think twice to lie beside her again, to share that little bit of heaven with her once more.
His sweet, perfect angel.
The door creaked open, Melchior stumbling for a moment as he fought to regain his footing once more, eyes wide as he took her in.
"Wendla," he breathed, her face frozen in shock for a moment as she strained not to drop the dish she was holding. Nodding briefly for a moment as she blinked, Wendla set the soup down on the floor, her body quick to close the door behind her, looking very much as though she wished she could shrink against it.
"Y-you look as though you've seen a ghost," he whispered softly, watching her carefully as she bit on her bottom lip, her body still pressed against the door.
"Melchi," she shook her head, her voice trembling. "You-- you should lie down again, your wounds-- they're just terrible."
"You sound just like her, too," he muttered softly, not moving from his spot on the floor, as though his body had anchored itself there, adamant to stay as close to her as possible as he could be, even as he knew of his leg's present limitations. "You are her, aren't you," he swallowed hard, shaking his head as he felt tears in his eyes. "I would know her face anywhere. She's the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."
Wendla stayed frozen to the spot for a moment before finally averting her eyes from him, trying hard not to cry. "You-- you should rest. You suffered a great fall. Please don't make me ask you again."
"But how can I rest?" he demanded, fighting his body to take a step towards her, his leg screaming in pain. "When I just found you again? I-I couldn't possibly, it's--"
"Please," she whispered, her hands clasped tightly behind her back as she stared to the side, anywhere but at him.
"Please what, Wendla? You-- must have known that I would wake up eventually! Or you wouldn't have saved me! My... sweet, perfect angel."
His hand reached out to touch on her cheek, Wendla squeezing her eyes shut even as she seemed to relax, leaning into him despite her best efforts to stay as far away as possible, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"Melchi, please."
"Wendla, look at me," he whispered, his thumb drawing patterns on her cheek even as she shook her head no, adamant. "Wendla, please, I beg of you. Just let me see you! I thought I'd lost you forever, I--"
"Do you not think this is hard enough already?! Losing you-- Melchi, I can't. I can't look at you and watch you tell me things that I know aren't true."
"I saw your gravestone, Wendla," he finally said, letting his hand fall from her face as he stared at her. "I saw it with my own eyes, right next to Moritz's. I was about to follow Moritz when--"
"What?" she whispered, big eyes giving in to blink up at him, tears still streaming down her cheeks, relentless in their assault of her as he fought to keep them at bay himself.
"I-I thought I felt you touch my shoulder," he whispered. "It was like both of you were begging me not to follow you, and I couldn't-- I couldn't--"
It was too much, watching Wendla cry, talking about the graveyard, fresh tears pooling in his eyes as he blinked, wishing he could be stronger, more for her.
"Your leg must be aching horribly," she whispered. "Please just-- sit."
Taking him by the arm, she led him back over to the bed, moving to kneel before him as she touched on his face, her hand cupping his cheek.
"I thought I'd never see you again," she whispered, shaking her head. "That you'd... found another, gone on to do wonderful things."
"Without you?" Melchi shook his head frantically, reaching out to cup her face in his hands, fighting to memorize all of her features at once, again. "I couldn't. I would-- I could never find another, Wendla. Never."
"I wrote to you so often," she whispered. "In-- in that horrible place, and even after, I never gave up trying to reach you. I wrote to your mother, but... who knows how many letters our parents intercepted from each other. To think that... we had been missing each other all this time..."
"I will never let you out of my sight again," Melchior vowed, shaking his head as he studied her face for some glimmer of hope in her features, so that he might grab hold of it and let it roam freely. "That alone, I promise you above all else. Never, Wendla."
Hesitation flittered across her face before he could catch it, and she frowned, refusing to look at him. "I must ask you--"
The sound of a child's crying sent a wave of shock over her features, and she stood, abrupt. "I-I'll be back, I--" Staring at him, she shook her head, tucking trembling hands behind her back as he watched her move. "Please-- you should rest. You are still unwell, and I-- I need to return to my duties. But-- I promise you, I will return. Until then, try to eat your soup. It will help, I promise. Both against the cold and an uneasy stomach. You've been hardly eating, I could tell when I dressed your bandages," she nodded, frowning sternly for a moment, looking as though she was struggling to reign herself in as much as he was, slipping out the door a moment later to leave him alone, a slave to his thoughts.
The temptation to go after her was almost too great, his leg the only thing holding him back from following her as he held his breath, praying that his mind wasn't playing tricks on him, that he would wake up any moment now to find that all of it-- even his losing his letter in the market-- had just been an elaborate dream.
&
Part II