Chapter 4: Crowding
Merlin paced the length of the board walkway outside the little inn, just like a dozen others along their road back west, to Emmett's Creek. Up and down, in the pre-dawn haze. Up and down.
It wasn't working. At least, not yet.
He'd been hopeful that if Freya could see the objective evidence of Morgana's ledger, if he gave her more of an advantage to have a knife to defend herself, she would see he wasn't the bank robber from Arthur's story after all, so to speak. But it still seemed she didn't trust him any further than she could see him. It would take time, Merlin told himself… he couldn't see her still reacting the same way to him when they were forty-five.
Four years, or five, she'd been with a murderer; Merlin had tried to prepare himself mentally to wait twice as many years before her fears could be erased. That wasn't working very well yet, either.
As he paced outside the little inn's front door, less than a week's journey from their destination, Merlin half-wished one of the locals side-stepping him on the boardwalk would pick a fight. Something to work him back to a mood where being patient and gentle with her didn't feel so difficult.
"Hey, fella, get out th' way!" a man behind Merlin hollered – he was carrying three boxes in a stack along the walkway.
Merlin stalked to the end, came off into the dusty street, and as he circled back to where their dark brown gelding waited patiently in front of the trap, the first rays of the morning light caught the well-brushed coat of the filly tied to the hitching post of the next establishment down the road.
She was a beautiful filly, shining almost red in the sunbeam, and it took him right back to Ealdor, the summer he was thirteen. Their neighbor Clary, Iris' husband, had owned a horse much like that. Merlin and Will had spent every free moment in Clary's barnlot, hanging over the corral fence, watching Will's father work that filly. She was a proud thing, Clary had said, and someone had tried to beat it out of her. She watched Clary – Merlin and Will, too – every moment ready to dodge or flee, expecting the whip, expecting stones, fists, curses.
It was strangely similar to the way Freya had looked at him since their marriage, he thought, as he turned to check the brown gelding again, making sure everything was in place and ready to go. He ran his hand over the gelding's glossy coat; the horse's ears and eyes followed him, though most of his attention was elsewhere.
Though he could remember nothing he'd done or said to make her fear he'd hurt her, she might assume he'd take more liberty expressing his temper within the bonds of marriage. In Merlin's opinion, the opposite should be true, but for Freya, the meanest man she'd ever met was the man she'd called husband.
But the memory gave him another idea.
You don't try to re-break the horse, Clary had told him and Will, all three of them watching the filly prance nervously at the far end of the corral. But you don't leave her alone. You make her get used to your voice, the way you move. You handle her, maybe even more than necessary. You let her be nervous and uncomfortable – crowd her, even. Then finally she'll see she doesn't need to expect harsh treatment from you.
Time and patience. Instead of leaving Freya alone, giving her space, Merlin decided to give Clary's advice a go.
Stepping back up to the boardwalk, he caught his reflection in the window of the inn's common room, and smirked at himself. A year ago no one would have called him patient or gentle.
But his clothes were new, though of a style to fit Emmett's Creek rather than Turad. No murderous scarecrow stared back. And maybe his mother wouldn't run to hide his sisters under the bed or in the root cellar. Maybe, looking like this, he'd be allowed to pat their heads or shake their hands. With supervision.
Through the window he watched Freya descend the staircase, turn and speak to the innkeeper's wife – a word of farewell, probably. He remembered, suddenly, Freya's jumbled rambling the morning she'd confessed her discovery of the fact she hadn't been legally married to Padlow. That sweet baby of Chadin and Helen's, that she envied.
He could see Arthur and Gwen as parents – the agent awkward but willing to learn, an eager if clumsy new father. And probably they'd see the three of them sometime next year – and fairly frequently, with Gwen's brother Elyan a resident of Emmett's Creek, and if he himself made any trips to Camelot in his official capacity.
No wonder Freya was scared to be his wife, Merlin thought grimly. What kind of father would he make?
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"Freya – morning."
Almost four weeks to the day later, she again woke to a gentle pressure on her bare arm, the warmth and roughness of a man's hand. For a moment she was back in the apprentice cell of Morgana's chalet, overwhelmed by his presence in the tiny room – how large he seemed in the limited space, how very male!
But as she blinked into the rising sunlight, she remembered the cell's window had faced west. She drew a deep breath quickly, retreating from the blinding rays so she could see him clearly.
Merlin was fully dressed, down to boots and the knife in his belt, and tossed his hat on the foot of the bed below her feet. Then he did something he'd never done before – he sat next to her on the edge of the bed, close enough that his hip bumped her knee before she drew further back.
"Coffee," he said, nodding to a steaming cup on the seat of the bedside chair. As she reached for it, keeping the other fist knotted in the coverlet under her chin, he added, "I figure we'll make Emmett's Creek tonight."
His hair was still damp from washing, she noted as she sipped at the hot brew, but he hadn't shaved. Did that make him look older and harder as he arrived, the town's new reeve? And was that an intentional impression he wanted to give?
"You'll want to stay at Percival's Place a few nights," he continued, eyes dark and fixed on her. She blushed under the scrutiny, aware that she wore only her nightdress under the tented blanket. "Rather than the reeve's quarters."
"It'll have to be cleaned," she said, just to say something.
He nodded, rubbing at the scar on his forehead. "I know there's – lots of things we haven't talked about. But – if you ever want to know something, please – just ask." He dropped his hand to rest on her ankle beneath the blanket.
She almost jumped out of her skin, humming a response before clearing her throat. "Merlin?" One corner of his mouth turned up, anticipating an immediate question, but she whispered, "Could you please stop looking at me?"
The smile halted, faded. He looked down at his hands in his lap, then away across the room. He said quietly, "When you're ready, I'll be waiting outside."
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Merlin thought it odd that while Freya had lived much longer than he in Emmett's Creek, he was more familiar with the larger area than she was. They'd been driving through the shire for two hours before she recognized one of the orchards.
"Oh!" she said from the seat next to him, and shaded the sun from her eyes as she looked at him, dodging so his shadow would be on her face and she could see him. "We're very close, then, aren't we?"
Over the next hill, past the bend in the road, they'd be able to see rooftops. Merlin nodded.
Freya slid to the edge of the bench seat, twisting her handkerchief in her hands. She'd been nervous and quiet all day, alternately eager and hesitant. Merlin figured he could guess at her train of thought pretty well – she'd be thinking of seeing Shasta and Gaius and her other friends, then she'd remember her experiences with the rest of the townspeople, and be apprehensive of her reception. Then she'd glance sideways at him – maybe wondering if he could tell how she felt, maybe wondering at his state of mind in returning.
Maybe he should assure her he had no intention of starting a fight in Percival's Place tonight. Maybe an out-loud reminder of that night would be the opposite of reassuring.
She caught herself knotting her handkerchief, and put her hands down to her sides decisively, but without paying much attention, with the result that her fingers brushed down the side of his thigh. He acted like he hadn't noticed, but she jumped back like she'd been pinched and shot him a startled look. He sighed – this crowding idea wasn't working yet, either.
They hadn't seen anyone except from a distance until they turned down the main street. And there was Mike outside the mercantile, leaning on his broom and chatting with the lady milliner next door, the twins jumping rope behind them, the old dog sleeping under the boardwalk. Mike and the milliner – Marge, he thought – both looked up as they rounded the corner, and continued to stare.
"Freya," he said quietly to her.
She was studying the toes of her boots; her ears were red. She would tear the handkerchief soon; he said her name again, speaking soothingly as he would to a spooky colt.
"Hold your head up, Freya," he told her. "You have nothing to be ashamed of."
Freya made an effort, raising her gaze to the gelding's ears. Merlin met the eyes of the two on the sidewalk, nodding to Mike and touching the wide brim of his hat to the lady. Her mouth dropped, but Mike unwrapped his fingers from the broom handle for a brief wave.
Their reception, he thought wryly, would be warmer at the other end of town. But it wasn't bad for a start.
Elyan, he discovered, had bought out the livery, and work was underway to adjoin the two businesses. Kenny was attending; Merlin guessed Elyan was probably home for the dinner hour.
"Why don't you go on over to the tavern," Merlin said to Freya as he helped her down from the trap, leaving one hand lightly at her waist. He was barely touching the cloth of her dress with his driving glove, but he could feel her stiffness and regretted it. "I'll help Kenny get things settled here, and bring the trunk when I come."
Freya glanced at the tavern, swaying away from his hand, but said, "No, I – I'll wait for you."
He wasn't flattered; he noticed the lights and noise and remembered how crowded the tavern could be at dinnertime.
"I can bed your horse down, and stow your trap," Kenny volunteered. "If you want your dinner without waiting."
Merlin guessed the young man had a good idea who they were, if he didn't remember all the details, but he reminded himself that his role in Emmett's Creek had changed drastically since the previous year. "No, I'll give you a hand," he said. "He's going to be stabled here permanently, I expect, and I'd like to make a deal with Elyan for the trap, if I can."
Kenny ducked his head in response, hurried to assist Merlin in positioning the vehicle at the back of the stables, unhitching and stabling the horse for the night. Merlin, mindful of Freya waiting at the entrance, moved swiftly.
"I'll come for the trunk later," Merlin told the attendant, lifting Freya's smaller traveling bag from the back.
"Tomorrow is soon enough," Freya said to them, then amended, "unless you need something tonight…"
"We'll get the trunk tomorrow," Merlin told Kenny, who nodded.
Shifting Freya's bag to his left hand, Merlin placed his right against Freya's lower back to guide her, keeping the pressure light but constant, trying to ignore the rigidity in her body. Wishing for the shy, yet fearless way she'd touched him before.
Someday, he told himself.
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Just as they reached the boardwalk in front of Percival's Place, Freya sensed Merlin pause, his hand dropping away from her. Uncertain, she looked back at him over her shoulder before she reached for the door.
He'd stopped where he could see his reflection in the big common room window, the setting sun behind them. He had one hand on his hip, a sardonic smile curving his lips slightly. She wondered what he thought when he saw himself, or maybe he was only looking through the window at the crowd, remembering. Whatever it was, Merlin's reverie lasted only a moment, then he was opening the door and standing aside for her to enter.
At that very moment, Shasta backed through the swinging kitchen door, shouldering her long red braid back and hollering, "Soup's up!"
Freya felt a strange mix of relief at being home, and awkwardness because of the changes that had taken place in herself – so much had happened in half a year! Everything here was the same – the heat, the noise, the sawdust, a little smoke, a little sweat – everyone looking hungrily to Shasta at the end of the bar. Percival polishing a beer mug with the rag he kept on one shoulder. And Freya wanted to cry… but only for a moment.
Shasta, ever aware of the details of her inn – and Percival a short second later – looked over at the newcomers, already beaming welcome as she set down the soup kettle. Then her eyes widened and she squealed like a girl, pointing wordlessly in her excitement.
All the attention in the tavern swiveled from Shasta and dinner, to Merlin and Freya, and she wished she could hide behind his broad back until no one was looking at her anymore.
"Merlin! Freya! Damn!" Percival said, his eyebrows halfway up his forehead. "Come over here! Sit down! We didn't expect you til next week, earliest!"
Shasta rounded the bar counter, fairly prancing in spite of her bulk as she came to enfold Freya in her arms and rock her back and forth. And then a tear or two did slide down Freya's cheek, though she found herself laughing, too.
"Welcome home, dearie," Shasta whispered, and whisked away a few tears of her own as she held Freya at arms' length. Then grinned and added, "I see city life agreed with you." She cut her eyes toward Merlin – reaching to take Percival's hand across the bar – and winked at Freya, who couldn't help blushing. Shasta returned to the massive soup kettle steaming on the counter behind the bar, shouting at the crowd, "Well, you people! Who's going to greet our new reeve and his wife?"
There was a distinct pause.
Merlin looked out at the room, and even in profile Freya could see how piercing was his gaze. It reminded her strongly of how he used to sit in the corner with his dinner and a beer, paying no one obvious attention, but always seeming to take everything in with a single one of those burning glances. Only now his head was up, and everyone in the room could mark his regard. Maybe they too felt like he could read their thoughts when he did that.
Then a man, Freya didn't see who, hollered out, "Howdy, Reeve!" and several howdies and welcomes followed. Merlin let the moment hang, then gave a quick but comprehensive nod. Not to befriend any, neither to alienate.
Professional, Freya thought, and wondered how it was going to be, to be married to Reeve Merlin. An agent or revenger had a job, it was what he did. A reeve was much more, it was who he was. And, Freya realized, he was her reeve also. It made her feel odd, as though she was married to a stranger.
Merlin dismissed the moment of introduction by setting her bag down at the foot of a stool and reaching to guide or help her should she require it. Padlow had barged through the door and demanded immediate liquor, leaving her standing at the door, her first night in a new town. She noticed that the stool Merlin hooked one leg over was the same one he'd chosen for his first night, where he could put his back to the wall.
It was also where he'd been sitting when she'd first seen his smile.
Shasta passed the first two bowls of stew – chicken and potato, by the smell of it – to Percival, and nodded at them down the bar. "On the house, tonight, you two."
Freya glanced quickly at Merlin. Evidently his thought were on other first nights also; he straightened and raised one eyebrow at Shasta – stern, but the angry glower was gone, and Shasta just laughed. Freya supposed a free dinner as compliment to a new official was different than being told he needed it, and didn't look like he could afford it.
Percival handed the bowls to Freya, patting her hand with a smile as he did, and she turned to pass one along to her husband. Merlin turned his eyes on her then, the dark intensity in the pure blue the same - suddenly she wondered what he saw, and dropped her eyes. He took the bowl, though unnecessarily brushing her fingers with his, and Percival laid down two spoons.
Freya watched Shasta serve the rest of the crowd for a moment. Some part of her wanted to jump up and help hand out bowls, but another part enjoyed sitting as a special guest.
"Rough trip?" Percival said in a tone of easy banter, as they began to eat. His glance included Freya, and she guessed he wasn't sure if Merlin would answer. The last they'd seen of him had been as she'd remembered while reading through Morgana's record book – angry, combative. Uncommunicative.
"Not really," Merlin answered. "Dry roads, mostly." He gave the big bartender the barest flash of a grin. "No incidents to speak of."
Percival looked surprised, then relieved, then grinned back; but it was short-lived.
"Speaking of incidents," Merlin continued conversationally, "has anything happened recently like happened this spring?"
Freya looked at Percival, puzzled. This spring? So much had happened – then she remembered a conversation over dinner in Camelot, red-checked tablecloths, Merlin questioning the motives behind Freya's trip to Turad.
Percival filled his barrel chest with a deep breath of air, let it out slowly. And he looked at Merlin with a new air of seriousness, maybe even respect.
"Nothing since summer started," he answered. "I guess maybe word got around this is a dry well. Or folks are too busy with business at home to take a chance coming out here. Or anyone who would've come, already has." Merlin nodded, still eating; Freya toyed with her spoon, not so hungry anymore. "Have you signed the contract, then?" Percival said.
Merlin finished his soup before answering, then did so in a roundabout way. "Gossip will get around that we're here," he commented. "By nightfall tomorrow, I figure everyone in the shire should know. I'll ask Gaius to swear me in down at the jail around sunset. That way, anyone who wants a shot at me before it's official…" Percival looked uncertain whether he should laugh at Merlin's joke, or agree with a serious statement. Merlin added, "Speak now, or forever hold your peace."
Again, that little glint that hinted of fun. Freya was surprised, and pleased. Merlin had been more than a little moody since their marriage, at times lost in thought, at times forcing himself to be pleasant company, and she'd noticed that a lot more on their travels. She would be happy to see him more himself again.
Percival had caught the reference, however, and turned the conversation exactly where Freya didn't care to go. He asked Merlin, "And so you married our Freya, did you?"
Merlin looked at her, and not for the first time – nor the last, she supposed – she wished she could tell what he was thinking. His tone betrayed only thoughtfulness, "Yes, I did."
The big bartender reached for two clean mugs and opened the nozzle of a keg resting on its side under the bar counter. "Calls for a drink, wouldn't you agree?"
"I'll go see Shasta in the kitchen, " Freya murmured, sliding from her stool and snatching up Merlin's dishes with her own to give herself an excuse.
Out of habit, she glanced at the other tables for empty vessels before catching herself uncertainly. As reeve's wife, she probably shouldn't – it would take some getting used to thinking like that. But she also caught not a few curious – though not openly resentful – looks, and was happy to duck through the door to the kitchen without further delay.
It was quieter, though much warmer due to the cooking fire. Shasta's round face was shiny with perspiration, her sleeves rolled over her elbows as she scrubbed the now-empty soup cauldron. She looked up at Freya and smiled cheerily.
"You don't know how happy it makes me to see you like this," Shasta said. "I've missed you, but I'm glad you left the Creek for awhile if you can come back looking this nice."
"Thank you," Freya said. "Can I help you?"
"Thank you." Shasta sighed, pushing back from the kettle and wiping her forehead with the back of one plump wrist, grinning at Freya. "And how are you and your man doing?"
Freya shrugged self-consciously, crossing to the wash-bench. "Fine, I guess."
"You guess?" Shasta exclaimed. "Don't tell me the spark's gone out of his eye already?"
The spark? She'd only just noticed it had begun to return. Freya said blankly, "What do you mean?"
Shasta ducked her head and raised one eyebrow, and Freya's face fired with heat at sudden and unwelcome comprehension of the innuendo. She began rolling her sleeves, intending to take over the dish-washing to cover her embarrassment.
"I wrote you about that," she explained to the older woman. "We only married because of circumstances that were–"
"What is that?" Shasta asked, pointing.
Freya looked down. In rolling her sleeves she'd bared the wrist sheath and knife; a month's worth of wearing it every day had pretty well accustomed her to it, so sometimes she did forget she was wearing it. She unbuckled it one-handed – she'd gotten pretty good at that, too – and passed it to Shasta.
"It's my knife," she said, and put her hands into the hot soapy water in the soup pot so she could avoid Shasta's keen gaze.
"You have a knife of your own?" Shasta said incredulously.
"Merlin gave it to me," Freya said, trying to keep her words an explanation, not an excuse. Her husband had made a decision; she had agreed, and that should be the end of it. "He wanted me to be able to defend myself when he wasn't around, I think."
Shasta popped the hilt clasp open with her thumb, slid the blade out for a look. "Sure is pretty for a weapon."
"I hope I never have to use it," Freya answered seriously, and Shasta nodded in agreement.
"I hope you're never in a trouble where you have to decide," she said. She slapped the flat of the knife absently against her palm, then Freya caught a slight smile playing on her plump flushed face.
"What?" she said.
"Folks marry for lots of reasons," Shasta said. "Some get to marry for love – the ones they love turn out to love them back, and their families agree to the match. And some choose to get married for other reasons. Some men need a wife and haven't many to choose from, and some women need someone to provide for and protect them, and also haven't many to choose from. But I'm thinking that marriage is intended to end up being loving."
"What do you mean?" Freya asked, intrigued. She knew her heart was irretrievably lost to Merlin, but the possibility that he might come to care for her too was appealing.
"You can't spend your life with someone and not get to know them," Shasta said. "And if you're taking care of each other as you ought, you get to respect each other and be thankful for what the other does for you. And," she looked significantly at Freya, "it ain't often a man and a woman can lie together without ending up feeling something for each other."
What Freya felt for Merlin was far removed from what she'd felt for Padlow; yet she'd been intimate with him and not Merlin. She felt as if her heart was being twisted in two different directions, and it hurt. A tear dripped off her chin into the dishwater.
"Freya?" Shasta said, leaning forward to touch her arm. "What is it? He ain't treating you any better than the other?"
Merlin treated her like a lady. Always had. Even when he was trying to hate her because of Padlow, he had accorded her more courtesy and dignity than most others in town. She loved him for it, didn't she?
"Is he too rough with you?" Shasta persisted. "If you find yourself too embarrassed to talk about it with him, I don't mind saying a few choice words, myself–"
"No, don't," Freya objected, sniffing back more tears. "No, he hasn't been rough. He hasn't–" But she couldn't go on.
Shasta scooted closer to her on the bench, bending to look in her face. "He hasn't– You mean, you haven't–" Freya shook her head, and Shasta sounded bewildered as she added, "Whyever not?"
Freya shrugged, trying to smile. "I don't know," she said. She almost added, he doesn't even share the bed with me, but stopped. Maybe that was too personal; maybe Merlin wouldn't appreciate her sharing those details. "Let's – not talk about it," she said hastily. "This is clean, do you want me to throw the water out?"
She withdrew her hands from the water and dried them on the towel next to the pot.
"Freya," Shasta said. "Forgive me if I'm too bold in saying, but you never did yourself any favors not talking about whatever bothered you. You never wanted to ask Gaius about your problems with Padlow, and something tells me you ain't talked about this with Merlin, neither."
She put her hands over her cheeks, trying to hide the blush.
"He ever show interest in another gal?" Shasta asked.
Freya thought back. She'd wondered about Amery, but he never talked about her or sought her out. Amery had admitted, openly and jokingly, to his wife that she'd wanted to have a fighting match – and they'd parted with a handshake.
On the trip back to Emmett's Creek, there had been one night at dinner in a tavern, when Merlin had been approached at the bar by a woman who appeared to be missing her blouse. He'd been waiting on their drinks and dinner while she was seated at a table by the window across the room, when the woman slid in next to him and laid her hand on his sleeve. Merlin had shrugged her off without so much as a glance, had returned carrying Freya's dinner to her, leaving the woman smoldering at the bar. He hadn't said anything to Freya, hadn't even glanced back at the woman as far as Freya noticed all evening, but it had her wondering how often that sort of thing happened to him. Merlin was very good-looking even when he was furiously angry.
"No," she said finally.
Shasta looked skeptical; maybe Freya had taken too long to answer. "Now, listen," she said. "You come and talk to me about anything and everything, whatever's troubling you, just like always, you hear? We'll try and figure this out for you." Freya nodded. "You're staying here tonight, aren't you? You go on up, pick out a room, and I'll be up with some water and towels. Beds are ready, same as always."
Freya stood and picked up the sheath to buckle it back on, and Shasta watched, one hand draped negligently over the cookpot's rim.
"You know, seems to me, him giving you a knife might be just as good as any other man giving you jewlery."
Freya looked at it, the soft leather, the filigree showing at the end of the hilt. She could count on one hand the times in her life when someone had given her something special and meaningful. Padlow certainly never had. A lifetime with Merlin – it was possible, if this knife had been intended as a gift, that he would give her another, someday.
What would he value that she could give him in return?
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Merlin sat on the bench outside the tavern watching the stars come out.
Percival had promised to let all his customers know about the contract-signing for the next evening; anyone who wanted to could be there. It was pretty big news for a small town, so Merlin figured most would come who could, if only out of curiosity. Or at least to gossip with their neighbors about it in the days following – or both.
Of course he'd never enjoyed a crowd, and didn't want one, really. A revenger or an agent could be anonymous if he chose, just one more stranger. A reeve, however, was one of the most public figures in the whole shire. His life was on display, and expectations were high.
He sighed. It would be new for him to have a job that required everyone to know who he was and what he did.
But that was an aspect of the job he had known full well when he accepted it. It would grate on him, as it had grated on him to sit and listen to the council vacillate and harangue. But that was life, and no job was ever perfect. He was more concerned how Freya would handle the pressure of being the new reeve's wife. That was why he wanted the inauguration public – so no one could complain they hadn't had a say and didn't want him, to satisfy initial curiosity all at once, and to make it clear that he would ensure respect for his wife. He hoped it would ease a lot of potential friction.
Across the street, Elyan came out to light the lantern on the post that would burn all night for any late travelers. Dressed in shirtsleeves and without the leather smith's apron, he looked ready to relax and enjoy an evening with his family. He peered over at Merlin momentarily – probably Kenny had informed the blacksmith of the new reeve's arrival – then lifted his hand in deliberate greeting.
Merlin waved back, just as deliberately. Yes, we're on good terms.
Singly or together, the people gradually left the tavern – men and their wives going home, a couple more tipsy buddies supporting each other down the boardwalk. Some looked taken aback to find him there, some self-conscious because of his new position of authority, but he'd placed himself there for that reason.
He nodded, returned a few good-nights. In a way, it was similar to what he was trying with Freya – give them every chance to see him and interact a little, and they'd grow accustomed to him more quickly.
Percival came out with his last patron, assuring him of the time.
"Di'n't know it was s'late," the man slurred cheerfully.
Percival sent him on his way with a clap on his shoulder, then took a deep breath, stretching muscles to relax them after his day's work. "You're staying here tonight?" he remarked to Merlin, who made a noise in the affirmative. "And what are your plans after that?"
"Have you ever seen the reeve's quarters?" Merlin responded.
"Never wanted to go near the place when Whatley was reeve," Percival reflected. "That's been near ten years."
"Well, I guess we'll have a look tomorrow," Merlin said. "Then make plans once we know what we're dealing with."
"If you take up your residence over there," Percival paused, then decided to continue, "will Freya be going with you?"
Merlin regarded him a moment through the shadows, then answered evenly, "That's up to her."
"I remember the way Padlow dragged her into town five years ago," Percival said mildly. "It makes me feel more than a little protective of her, you see."
Merlin almost said, Me, too. Instead of speaking, though, he only motioned for the bigger man to continue.
"I don't mind telling you, I warned Freya to keep her distance from you, last year," Percival said.
Merlin nodded without offense; he'd suspected as much, and didn't blame the bartender at all. Hadn't he warned Freya of the same thing.
"Didn't quite work out that way, though. You seem to have a way of needing help, though you look like fury if any offer. And she's got a way of caring for whoever has a need."
And this time, his asking for her help had gotten her into this mess. Merlin prompted, "All that to say…"
"All that to say, she seemed more comfortable with you last year, in spite of your glaring and pushing away." Percival crossed his arms over his chest as if unsure how Merlin was going to react.
He didn't move. It must be obvious, he thought, everyone sees it; but said only, "I noticed."
Percival looked slightly disconcerted, but challenged, "Is there a reason for it I should know about?"
Merlin caught himself rubbing at the scar on his forehead and dropped his hand. "I'm sure there's a reason for it," he said. "I'm not sure she even knows what it is."
"You treat her nice?" Percival persisted.
"As nice as I know how." Merlin pushed to his feet. "If you have any suggestions, feel free. Nothing I'm doing is helping."
Percival shrugged and ran a hand over the short bristle of hair on his head. "Women," he managed. "I don't know. When Shasta gets upset, she can't keep the reason to herself for an hour, before she's laying into me for whatever it is. I don't really know how it would be with any other woman."
Merlin grunted.
"Well, so long as you're not mistreating her…" Percival went back inside.
Time, was all Merlin could come up with. Time for her to realize her husband would cut off his own hand before he'd hurt her in any way. Well, he guessed they had a lifetime of it.