A/N. NaNoWriMo 2021 winner! Except I'm only about halfway through the story. Right now writing the palace coup – my street-orphan mc is disguising the princess to help her escape and survive…
I want to have another chapter for Psych Ops this month. But Idk if that will happen. I'm going to try.
But for now, this. An adapted original that I'd posted here years ago - a pseudo-western that will focus more on Merlin&Freya than Merlin&Arthur - but that's there, too. I pulled it down when it looked like it might be published as an original, and since then I've had a couple of requests to repost it… If you reviewed it initially, don't feel like you have to review again – but I'll still love to hear what y'all think about it! (I might be able to post twice a week or so, since this is a complete story, while I'm drafting chapters for Psych Ops and my NaNo original…)
The Revenger
Prologue – Two Years Ago
Merlin stood ankle-deep in the crooked furrows he'd plowed in his father's field – just yesterday, yesterday when he wasn't a murderer – and watched his house burn.
His house, not his home. It had ceased to be home when his family had been taken.
Now it was only a hollow mockery of safety and love, where blood whispered of abandonment and guilt from floorboards that never could scrub clean. When father and mother and little sister and baby had all left hollow shells of themselves behind, empty and lifeless.
The fire roared in the night, crackling useless fury in waves of heat against him. It smelled of kerosene and ash and sweat and blood, coppery-sour like fear and desperation and loss – or maybe that was just him.
He couldn't smell the spring, anymore. The new life. The land after the last snowfall. The freshly-turned earth… that would never receive the seed, never cover the semblance of death only to burst forth in exponential new growth.
Dead was dead.
They'd taken the bodies, the empty husks, and planted them in rows like seeds. Where nothing would grow or return but the grass.
The home, he thought vaguely, should have been buried too. Dead, like his family.
Like his heart, like his hope.
Only he couldn't figure how to manage that. Any more than he had managed to bury the body of the one who'd made him a murderer, just last night. He'd fled that place, nauseated by his own evil, to retrace the path. To return here.
And because he didn't know how to bury a home, he'd burned the house that mocked it in representation. No one's home. And never would be.
His hand trembled at his side, the one that still had blood on it. Not his blood. He didn't look away from the conflagration of his life, but rubbing his hand on his trouser leg did nothing to still the tremor.
The leaping red and orange and yellow and white flames fluttered and licked through upper windows and outer walls – and a section of the roof collapsed in a shower of sparks and a wave of blistering heat.
"I'm sorry," he said out loud, and meant it.
The agent sent from the capital to collect the orphan boy that no one wanted was not to blame. Only doing his job. Perhaps the man should not have tied him, slung him over the horse's saddle to fulfill his mission, perhaps he should have tried to listen to Merlin and understand.
The corona of glowing light around his doomed house reminded him a bit of the agent's blond mane of hair. And a remote part of his mind supposed that the agent was quite a young man, himself. It was a pity. He hoped the agent had not had a family…
It was his fault, he knew that, he didn't hide from the fact. All his fault. One ought not resist an agent, an officer of the law.
No matter that it had scared him spitless to be taken forcibly from his father's empty land, empty house. No matter that – once the break was made – he realized that he couldn't rest until the murderer was found and punished. No matter that the thought of three years as one of the many wards of the government clenched his heart and throat like a fist, like the murderer's own fist.
Unbearable. He would be insane by the time of his coming-of-age emancipation. If he lived that long.
No matter that he'd panicked blindly when the agent caught him slicing through the rope binding his ankles with his hidden boot knife last night.
He ought not have stabbed him.
It was wrong, and he was sorry for it. But it was too late.
Because the first man he killed ought to have been his father's killer. The man whose death made him a murderer ought to have been the man who murdered his mother and baby sisters.
So. Much. Blood.
He put his trembling hand up to his face to shield himself from the heat drying his skin, crackling and blackening. Even though he deserved it, and more.
Because this was his fault, too.
Because he wasn't the sort of son who enjoyed lightening his father's load of chores, working alongside him, absorbing criticism and correction – endlessly spoken with such disappointment – with good-humored cheer. Because he wasn't the sort of son to listen and obey when his mother called after him, Come back here, where are you going we've got company…
He was alone, now. Just as he'd wanted to be, that night. It was his fault. If he'd stayed… it might not have happened. But he was too late.
If he had stayed to defend his home and family, instead of seeking solitude for his confusion and perpetual inadequacy. This fire might be deadwood cleared from the land, last autumn's leaves burned before being raked across the field to nourish the soil. With his two little sisters dancing in gleeful abandon around the edges of the heat, and his mother tucking a shawl around her elbows to stand for a brief moment of inaction, to watch the mesmerizing play of flames. And his father clapping a heavy hand on his shoulder in a rare show of comradeship rather than authority, passing him the fire-tending hoe before circling to take his mother in his arms and murmur to her about the land they worked and the family they raised and the home they built…
The rest of the roof crashed in, and a cloud of sparks and smoke billowed outward. He stumbled backward two steps, a concern of discovery touching his heart for the first time.
Was it late enough that no neighbors would notice until the morning, what he'd done? Or would they come, heedless of the hour? He couldn't be here when that happened.
As a murderer, his life was forfeit. That was just; he didn't mind the thought. He accepted the truth – he ought to be dead. He was a murderer. And before that, at the very least, he ought to have died with his family.
But. For now, he had to live. At least long enough to find the one responsible for the deaths of his family, and kill him. And his family.
Revenge. There was no one but him to accomplish it.
And that meant he needed to survive. For now.
Blind in the darkness – though it didn't matter, which direction he chose, he had nothing to go on, no name no face no motive to identify the stranger, the murderer – he turned his back on the blaze of light, the pyre of his life.
And he began to walk.
Chapter 1: Percival's Place
Merlin slumped in the saddle, his chin nearly touching his chest as he tilted his broad-brimmed hat against the blood-orange sun swimming hazily on the western horizon, straight ahead of him.
It didn't matter. His nag had at least enough sense to put one foot in front of the other, staying on the road, even if it was – he grunted to himself in a sort of grim surprise to realize it was entirely possible – as old as he was. Didn't matter. He might have been able to afford better, if he'd been willing to stay in one place long enough to earn the coin. Which he wasn't. There again, didn't matter.
Speed was not important, not when he was only following a name. But anonymity was. And that he had achieved, with his worn clothing and tired old nag. Completely forgettable.
He swayed in the saddle against a dizzy spell. Combination of factors, he realized distantly. Not the best kind of food or sleep, and not enough of either. He'd been pushing himself too hard, for too long.
He was alert enough to realize that the land sloping away from the road wasn't untamed wilderness, but tended meadow. Without looking up, he was aware when that gave way to orchard and field. And when the nag picked up its heavy hooves and he did raise his head, he wasn't surprised to see the town laid out before him.
Well. At least he wouldn't need to scavenge crumbs from his saddlebags and pillow his head on the leather for a few hours another night. He thumped his heels against the nag's bony ribs to encourage it to walk even faster.
As the road entered the town, he kept his head down to remain innocuous and forgettable. To his left, two little girls skipping rope on the boardwalk under the overhang giggled and darted through a shop door at woman's call from inside – his breath caught painfully in his chest. He never could see two little girls playing without thinking of – no, he told himself. Don't think. Don't remember.
Next door, a portly man in a white apron swept his section of the boardwalk. A dust-colored dog on the ground half-underneath the weathered plank walkway lifted its head and sneezed wearily.
And then, the reeve's office. That interested him more; he bent to look through the window as the nag ambled past, but it appeared empty, unlit. An outside stair rose toward the rear of the building, leading to an entry on the second floor, but the windows there were dark as well.
On his left, a curiosity. A building separated from its neighbors by a narrow alley on each side, walls and windows soot-blackened, though still stable and usable. The roof was fresh-sawn lumber, waiting for shingles. A fire. But one which hadn't spread… he wondered what sort of business it was; to have frontage on the main street, it was probably not merely a residence.
And nearly to the far edge of town, the livery and forge next to each other on his right, and what was clearly a tavern – Percival's Place stenciled over the large plate-glass window – on the left. It looked a lively place – crowded movement visible, boisterous noise faintly audible - and he knew of nowhere better to begin, in a new town.
He shifted in the saddle to dismount and paused. Did he know the name of the town? Had anyone mentioned what to expect, and he'd forgotten? Or had he looked at a map and neglected to read it? He shook his head at his lapse. Maybe it didn't matter, but it made him feel a little lost, to be unaware of where he was in the larger landscape of the territory. He shook his head – too much sun today, maybe. And not enough water.
When he dismounted to loosen his saddlebags, a young boy appeared, stocky and dark-skinned, serious and silent, to reach for the nag's lead.
"Your dad run this place?" he said, jerking his head to indicate the livery stable.
"He's at home for dinner," the boy explained. "Any special orders for your horse?"
"Watch the near front hoof. Picked up a stone two days ago before I noticed." Merlin dug in one pocket, then the other, to find his smallest coin, and tossed it to the boy, who caught it expertly and grinned white in the dim stable. "Let your dad know I'll be by in the morning to settle the account."
The boy nodded, and Merlin headed across the dusty street to the tavern. The last rays of the setting sun hit the pane of glass as he stepped up on the boardwalk, settling his saddlebags over his shoulder, and he paused at his reflection.
He could've passed for a scarecrow, body and clothing. Except, the stuffed burlap face of a scarecrow wouldn't be painted that hard and haunted. It struck him breathless to realize, if he had arrived at the farmhouse, looking as he did now, his mother would have hustled his baby sisters inside, and locked the door. His father maybe lift the machete down from its nail in the barn before coming to ask him his business.
Merlin shook his head. If this was what it took to achieve his revenge, so be it.
He opened the door enough to slip through, his back to the wall, scanning the room and its inhabitants in an instant, as he'd been trained. Half a dozen round tables and chairs were scattered throughout; immediately in front of him four men sat playing cards. The man on the right - red shirt and brown vest, black broad-brimmed hat though he was indoors - was the reeve, the identifying shield pinned ostentatiously to his vest.
"Look at that, Whatley," the man facing him said, rather nervously, "three fives!" The reeve threw down his cards in dissatisfaction.
Straight ahead on the left wall, an L-shaped bar opened to a door in the corner. A handful of stools clustered crookedly to the narrow ledge; glasses and mugs were displayed on shelves behind the biggest bartender he'd ever seen. Lamplight shining from a sheen of sweat on his forehead below a short-shorn bristle of light brown hair; he flipped a rag over his shoulder to pour amber-tinted alcohol into the last glass on a small round tray. A well-endowed and friendly-faced girl with dusky skin and tight black curls escaping a loose knot at the back of her neck waited patiently, smiling and attentive to the activity of the room.
Further in, the other tables and chairs were more or less occupied. Townfolk. No threats. Along the front wall to his right, an opening – to the stairway, he assumed. Upstairs bedrooms. Toward the corner diagonal from the front door a fiddler played with more enthusiasm than talent, crowded by a trio of rougher-looking men aiming darts for a board on the wall on the far side of the fireplace - not in use on a mild spring night when the press of bodies and the heat from the kitchen was sufficient to warm the room.
He slipped past the table and slouched sideways on the last stool, letting his saddlebags slide down his left arm to rest on the bar, keeping his back to the wall.
"What can I get you?" the bartender asked, friendly enough – but then again, it was in his business' best interests to be. He wondered briefly if this was Percival.
"Just water." At the big man's raised eyebrow, Merlin added, "For now."
"Hey, stranger." He only had to turn his head a few degrees to see that it was the reeve who'd addressed him, sitting back in his seat as one of the others dealt the next hand. "What's your name? Your business?"
This question, too, was in the reeve's best interests, as far as his job went. Nothing unexpected, even. Merlin only twitched his shoulders in a slouching shrug. Harmless drifter. No one to give a second thought or glance to.
"You mind your business, stranger," the reeve continued, "and our law here in Emmett's Creek, or you may find a blade tickling your ribs."
He shrugged again. He had no intention of breaking the law, here or anywhere else. The revenge he sought was perfectly legal. A life for a life, taken by the next of kin. He only had to make sure of his target, first.
The reeve nodded like he was satisfied his warning had been received, and picked up his cards.
Beyond the bartender the door swung open on a double-hinge, and an amply-built woman in a pink dress swung a long auburn braid over her shoulder as she turned. Red-faced and thick-armed, she hoisted a large cook-pot onto the corner of the bar with a clatter of glasses and shiny copper lid, then beamed at the crowd, at once the center of attention.
"Soup's up!" she proclaimed, in a voice that had no trouble reaching the far corners.
She was trailed by a skinny kid of a girl in a shapeless baggy dress, dark hair covered by a drab kerchief and eyes dropped in a habitually shy way, clutching a stack of wooden bowls to her chest. The bartender side-stepped to help ladle out the stew – which smelled delicious and woke Merlin's salivary glands. His stomach pinched, and he focused on the warmish water in his cup.
Having eliminated the likelihood of threat, he relied on his ears more than any other sense, listening listening for the one name he sought. For the first night this was best. Asking questions betrayed interest, and a murderer was the sort of person to pay attention to strangers asking questions. Tomorrow, maybe, he could begin to initiate conversation, casually, unsuspiciously, to see if finally, this was the town he sought. Emmett's Creek. The home of the man he wanted to kill?
A skirt shuffled into view, as though the shoes hidden by it were too big on the feet. A baggy, drab skirt. He lifted his eyes to the aromatically steaming bowl of beef stew she offered – generous chunks of meat, floating slices of last fall's carrots, maybe a piece of potato or two from a root cellar. He swallowed, but made no move to take it.
"I didn't –" he began.
"Shasta says it's on the house," she said, her low voice almost musical, hitching one shoulder toward the plump woman presiding over the soup-pot for further explanation.
"You take it!" the red-haired woman hollered over to him, ladling someone else's bowl full. "You look like you need it!"
"I do not need charity," he told the girl stonily.
She shifted her weight uncertainly, but didn't retreat, only raised her eyes to his – dark eyes, and long lashes. And he found himself reaching for the bowl with an impatient sound, taking it out of her hands and shoving it onto the bar next to him. The ghost of a smile crossed her face, and as she turned his attention flicked up over her shoulder.
As one of the dart-throwers - a paunchy, grubby, middle-aged man with grizzled hair and whiskers – face darkly twisted with jealous fury, leaned into his throw.
He reacted without thinking. One step brought him up against the girl from behind, one arm around her waist spinning her out of harm's way - back up against the bar, eyes wide to stare at him, but too startled to make a noise. And he snatched the feathered dart from the air before it could strike her.
Revenge, after all, was a business of repaying like for like. He didn't hesitate to flip the dart with its sharpened metal tip in his fingers, and shot it right back at its original thrower.
Who screeched and clutched at the side of his head. And the whole room was shocked into silence, except for the man's miserable moaning. He bent, checked his hand, and straightened at the sight of the blood from his ear – Merlin's aim was very good.
"He attacked me!" the man shrieked out. "Reeve! Reeve! He attacked me!"
"Stranger, I warned you," the reeve growled, rising from his chair.
"He asked for that," Merlin stated dispassionately to the room at large. All his senses were alert, his fingers tingling at his sides. Ready for anything. "He threw first."
The reeve rounded the table, and Merlin didn't back down, giving the man a glare as he reached out – maybe without knowing what his own intentions were.
"Don't touch me." Deliberately Merlin turned his back. Calculated risk, but a reeve wouldn't stab even a stranger in the back, in front of twenty of his townspeople. Just… don't touch me.
"You're under arrest." Maybe he wouldn't stab Merlin, but the reeve's hand clamped onto his shoulder heavily, pinching cruelly to force him to turn.
So he did.
He rounded on the reeve, swinging. Right hook. Crossover. The reeve was knocked back, clutching at his jaw in surprise – and there was blood on his face now, too.
"Grab him!"
"He's crazy!"
"…Attacked the reeve!"
At least three more hands latched onto his clothing – the girl trying to sidle her way out of danger – and he was suddenly fighting in earnest, like a wild thing, for his freedom.
Just get to the door. Just get to the door.
The room was hot and closed in about him, no air to breathe… like choking on smoke… like being buried alive. Hands grasping, fists hitting, boots kicking - he kicked someone back and thought his way to the door was almost clear, if he went over the card-table.
Someone grabbed a massive handful of his shirt and vest near the shoulder, and his boots left the floor. His backbone scraped on the edge of the bar as he was hauled up and over; his boot-heel caught someone else in the face – red shirt and brown vest – as he twisted in the big bartender's grip, snarling, trying to reach him to fight back. And the big man dropped him unceremoniously to the floor.
"Not in my place!" he thundered, reaching under the edge of the bar – all hollow shelves for storing bottles and small casks and extra glasses – for a vicious-looking club.
He kicked at the big man to delay the use of that weapon – broken bones took longer to heal than bruises – and scrambled to right himself. Second plan - go through the double-hinged door and hope for some back exit to an alley maybe, cool and dark and quiet –
A woman shrieked, "Watch out for the –"
He hit his head as he lunged upright, on something so solid his knees turned to water and dumped him back down to the floor. For an instant he thought he'd run into the bar itself – or the wall? – and then a scalding wash of liquid cascaded over his shoulder, back and chest. He cried out and writhed, trying to get the burning substance off him, away from him – on his hands, now the smell of beef stew thick in his nostrils.
An enormous figure loomed, reached past a defense delayed and distracted, to steal consciousness with one large fist.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Darkness. And silence.
Except for someone whistling somewhere. The sound penetrated his head, skittered sharply across his skin. The smell of beef stew was too close, was inside his nostrils. He gagged, and his whole body began to ache once again.
Again. It hadn't even been a week since the last bruise from his last fight in the last town had faded.
Merlin lay still, only moving to breathe deeply. He heard a sound he recognized – keys on a ring. Keys in the metal lock of a jail cell – a lock he could easily pick, and would, but not until later. When his head cleared. When the pain dulled. When the sun rose on a new day. Then.
"Wake up, you good for nothing –" A kick on his left thigh.
He lay limp, unresisting. Rolled with the kick a little. It took his breath away, ripped through a stitch in his side. He readied himself to grab the foot, the leg, should it happen again. Readied himself to fight. Again.
Then a low voice said, "Please don't, Reeve."
The voice was almost musical; he opened his eyes stiffly against the glare of the lantern that swung over him.
"He's awake," a deep male voice observed expressionlessly.
He couldn't see. His left eye was swollen shut and the light pierced his right eye, tacking his brain to the back of his skull. It hurt.
"Percival, lift that lantern away," said a third voice. He remembered, Soup's up! She continued, "How'd you like a light shoved in your eyeballs after a scrap?"
Strong and gentle hands laid hold of his shoulders, fingers curled under his arms to raise him to a sitting position. He shrugged the hands off automatically, raising one arm to shield his eyes as he used his other elbow and his heels to push back from the voices.
"Please." The girl's voice came from somewhere behind the light of the lantern. "Don't be afraid." Someone touched his knee.
"Ha!" He coughed, and spat blood on the floorboards of the cell. "Afraid." His tone was arrogant, and he made no attempt to hide or change it. He glared at them, keeping his head down to further shield his eyes. "What should I have to fear?"
The older woman laughed. "Yep, this one will live," she said, to no one in particular. "Percival, set that lantern down and give me the bucket."
The lantern moved back, to the other side of the cell. He watched them suspiciously, blinking twice in an attempt to calm his whirling vision. The girl knelt near his feet as though she thought he'd be intimidated by everyone standing around him. He knew it was the dark-haired girl from the tavern, though a fold of the shawl she wore over her head shielded her face as she watched the big bartender set the lantern on the bench beside himself.
The red-haired woman – Shasta, wasn't it? – took a tin bucket from the man, lifting a cloth off the top as she set it on the floor near Merlin's left knee. She reached for the button at his collar; he shoved her hand away with a force that was almost a slap.
"Stranger," Percival said, his voice coming deeply from his cavernous chest. He didn't move, but his eyes glittered in the light. "You touch my wife again, I'll beat another quarter hell out of you."
He glared fiercely back at the big bartender. "Then tell your wife not to touch me," he said.
"Quit it," Shasta said, as much to her husband as to him. She reached again, shuffling forward on her knees. Again he grabbed her hand and shoved it away; Percival rose from the bench, swiftly for a big man. But Shasta smacked Merlin's hand. "Quit it," she repeated. "No one's going to hurt you."
She wasn't going to give up, and he suddenly felt childish to keep resisting. And so he let her unbutton his shirt, push the collar back to inspect the skin of his neck and shoulder.
"Fair scalded," she said cheerfully. "Kid, you're lucky that kettle wasn't any hotter."
"He's lucky it missed his head, coming down," the girl murmured. Her face was still hidden from his view in the shadow of the shawl. Shasta humphed a short chuckle. In the corner, Percival crossed his arms over his broad chest and didn't smile.
"Come on," Shasta ordered. "Strip off the rest of your clothes and rub some of this on your burns." She set a small clay jar on the floor. "You can wrap yourself in the blanket here, and I'll wash your clothes tonight, have them ready when Reeve lets you go tomorrow."
"No," he said. "Go away."
"Well, aren't you the friendly one," Shasta said tartly. "Just trying to be neighborly, seeing as you did Freya a favor." The girl glanced at him swiftly, then dropped her eyes. "More than most would have done," Shasta continued, lifting her voice.
"Now, Shasta," said Red-shirt – the reeve – coming into the back room to lean against the bars of the cell. His demeanor was casual, almost friendly, but there was a stiff defensiveness to his tone. "Let's not start all that again."
"You saw it yourself, Whatley, you said so," Shasta retorted. "We'd be waking Gaius right now to bandage Freya up if it weren't for – hey, stranger, what's your name?"
"Leave me alone," he said in a weary monotone. "You're wasting your time."
Percival grunted, "Yeah, looks like."
Shasta sat back on her heels. "Well, there's some water to wash up with, at least, and your stew you never ate. We'll see you in the morning."
No, they wouldn't. Come morning, he'd be gone.
"Come, Freya," Shasta said, as Percival helped her to her feet.
"You go on ahead," the girl said. "I'm going to stay a minute."
"You sure that's safe?" Shasta questioned, giving the girl a hard look and jerking her head toward Merlin.
"No trouble, now," Reeve Whatley cautioned.
The girl looked steadily back at the plump older woman. "What could he do?" she said simply, softly.
Shasta's expression changed, and she nodded wearily – sadly, almost. She bent and reached across Merlin's sprawled legs to touch the girl's face. "Bless you, darlin'," she said. "But we'll wait for you out front." She rose to follow Percival through the door of the cell.
"No trouble," the reeve repeated, looking at both remaining occupants, then stepped to the front room himself as if in escort for Percival and Shasta.
Merlin pushed himself back far enough to rest his head on the bench. Watching her. She was too trusting, too naïve. How was she to know he wouldn't attack and force himself on her, hand over her mouth so none would know til too late? He'd be punished for it, sure, but it would be done all the same – he'd known some to do it that way. He'd also helped punish some who did it that way.
"I wanted to say thank you," she said in her low musical voice, not meeting his eyes. "It isn't often someone intervenes. Percival does what he can…"
He didn't understand what she meant. "You're welcome. Go away." He closed his eyes.
"It wasn't necessary," she continued; he heard her shift like she meant to obey his command, but wasn't quite done speaking. "Burton will be furious when he wakes up, and make trouble for you, trouble Reeve Whatley won't get in the middle of. But it was nice of you."
He lifted his head to bare his teeth in a grin. "That's something no one's said of me in a long time."
"Why not?" she said, looking into his eyes for the first time. He shook his head. The answer to that question was too long. "What is your name?" she asked. "Where are you from?" After waiting for his answer as the silence stretched, she added, "You really aren't much for talking, are you?"
He said nothing. Even a no would be superfluous.
Her clothing rustled quietly as she stood. "I'll go," she said. "You can wash up and eat with a little privacy." She went to the door of the cell and paused, then looked back at him. "It's unusual that you'd fight for someone who's a stranger to you."
He tipped his head back on the bench, ignoring her. The door clanged shut behind her and the soft footfalls left the room.
"Don't go getting ideas, stranger," the reeve said, returning after a moment to lock Merlin's cell. "No use getting sweet on that gal, she's married."
"Why should I care?" he said without moving or opening his eyes.
"Because it'd cause trouble, and you caused enough already," Reeve Whatley said. "That's her husband's partner you clipped with the dart."
He shook his head. What a crazy town. Happy he'd be to kick up its dust on his way out.
"And Padlow isn't any better," the reeve continued, almost proudly, in a talkative mood. "He's awful possessive of that little wife of his. He's gone from town now, though, you'll not see him for months and more."
His heart had stilled at the reeve's first words, and his head lifted of its own accord. "Padlow?" he said, keeping his tone even and steady. "A peddler?"
"Among other things. He may be up to Camelot about now, but travels the whole shire while the weather's good. He'll be back for the winter."
"And that –" he couldn't bring himself to call her anything – "that was Padlow's wife?"
"Yep. But don't go getting ideas, like I already said. You leave well enough alone." He left, whistling again.
Merlin pushed himself to his feet, noticing in a detached way how weakly he swayed. He'd need his strength soon. So it's come down to it, he thought. After all and at last. The name would become a face, after so many months. The face he'd searched for from the mountains to the coast and back again, the face of the man who'd walked in the front door of the farmhouse as he'd slipped out the back. The last face any of his family had ever seen, and the one he'd not laid eyes on yet. But he would. Oh, yes. He would.
And then he'd know why.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
The long hours and long miles combined with the first hot meal he'd had in ten days, and exhaustion betrayed him into sleep.
And he dreamed. As he often did, after a fight.
Of course it was a nightmare. And the worst of it was, he always dreamed himself to be exactly where he knew he'd been upon falling asleep, so he always believed the dream reality, up to the point of waking.
He lay on the lower bunk in the cell, and opened his eyes. A reddish light was shining through the bars, illuminating a long wide table and four pairs of bare feet, from one large pair on the left to a tiny pair on the right. He struggled upright with horrifying slowness.
As one, the four corpses sat up also, like puppets jerked abruptly on a string, their skin holding a ghastly gray sheen even in the light. Their faces were turned on him, though the eyes and mouths were sewn shut with jagged black-yarn stitches; the sheet that was spread across them was soaked in blackening blood. One corner of the sheet dropped to reveal his father's right arm and four of the stab wounds, from which gore spurted continuously.
The arm, and one outstretched finger, lifted to point at him.
"Not me!" he shouted at them in hoarse desperation. "It wasn't me!"
Then he knew that another shared his cell, an as-yet faceless other, sitting beside him on the bunk. The guilty murderer. The pitiless torturer. If he could only force his head to turn, to see, to identify, he could point this one out to his family. Then the dream ghosts would visit him instead of Merlin, torturing the guilty one with guilt.
The other corner of the sheet slipped aside, as his baby sister slid down from the table. Her hands were bound with rough twine in front of her chest, and her body was dressed only in her underclothes. Her head rested impossibly sideways on one shoulder.
She stepped toward him, passing through the bars of the cell like mist, slowing as she came, reaching out with one hand, the other dragged helplessly along, reaching with trusting baby fingers. The muscles of her face strained, pulling at the stitching in her eyelids and lips.
Pulling, stretching, tearing. She was almost touching him now. Her eyes opened, her mouth opened, and blood gushed out, filthy dark. She was looking at him, sideways from her shoulder. Her mouth formed his name, "Mer-lin…"
A hand touched him.
He lay still with an effort, kept his muscles from moving, from defending, from striking out at his baby sister. But the horror overwhelmed him and he screamed, loud and long, the intensity of sound tearing his throat.
The hands grew unnaturally large, smothering him, choking him. And then he fought back, fought against the bright light in his eyes, red at the center, fought against all hands, fought with his whole body even against the wall beside him and the cot beneath him.
"Do something!" A woman's voice. "Help me!"
"Think he's got something contagious?" he heard a man say.
A softness passed over him, binding and restricting. A shroud. He struggled to the last ounce of strength, and beyond. Not the grave for him. Not yet, when he was finally so close.
Merlin sensed movement, and lifting. He felt ill for only a second, then vomited his dinner in the direction his mind claimed was down.
Maybe I'm sick, he thought dazedly. Maybe I'm actually ill.
The soft weight dragged at his limbs, hands clawing at him along arms and legs, til he was dumped on a hard, jolting surface. A coffin? Not knowing, not understanding, still he tried to escape, to move away. His struggles felt weak and ineffectual to him, which made him angry. He opened his eyes wide and saw only darkness, but the anger gave him a little more strength, and he freed one arm, grasping and clawing, but felt nothing solid within reach.
"Still going at it," a woman said in an incredulous tone.
Was he hearing ghosts? Were there others here in the grave with him?
A vise closed around his wrist, forcing it back to his side despite his best efforts. He twisted his head from side to side, trying to wriggle out of the earth, up to the air and sun and sky. He couldn't even breathe to yell. His throat choked and burned.
There were lights against the backs of his eyelids, then, and voices he couldn't understand. Loud voices, soft voices, angry and worried.
Something liquid and foul-smelling splashed across his mouth. Pouring, pouring. He was drowning, tied in the bottom of his grave. He swallowed convulsively and his raw throat seared with fire.
Then all was silence, and stillness.