Chapter 6: Aid and Advice

When Merlin woke the second time, the rain was still trickling down his face, his whole body pulsed with liquid fire, and he couldn't feel his hands. He was disoriented enough to wonder if Burton would momentarily ask him if he was awake, and begin the beating all over again.

He listened for a moment, groggily unable to believe himself alone. But the rain, tapping a gentler pattern on the roofs of the town around him, was all he heard, and he was thankful Burton had not decided to take him elsewhere as a hostage for the record book, or else kill him where he hung.

It came across Merlin's mind that he could smell wet earth, and hay, and horse manure. The livery stable across from the tavern? Likely, he decided, thinking of the post in front of the building, where the sign had been missing earlier in the day. It was close to the tavern, so Burton would not have had to drag him far, and the whole street was deserted on a late rainy night.

He turned his neck, stiff between tightly up-stretched arms, and located the rectangle of light he'd seen earlier – it was there still. Was someone awake in the tavern, then, or was it just the last nighttime candle? He wondered how much time had passed. He could shout for help, now that the rain had died down somewhat, they might hear him.

But he didn't. There was fight left in him, and pride. He wasn't entirely helpless.

He didn't need anyone.

Anticipating the pain he was going to cause himself, Merlin clenched his jaw and kicked out with one booted foot, in front of himself and behind, meeting nothing but air. His body twisted, pulling unbearably on his raw wrists, and momentarily, he wondered if it was possible for his hands to simply separate from his arms. Obstinately, he kicked again, to his right, and his ankle hit the upright post.

This time he swung both feet, and clamped his legs around the post, squeezing it like he was trying to shimmy up a tree with no branches. The effort fired a fiercer throbbing ache in the pit of his stomach, which spread swiftly to ribs and shoulders. His arms might separate from his body at the shoulders, too, he thought.

By inching his legs up the post, he managed to gain some slack in the cord binding him. Now, if he was in luck, Burton had merely dropped the rope into the open hook which would normally support the stable's sign, and had not tied it fast. Merlin threw his upper body violently toward the post, and felt the rope slide – but not quite leave the curve of the metal hook screwed into the underside of the horizontal lath. A sob jolted from his chest, but he repeated the maneuver, gripping the post like a vise with his legs.

And the cord slipped free of the hook.

He tumbled down hard, half on the boardwalk in front of the stable, half in the mud of the street. He let himself lie limp for a long minute, gasping for breath like a drowning man. Once he caught his breath again, he attempted to catch a few mouthfuls of rain to wet his raw throat. All the while swearing as hard as he could, in his mind, to steel his body to obey him in spite of its trauma and the overwhelming stiff misery.

Merlin rolled to his stomach and pushed himself to his knees with his hands, still tied together. He might have been using a cane to prop himself up, for all he could feel of his fingers. He staggered to his feet and almost fell again.

The rope that had secured him in midair would be tied off to the post somewhere, and Merlin still had his knife at his belt. It was necessary to drag his left arm across his body to reach it, and he groaned involuntarily at the painful pull in his shoulder. It took two clumsy tries before he was able to drag the knife free with numb fingers, and he stumbled through the mud toward the tavern in order to pull the rope taut enough to cut.

Rain's good, he thought in a vague sort of way. He could imagine the picture he would make if anyone had seen him by moonlight – swaying unsteadily in the middle of the street, bound hands trying to turn the blade of the knife on the cord with enough force to cut it through.

Afraid he would drop the knife and lose it in the mud and the dark, and then be unable to reach the extra blade he carried in his boot - and then have to wait for someone to finish freeing him after all - he pulled against the rope, pulled savagely, suddenly hating the pain that made him clumsy. And the girl who'd distracted him enough to be ambushed unaware.

Hating himself, because it was his own fault, after all.

The cord was swollen with the wet, but Merlin kept his knife shaving-sharp. After a handful of sharp tugs that drew the rope tight and the blade across it, it parted, sending him stumbling back.

He kept his feet under him long enough to turn and weave toward the lighted tavern window. A foggy idea occurred to him, that he should take care not to fall through the glass; the door was to the left of the light. He fumbled the knife back into his belt, and hoped he hadn't cut himself – he wasn't sure he'd even feel it, anymore.

And then he tripped on the edge of the boardwalk, falling heavily on one knee and turning just in time to bang his shoulder instead of his forehead against the door. He heard himself cry out, then swore. Surely now the whole house would be awakened, at the moment when he wanted most to be left alone.

Merlin pushed himself upright again, and his fingers scrabbled for a moment before he managed to lift the door latch enough to enter. He blundered into the room, dimly noting the single candle burning on the bar. There was a roaring in his ears – he figured he'd be losing consciousness again soon. If he felt his way along the wall to his right, he'd find the stairs that would lead him to his room, his cot… he could collapse there. He could free his hands later, when he was better able to take care of himself again.

He found the wall mainly by letting his weight fall to the right, and supposed himself lucky once again that he'd missed the window. He pushed himself along, arms swinging stiffly in front of him with each step, sharp pain screaming through his body at the rubbing contact with the wall.

Merlin heard a voice, somewhere far away, and stopped, turning with a hint of his old swiftness, saw a hazy approaching human shape. Instinctively he lifted his hands to push this person away, to ward off attack or aid alike, and felt his balance tip at the sudden move.

He wasn't going to make it to the stairs.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Freya had finished sweeping as Gwen and Shasta fed the fiddle player and saw him to the back door. The stranger and Percival concluded their conversation in the tavern, and the stranger disappeared upstairs to bed, saddlebags over his shoulder. Then she lit the candle they habitually left burning in the common room for an emergency nighttime illumination.

Every time she thought of Merlin's slow, sweet smile, her heart thudded more forcefully in her chest.

Words of Gaius' warning ran through her head, but she no longer considered herself in physical danger from Merlin. Though there were other kinds of danger to be in… I'm a married woman, she reminded herself, giving her shoulders a little shake and heading for bed.

Percival and Shasta were already behind the closed door of their room, their voices a low companionable murmur punctuated by Shasta's laugh – a sound that made Freya feel lonely, even as she smiled for her friends' happiness. In the tiny closet-room next to the fireplace that they shared, Gwen was already curled up on the top bunk, her eyes closed, her breathing sounding deep and even. Asleep or not quite, she didn't speak when Freya entered.

Where do my loyalties lie? Freya couldn't help asking herself. I've told Merlin about Padlow. Will I tell Padlow about Merlin?

Somehow the thought of that betrayal disturbed her more than its already partially accomplished converse.

Without bothering to undress, except to take off her shoes, she rolled into the lower bunk and clutched the blanket close to her chest. Am I starting to care for Merlin more than I ought? What is the right thing to do? She disciplined herself to envision the rest of her life being a good wife to Padlow, as all she had to hope for – and found the memory of that beautiful smile pushing in. Let him smile at me again and mean it, she thought, and I could live the rest of my life on it.

In the stillness above the soft murmur of rain outside and her own restless heart, she heard a muffled thump at the door of the tavern. She hadn't thought she'd fallen asleep, but it took a minute to open her eyes and concentrate on the sound that had pulled her alert. She sat up out of the bunk, her heart increasing its pace. They never locked the door, in case of nighttime travelers, but the noise hadn't sounded like a knock, and any traveler might be expected to hail the proprietor of the establishment upon entrance.

And Merlin always moved so noiselessly it was sometimes hard to tell if he'd slept in the room they kept for him, or not.

Uneasily she remembered that Burton had returned to Emmett's Creek only the previous day. There was that knobby club under the bar… Gwen sighed in her sleep, and there was only silence from Percival and Shasta's room.

Freya supposed she could scream, if she had to.

Hardly daring to breathe, Freya slipped out of the sleeping closet and tiptoed across the kitchen, pushing the door open enough to see into the common room. Soaked and muddy, stumbling like a drunkard, and with his back to her, Freya still recognized him in an instant.

"Merlin!" she gasped, hurrying into the room, worry quickly replacing her fear. He never drank enough to get drunk, and tonight had not been an exception, that she knew of. He had walked straight enough when he left.

He swung around unsteadily at the sound of her voice, and her hand flew to her mouth in shock. An angry bruise purpled the right half of his face from the eye swollen nearly shut to the lip split open and trickling blood. His hands were twisted in front of him, tied together with a thin rope dark with his blood.

"What happened?" she said, skirting the tables to reach his side swiftly, her hands moving to touch, to support him.

His eyes were glazed, his breath coming in great gulps. She could well believe he remained upright by willpower alone. He put out his hands as if to ward her off, but the movement seemed to unbalance him – he swayed for a moment, then pitched forward.

Freya instinctively tried to catch him, but it was impossible. He was taller than her, and heavier, and she only succeeded in breaking his fall as she held on and so tumbled to the floor with him, landing beneath him. She had a moment to feel relief that they hadn't knocked into any tables or chairs to cause any more damage – to him or the furniture – when the door to the kitchen crashed open against the wall.

"What in the name of high heaven is going on out here?" Percival's voice, raised in grumpy irritation. His bare feet stumped across the board floor toward them.

"Percival – help me." Freya wriggled, trying to get out from under Merlin's limp form without hurting him. Aware of the impropriety of her position, that the moisture from his soaked garments was beginning to seep through her dress. Aware, too, of the feel and smell of his body, the faint warmth of his panting breaths on her neck.

The big bartender swore, bending over them in a rush, dressed only in his trousers, muscles shifting beneath the hairy mat of his chest. Merlin was lifted suddenly away from her, Percival's fist bunched in the back of his shirt and vest.

"Don't!" Freya shouted, thinking that Percival's intention would be to save her from an attack, but that he'd misunderstood and might hurt Merlin further in his hurry and anger.

Percival halted his movement, having discovered for himself who he'd pulled off Freya, and that Merlin hung unresisting from his huge fist. Merlin began to stir, trying to lift his head; Percival swore again, this time in disbelief, and threw his other arm around the younger man, clearly trying to provide him greater support. Merlin's head rose and dropped back, exposing his throat.

"Let go of me!" he demanded thickly, and what his voice lacked in force, it made up for with menace. "Let me go, don't touch me!" he repeated breathlessly, the pain evident in his tone.

Percival lowered Merlin to the floor, leaned him against the leg of one of the tables, where he gasped once and arched his body as though trying to find a position to escape whatever hurt he felt. "What –" Percival began in bewilderment, but Freya scrambled quickly between them, reaching for Merlin's knife.

"Go for Gaius," she advised Percival. Merlin's hand closed around her wrist with only a fraction of the strength she knew he had, but it was enough to halt her movement.

"Percival?" Shasta's voice came from beyond the kitchen door, muffled. "What's going on?" The bartender pushed back and stood.

"No," Merlin said clearly, in response to Freya's suggestion. He opened eyes intense with pain, fixing Percival in place with a glare.

Freya pried her hand free of Merlin's grip, and he allowed her to reach for the knife in his belt. She sawed at the cord that bit deep into his wrists as gently as she could, and blinked quickly against the tears that rose in her own eyes. She winced herself several times at the thought of the pain she must be causing him.

"Go back to bed," Merlin said wearily, addressing Percival. "I'll be fine."

"Go get Doc, Percival," Freya repeated, as the last strands of the rope parted, and she had to peel the pieces back from the deep grooves cut in his skin. "He collapsed, he could barely stand or walk."

Merlin turned his gaze on her, those clear eyes so lately brimming with free amusement now dark with fury, startling her so she dropped his knife with a clatter. "Leave me alone," he ordered fiercely, and added a vehement oath.

"That doesn't look like you'll be fine," Percival observed, leaning over Freya.

"Percival!" Shasta's voice came again, insistent for answer; Freya guessed she hadn't dressed again to leave their bedroom off the kitchen.

"Get back." Merlin's voice shook slightly; Freya saw that he was controlling himself with an effort. She obeyed.

He flexed his hands once, twice, bunching his swollen fingers into fists, then placed his palms on the floor to push himself up. His jaw was clenched tight, and she suddenly felt a little afraid of him again. He made it to his feet, though he didn't straighten completely, and had to steady himself with a hand on the table. He seemed angry with himself for that, and angry with them for seeing. He waved Percival off, and put his hand gingerly to his side.

"The bleeding isn't bad," he said distinctly, his voice rough with the effort of controlling the pain.

Freya hoped he was referring to his wrists, and couldn't help wondering where else he was hurt. There was no blood on his clothes. What had happened? – Burton, probably.

Merlin continued, "I want to be left alone to sleep. I'll be fine in the morning." He stepped deliberately away from them, toward the staircase, but Freya noticed that he'd had to take a deep breath before he did.

"If you fall down the stairs, I'm leaving you until morning," Percival threatened. Merlin ignored him, and Percival shrugged to Freya.

She started resolutely to Merlin's side, determined to help him whether he wanted it or not, but he stopped her with one look – the look he'd turned on her in the wake of the only tears he'd shed, the day she noticed the color of his eyes. The look of bottomless hate.

"And you," he said, making the word into a weapon that he hurled at her. "You stay away from me."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Her eyes dropped at Merlin's snarled command, and she stepped back, the look of startled hurt quickly wiped blank from her face. And without her smile, and with her large expressive eyes lowered, she looked quite plain again.

But if Burton had any further suspicions about the two of them – especially with his farfetched accusation of intimacy – he'd take it out on Freya. For Merlin didn't intend to allow himself to be taken by surprise again. Ever. By anyone.

Percival left the common room as Merlin made his way slowly to the staircase, but he was aware that Freya followed him silently, and stood at the foot of the steps as he mounted them stiffly. He guessed that she took Percival at his word to leave him laying there, and also didn't trust that he could make it on his own. He didn't turn around, even when he reached the top.

Merlin pushed open the door of his room and leaned against the frame for a moment, trying to find a way to breathe that didn't hurt. A door opened further down the narrow hallway and Arthur came out, bootless and still buttoning his untucked shirt, alerted by the commotion they'd made – well, he'd made – downstairs. Merlin entered his room immediately and turned to close the door behind him, but Arthur was already pushing through.

The agent swore and demanded, "What happened to you?"

"Get out," Merlin said shortly, his embarrassment coming out in anger. Arthur studied him keenly, then reached to help Merlin undress. "Get. Out," Merlin repeated, gritting his words through his teeth to disguise the pain.

"Shut up," the agent returned without blinking.

"I don't need your help," Merlin snapped, well aware that he couldn't prevent Arthur helping him. Well aware that if he slapped the agent's hand away as he'd once slapped Shasta's hands, he'd be starting a fight he couldn't finish, much less win.

Arthur gave him a hard look, his blue eyes flat. His fingers never stilled as he eased Merlin's soaked vest off and began to unbutton his shirt. "Let me tell you something," he said. "And you remember this well. I'm not your friend. I don't even like you. I may feel sympathy for you on occasion, knowing what was done to your family, but you attacked me and left me for dead, and something like that doesn't get forgiven and forgotten. As you should well know."

Merlin opened his mouth to claim belligerently that he wasn't sorry for it, either. His fifteen-year-old self simply couldn't have taken three years in government service, unable to hunt down the murderer. And the dreams had already started when the agent had come for him.

Arthur cut him off. "That being said, I'm going to give you a good piece of advice – learn when to swallow your pride and accept help. What good does it do you to sleep in wet clothes and wake up even more stiff than you already–"

He peeled Merlin's shirt back from his body and stopped. Repeating his earlier oath more slowly, he let go of the sodden cloth to lay quick and probing fingers along the dark bruising already forming on Merlin's stomach, around his sides, and up toward his chest. Merlin sucked in his breath and held it, clenching his teeth against the pang and indignity of the inspection, but otherwise endured silently, gazing over the top of Arthur's head.

"Who?" Arthur demanded. When Merlin didn't answer, his eyes flicked up to take in his expression, and the agent answered his own question. "Burton."

"Nothing's broken." Merlin twisted his shoulders painfully, shrugging out of the wet shirt. "I don't think," he amended.

Arthur looked then at the thick bloody welts around his wrists, but didn't move to touch him again, only narrowed his eyes as Merlin slung his wet clothes over the end of the cot. Merlin then turned to the rickety corner commode to rinse the mud from his hands in the basin and use the towel to dry his hair.

"You let him ambush you?" Arthur said from behind.

Merlin swung back around long enough to open his mouth and calmly let out a curse that was as remarkable in its vulgarity as it was in its length without repetition. It also left Arthur no need to speculate on Merlin's feelings concerning Burton. A wry grin of amusement twisted the agent's mouth.

"Don't tell me what you really think of the man," he said, as Merlin turned back to the commode and pulled the towel over his wet hair. "Was it just revenge for his ear?"

Burton, and therefore Reeve Whatley, thought Arthur his partner in the theft of the record book, whether for blackmail or a coup. After tonight they might consider Merlin safely out of the way, and as long as they believed Freya uninvolved, might go after Arthur next. After all, the book was in his possession. And if Burton killed Arthur, that part of Merlin's bargain would be nullified, himself free as a bird after killing Padlow. He'd made no guarantee to turn himself over to anyone but Arthur.

But he hesitated just long enough for the well-tuned suspicions of the agent to awaken.

"There was something else," Arthur said. "Was it the girl?"

Merlin didn't answer. He could say yes, could claim truthfully enough that Burton had acted in jealousy as well as revenge. But then he might get drawn into a discussion of the possibility that Burton might target Freya as well, and he didn't want to have to admit that he had provoked the trapper into lengthening his own beating to try to protect her. Why had he done that, anyway? He wasn't comfortable with the question inside his own head, and definitely didn't want someone else speculating as well. His arms felt like stiff hot pokers as he braced himself against the wall to remove his boots, prying each off with the toe of the opposite foot.

"No, something more," Arthur murmured, as if to himself, leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest. "He tied you, that means he didn't trust his odds in a fair fight. But–"

As the agent spoke, Merlin rubbed the towel carefully over his head, then dropped it on the edge of the commode to use both hands in letting down his trousers. Arthur was on him in a second, one hand grabbing the discarded towel to reveal bloodstains, the other tipping Merlin's head forward to try to examine the initial blow to the back of his head. Merlin shrugged him off violently, irritably, though it made him dizzy, and Arthur withdrew.

"Once he had you down with that, he could've kept you down fairly easily," Arthur mused. "Tying you up was more work – he wasn't just getting his own back, or warning you off the girl. He could've done that with a word or two after he kicked the stuffing out of you. He was asking questions, wasn't he? About me."

Merlin wrapped the blanket from the bed around his battered body and lowered himself to the cot, breathing through his nose against the urge to pant slightly. He risked a glance at the agent. Arthur was looking at him differently, knowing the abuse to be interrogation rather than simple infliction of pain for its own sake. He was all business now, back to being an agent, focused on the task at hand. Merlin released his breath slowly, trying to consider the best course of action around the headache throbbing through his whole body.

"He knows you have the record book," he said. "Reeve Whatley must've seen it in your bags and told him. But he takes us for thieves and blackmailers."

"Hm." Arthur's blue eyes studied him sharply. "Does he take us for cowards sufficiently warned off?"

Merlin straightened, but didn't meet the agent's gaze, instead pouring out his hate on the wall over Arthur's shoulder. The impotent anger at the way things had to be.

Arthur began to pace the small room, door to high curtainless window and back again. "Well, I'm not going to hand the book back," he said. "I need that for evidence."

"He didn't ask for it," Merlin said. He glanced sideways at the flat pillow on the cot, wishing the older man would leave him alone to sleep.

"Well, they'll think of it sooner or later," Arthur said vaguely. "It might be best to go along with that assumption, even bargain if they bring it up. In the meantime, I'll look for work like I gave out, and keep up my investigation."

Cursing silently to himself, Merlin wearily lifted his feet to the edge of the cot, spreading himself very slowly along its length.

Arthur glanced down at him. "You try to steer clear of any ambushes," he said, with a trace of humor.

This time Merlin spoke the oath aloud.

Arthur grinned as he opened the door and retreated. "You'll live," were his parting words.

Relaxing made Merlin's muscles ache more, if only momentarily, but he forced them to release deliberately, inch by inch. His pride smarted, too, but that was soon lost in sleep.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Much later, Merlin opened his eyes and focused on the rafters above him, through a strange silver sheen from the room's tiny window overlooking the main street, just over the head of the cot. His neck felt creaky as he turned his head sideways on the pillow.

And froze.

There his dead family, ranged against the wall opposite, only scant feet away. Instinctively he tried to move, to push himself back against the wall where the cot stood, to get further away. But his arms and legs refused to obey.

He lifted his head to gaze down the length of his body with a fresh wave of horror. Wrapped in a white sheet as though prepared for his grave, his hands were tied together over his chest, his arms and legs bound tightly. He twisted back around to stare at his family, in a panic that they might approach, might touch him. Appeals for help, for mercy, bubbled up in his throat, but his lips and tongue were too thick to voice them.

They stood in the clothes that he had last seen them wearing, down to his mother's second-best apron put on for company approaching and the wilted daisy stuck in his next-oldest sister's hair. No trace of blood on their clothing, no grave-bindings on their limbs. The sisters watched him, wide-eyed, but upright and straight. It was as though he and he alone had died that day.

"You," said his father, but that was all.

After a moment, his mother added, pityingly, "Sometimes."

"Need," said the sister with the daisy.

And, "Help," said the baby, looking solemn. They all stayed where they were, motionless against the wall.

Merlin felt the fear and horror still welling inside of him, bubbling up, but not overflowing.

"You," said his father again, in the tone of voice he used when telling Merlin something for the last time.

"Must," his mother said.

"Find."

"Peace," the baby sighed. She looked so peaceful herself, so natural, that Merlin almost expected her to hook her first two fingers in her mouth as she stared back at him.

"Listen!" his father said urgently.

"To."

"Your," said the older of the two sisters, but then the baby paused so long Merlin wondered if he'd wake before they finished. His throat hurt as if he'd been screaming, but he hadn't heard himself make a sound.

"Heart," the baby finished finally.

He suddenly realized he wanted to answer them, to talk to them again, to hear them laugh. Many times they had spoken to him, had screamed and whispered, but he had never been able to choke back the fear and despair enough to answer. Forgive me? he wanted to say. I didn't know. I would have been there if I knew.

His father's bearded face softened. "We."

"Love." Were those tears shining in his mother's eyes?

"You."

The baby smiled and lisped, "Mer-lin."

The room was growing bright with the gold of sunlight, and just as the sun's first rays gradually burn off the fog that gathers in low-lying hollows in the meadows, the morning light suffused the deathly gray, and his family began to fade. His mother lifted one hand in a wave of farewell.

And he heard singing.

It was a familiar tune, one his mother had taught him as a little boy. But the words were different. The voice was different; he knew it but couldn't quite name the singer. No one else was in the room. He was incredibly weary, and sore to his bones, but now he knew he could close his eyes again and sleep.

And as he drifted off, he listened to the strange words of the familiar song:

Take my hand now, there's no knowing

Where the nighttime breeze is blowing…

I'm your shelter, I'll protect you

Believe in me, I swear I'll stay true…

And when you open your eyes,

I'll still be here by your side…

I'm the dream you're going to live with every day –

May your night be peaceful with me watching where you lay…

Somewhere a new day is breaking,

Till it's your time to be waking…

Sweet dreams.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

As Percival left the main room to return to bed, Freya followed Merlin to the staircase.

She didn't care what he stubbornly maintained, she had seen him collapse only moments before, and she was not letting him take chances – he could break his neck falling down the stairs.

He ignored her, as she expected, and she stopped at the foot of the stairs to watch him place each boot carefully on the next step, making his slow way to the top. He had allowed her to help him navigate the stairs once before, but it didn't seem that he would allow it again tonight, so she didn't offer.

Freya hadn't forgotten the hatred that made his eyes dark to black when he looked at her. And she couldn't help but remember the heavy warm feeling of his body relaxed against hers. It made her nervous to get too close.

But she also remembered what had happened during the night after each of the fights he'd been in since arriving in Emmett's Creek, though none quite so violent as the first, the fight he'd lost due to his weakened condition and the knobby club Percival had pulled from its place under the bar. They'd initially made an attempt to help the stranger clean himself up and have a hot dinner, but that hadn't gone very well. Later in the night, Reeve Whatley had slammed into the tavern, claiming his new prisoner was like to tear up the jail and he needed Percival to help control him. Shasta wouldn't believe the reeve, and had insisted on going along.

Freya had gone as well, because she was still awake, and didn't want to be alone at the tavern with only Gwen, and because she was curious about the stranger, the only one who had reacted to save her from a dart in the back.

Merlin frightened her more asleep, than awake. Awake, she'd seen the cold control he exercised over himself, even in the two fights Percival had broken up. In the woods that rainy afternoon he'd had the perfect opportunity to do to her whatever harm he wished, and instead he'd saved her from a fall and sheltered her from the rain.

Asleep – she shivered as she watched him lean against the door frame like an old man searching for the energy and will to continue. Asleep, there was no controlling the wild thing that raged inside of him.

Shasta had run for Gaius, and Freya had never seen Shasta move swiftly for anyone. Percival and Reeve Whatley finally managed to bind the prisoner in his own blanket, for his sake as well as theirs, but it had been no easy task, both men sweating and pale when they'd finished. And still he struggled, when they lifted him to the wagon and took him back to the tavern under physician's orders; he'd bucked and kicked until Gaius had poured the sleeping draft down his throat - and half over the blanket and cot as well, she remembered. Counting the minutes until the old physician's medicine had taken effect, and the stranger had gone as still as death.

Merlin turned abruptly into his room, closely followed by the light-haired stranger from his own room further down the hall. Good. At least he wasn't alone. The new stranger had the same look as Merlin, the look of a man who knew he could handle himself in a fight; she felt sure he could handle Merlin for now.

Freya seated herself on the lowest step, avoiding the mud from Merlin's boot-prints. She couldn't hear their voices inside the room, and didn't care to. She'd have moved, probably, if she could hear what they were saying. She wasn't sure she believed their story of meeting on the road and looking for work.

Her mind drifted to the conversation she'd had with Merlin in the rain, that day. They'd spoken of their nightmares – at least, she'd spoken of hers and he'd nodded like he understood all too well. Gaius might believe he'd had a seizure that first night; Shasta and Gwen, who'd helped tend him while unconscious, did not dispute it. But Freya had guessed differently.

The guttural snarls and wordless protests were frightening to hear, but the way he thrashed and twisted seemed to her an attempt to escape whatever he was experiencing in his mind. And the few words and phrases she could understand when she was in the room had convinced her that he had horrors in his past that haunted him in his sleep.

Horrors connected with Padlow? she wondered uneasily, and hoped not.

After each fight he'd been in since, she'd woken to hear the same struggle and cries from his room, though not violently enough that she'd called Shasta or Gaius. It was logical to assume he would have nightmares again tonight, whether the fight had been won or lost. Which was it?

She didn't think Merlin had it in him to give up and admit himself beaten by anyone, so the simple fact that he'd walked through the door would indicate a victory. But his wrists, scraped raw as they were by the rope that had tied them together, bothered her. He had been tied? He'd never been caught off guard by anything, at any time, since she'd known him.

Freya hadn't been sitting long on the bottom stair when she heard the door of Merlin's room open, and the stranger spoke.

"You'll live," he said, in a tone of wry amusement.

She didn't move, and a moment later she heard the second upstairs door close.

Then there was silence in the tavern. The candle habitually left on the bar cast flickering shadows around the room she knew nearly by heart. Hadn't she wiped each table and rearranged each chair a thousand times? Didn't she sweep every corner, every night she was here? The little shack in the woods was torment and exile; this place meant peace to her, and safety. This was home.

Idly she wondered where Merlin's home was.

Freya remembered his smile, again, and wished she'd met him years ago, before her mother died. Before whatever had happened to him. Maybe then, there would have been no reason to buy passage with the tax farmer and his peddler's wagon to her mother's second cousin. And Padlow wouldn't have taken her as wife instead. She sighed.

She should go back to bed, back to her bunk below Gwen. As far as tonight was concerned, Merlin's new friend would probably be first to hear him, if he cried out in his sleep. In a dream. And if he needed anyone else, there was Percival and Shasta. No need for her to sit up; her bunk was warm and comfortable.

Freya pulled her bare feet up onto the step, and stuffed the hem of her skirt around her toes. And leaned her head on her arm on a higher step, again careful to avoid the muddy patches. She'd sweep it up in the morning, when it had dried to dust. For now, she'd be uncomfortable enough to stay awake. Just for a while. Just in case he needed clean water, or – or something. She was, after all, a maid in the tavern, and he a guest – an injured guest, at that. It was hospitality that kept her there at the foot of the stairs when everyone else had gone to bed.
And so it was that she was the one to hear his sleep-mutterings.

At first it was a low grumble of sound, a growl made by a human throat, steadily rising. Unmistakable to one who'd heard it more than once before.

Freya rose and crept up the stairs, every sense alert. Ready to duck and bolt if the light-haired stranger woke and came out of his room – but she could hear the ragged sound of that one's snoring through the walls.

She paused by Merlin's door, then inched it open.

While she'd been sitting drowsily on the stairs, the rainclouds had cleared enough to let moonlight through the room's single high window overlooking the street. Enough so she could see that he lay on his back on the cot, wrapped in the gray wool blanket.

His head turned on the pillow, this way and that, again seeking escape from his dreams, but he wasn't thrashing about uncontrollably. Yet.

She eased into the room. There would be no excuse for her, for this, if any should discover her. Gaius had warned her. But she couldn't leave Merlin alone, not tonight. Not like this.

He whimpered in his throat, a vulnerable sound.

She should've brought the candle. But what if he should wake to find her here? She answered herself, what if he should? He could throw her out, he could keep her and force her to lie with him; Padlow had done both on many occasions. Worst thing, he'd wake the household and embarrass her.

Freya crossed to the side of his cot. The faint moonlight outlined his nose and cheekbones, the curve of his upper lip, leaving the rest of his face in shadow. She reached out her hand – and paused, her fingers scant inches from touching him. If he were awake, she'd never dare.

Silly girl, she scolded herself. If he were awake, he'd have already demanded that she leave him alone.

Stay away from me, he'd said. With all that anger and hate burning in his eyes.

She shivered. How could one person hold so much anger without burning himself up? She laid her hand on his forehead, damp with sweat, but cool. No fever, then.

When he spoke, it was so sudden and clear that she jumped back and almost lost her balance. "You – sometimes – need – help." With an odd pause between each word. His head was tipped away from her; had he spoken to her? What a strange thing to say. Was he still dreaming? He spoke again, "You – must – find – peace."

She knew she needed help; wasn't it obvious to everyone? Percival and Shasta and Gaius gave her help just to live, every day. And she thought she'd found peace in accepting her lot as Padlow's wife, in trying to do the best she could.

Then he said, "We – love - you – Merlin." And she knew he was talking in his sleep. His voice sounded so bereft, so sad and lonely. So empty.

Before she knew it, she was on her knees beside his cot, brushing her fingertips across his hair, still damp from the rain. And humming. It was an old song, one she didn't remember learning. A lullaby, of sorts. She sang the words so low, she was almost whispering.

His head moved beneath her fingers like a sleepy child seeking comfort. Then he lay still.