Chapter 7: Farewell to Ealdor

Two days they stayed. Sometimes paradise, sometimes purgatory.

And sometimes the unexpected shift from one to the other left Merlin dizzy, like an emotional stagger.

The exhilaration of helping Chadin break in one of the young stallions in his herd – of riding bareback, fill tilt across the range, hat long gone and eyes streaming from the wind – would crash into abrupt and painful shock as he finally managed to rein the horse in, only to realize he'd arrived at his mother's favorite picnic spot by the low creek.

Chloe running around picking daisies for a chain, tossing them onto their sleeping father's chest, the baby toddling behind her sister, bringing tattered petals… their mother's indulgent smile for them, and the gentle look for the son too proud to join in…

Or he'd be in a black mood, seeing his family out of the corner of his eye no matter where he turned–

Father forking hay in the barn, mother with a clothespin in her mouth at the laundry line, calling warning to the little sisters playing in the yard–

Hearing their voices, their laughter. And Freya would come out to the porch with the curly-haired little girl, tickling and laughing and cuddling, sitting with bare feet in the dust as she teased the child in her unsteady toddling runs after the chickens.

Freya left off her cap since they weren't traveling dusty roads, and had no occasion to wear her hat. Her black hair was long enough to pull back in a braid, though there were always strands that escaped around her face. She looked happy, whenever he saw her, more alive and more real, somehow, than he remembered her in Emmett's Creek.

Merlin thought that independence agreed with her.

He didn't enter the house again except to slip in and out of the bathing-room that had an outside door for easy access. He did his best to focus on the task at hand, focus as small as he could, on tools, on hands, on animals, on food. Not on the place he was in, not on familiar landscape or memories that fluttered perpetually on the edges of his mind, deceptively soft… and sharp. He took his meals on the porch and slept in the bed of the wagon and avoided conversation with Chadin and Freya both.

Visitors came, as news of the new baby spread, and Merlin avoided them, too. He didn't care to meet any who might recognize him; he wasn't sure if Iris or Chadin had told anyone he was back. The doctor came again the morning after, and Iris the second afternoon.

She stayed to help Freya hang out laundry – sheets and diapers, tiny clothes, little clothes, rancher's clothes. A dress or two. And on the end, Freya's dark blue dress and Merlin's spare shirt, sharing a clothespin between them, holding sleeve-cuffs together.

Chadin and Merlin were occupied that afternoon in the barn, paring and cleaning the hooves of the herd for shoeing.

"Hello?" called a man's voice from the open door of the barn, streaming daylight to the farthest corner of the last stall.

"Back here!" Chadin answered.

"Brought Cora by to see the baby," the newcomer explained. Merlin heard boots strolling closer, kept his head down, focusing on the hoof clamped between his knees. "Hope Helen and Ma don't scare her too much with talk of the birthing."

Chadin grunted from his place across from Merlin. "How long til Cora has yours?"

"Doc says before harvest," the man answered. "Cora wanted to walk over, get a little exercise, but we'll ride back in the cart with Ma."

As far as Merlin knew, the only visitor at the ranch was Iris; but if this man was calling her Ma…

With one boot the visitor scuffed the bottom rail of the stall where Merlin was working. "I didn't believe it when Ma said you were back, Merlin, but she insisted it was you."

Merlin let the hoof drop, and straightened. And said his friend's name for the first time in years, "Will."

His voice sounded grim to his own ears, but aside from leaping the chest-high stall wall or flattening the man pushing through the gate, he was trapped. He remembered William as a stocky youth, a few years older, but their nearest neighbor and his only playmate as a child, whenever their fathers let them have an hour or two of freedom at the same time. He'd spent as much time at their farm helping with chores as Will had spent helping him. He might have been fostered in their family, called Will brother, had he not–

The young man was just as stocky as the youth, shoulders broad and chest deep, and the easy grin was the same. He pushed his hat back, brushing his fingers through the brown hair flopping over his forehead to indicate his amusement at Merlin's haircut.

"How was your time in the corps?" he said.

He appreciated that Will hadn't taken an attitude of commiseration or sympathy over Merlin's loss. So, joking himself, he told him in two words, words he couldn't have used had the women been present. Will tipped his head back and guffawed, and Chadin came to hang his forearms over the top rail of the stall, grinning himself.

"Well, we're glad to see you back," Will said.

There was a slightly awkward pause, as Merlin didn't respond; he knuckled the small of his back to ease the crick of bending over hooves for hours.

"Ah – back for good?" Will continued, glancing at Chadin.

Merlin read the look – there was wariness, and caution, in both men. Chadin's land used to belong to Merlin's family; now that he was of age, they were wondering if he was going to make a fuss over ownership of the land. Legally it was Chadin's. Those who were underage couldn't own land, and that included by inheritance, without fostering. But that law was only as effective as the ability of the new owner to hold the land. They were right to worry – they couldn't know if he intended recovering the land by hook or crook.

"Your woman said you were just passing through?" Chadin said.

Merlin jerked his head in a nod. "She has family in Turad, we're heading there."

Both other men nodded, and Chadin remarked speculatively, "Never been over to Turad."

"I've never been out of Ealdor," Will said wryly. "Say, Merlin, did they ever find out who – I mean, did they ever catch whoever–"

Merlin took a deep breath, filling his lungs, then exhaled as slowly as possible. "You haven't heard from your tax farmer this spring, have you?" he said quietly.

"You mean Pad-"

"He was hung almost seven months ago."

"Ah," Chadin said. Neither of them seemed to notice that both had breathed a sigh of relief. "The reeve mentioned he'd had official communication to expect a new collector. But why–"

"I remember," Will said slowly. "Pa and Mister Balinor used to talk taxes, sometimes… Did your Pa ever say he had proof that Padlow was cheating us?"

Merlin didn't answer. Whether his father could've proved anything or not, Padlow had killed him for it, to discourage any others from resisting what he demanded.

"So – his horses and wagon," Chadin said in a tone of discovery. "I wondered, when I saw those grays."

When a criminal was caught and executed for his crimes, it was commonly assumed that the victims would be repaid from the property – the reason for Freya's troubles in Emmett's Creek. In the case of the team and wagon, Freya could fairly be considered a victim as well as the criminal's widow. But the more Merlin said, the more curious Chadin and Will would be – then more questions, speculations, gossip all over Ealdor. They'd already be talking about his return – with a lady - and the details of the murders for a year and a day, but if allowing misconceptions meant protecting Freya from more gossip, he'd allow it.

"William!" came a call from the yard outside the barn. A sweet, light voice, that made Will flash his sudden easy grin.

"That's my Cora," he explained to Merlin. "Her family moved here about the same time as Chadin and Helen came. She's expecting our first baby." He seemed to swell visibly with pride, then reached over the stall. "Well, glad you see you, then, Merlin. You're welcome to come by any time, stay as long as you like."

Merlin shook the offered hand, liking his friend all over again in spite of himself. "I don't expect I'll be back this way, but I'll remember that."

Will nodded, still beaming. "Hope you have a good trip."

Chadin followed him out of the barn, saying something in a joking tone that made Will laugh ruefully and shake his head. And Merlin couldn't help trying to remember, how long had it been since he'd had a friend, someone with whom he could lower his guard without fear?

He listened to the noise and bustle of a lengthy goodbye out in the yard, a newborn's high, thin wail, a man's full-throated laugh. Then left the stall and slipped through one of the back doors, leaving it slightly ajar behind him. He rested on an uneven bench and leaned against the plank wall of the barn, staring through the horizontal bars of the corral at the distant hills.

Why on earth did I come here? he asked himself. It's done. The murderer is dead. Why did I survive him? His pledge and his goal had always been to give his life for the success of his quest for revenge, not to live to old age afterward. Not alone.

Iris' words came unbidden to his mind. Your father and mama both - thanking their lucky stars - hoping for all they were worth that you wouldn't come walking back in… I hope she passed without considering that their deaths might drive you to this.

What, then? What? He could've died with his family, died in the ditch near Turad. Could've died with the murderer's last breath. What now? What is there left?

Nothing. Emptiness. A tearing loneliness inside, ripping a little more with every familiarity here, every memory of happier times forever lost.

And now he couldn't help but wonder what he'd missed.

Thinking back, he couldn't remember any girl of Ealdor that he'd thought of more than any other, couldn't remember any of them except vaguely, a cloud of giggling, colorful butterflies to be avoided on community holiday gatherings. If that one night had never happened… Would he be courting by now? thinking of saying vows, since he'd come of age?

Maybe it was true that his parents' dying thoughts – in the middle of the pain and anguish over the baby girls – was to hope that their son might be spared. Yet had he never left the farmhouse, maybe he and Balinor could've taken Padlow – maybe his attempt would've been enough to arrest and convict him… or justify the two of them hanging him quietly behind the barn…

Stiff bootless feet, body spinning slightly… Arthur's twine still binding the wrists… dried blood on swollen face and shirt-collar… Eyes half-open, expression frozen in shocked disbelief at the end of life. The body was a pitiful lifeless thing, an empty scarecrow.

He had lived to see his enemy dead.

More likely, had it seemed to Padlow that he could not get a drop on both of them, he would have behaved civilly, and returned later with a few bully-boys, or come at night to burn them all in their beds. And there would have been no one to pursue him to a reckoning of his crimes. And he would have continued cheating and stealing from all the folk throughout the region, poisoning neighbor against neighbor… another Sage Springs, even. A tangled countryside of murder and theft.

And Freya–

The barn door beside him creaked and swung slightly. His right hand slipped to his hip before he remembered he wore no belt knife. It said much about his distraction that he hadn't even heard someone approaching through the barn. But did it matter if it was a stranger, a thief, weapon drawn, intent on harm and damage?

He was startled how swiftly his whole being answered that question with a resounding Yes! Not here, on this land. Not to this family. If he let himself be killed, where would they be? And Freya–

It was Freya herself at the door, hair down and still barefoot, a napkin-covered plate in her hand, visually searching the distance near and far, through the rails of the corral. And he noticed that the sun had set, and the hills and trees were growing dim with slow-gathering twilight.

Chadin would be sitting with Helen. New baby in the cradle beside her, to rock with her foot as she cut food and coaxed and encourage Donny and Anna Jo to eat. Chadin would get the coffeepot so she didn't have to get up, the two of them sharing what news the day's visitors had brought.

And there was Freya, neglecting her own dinner to heap his plate high, seek him out in the dark.

"I'm here," he said, a little gruffly, relaxing back against the barn.

She jumped a little at the sound of his voice, but was smiling as she turned. "Chadin said you were in the barn, last he saw you."

Freya handed him the plate, letting the barn door swing shut behind her. He took it without comment, set it on the bench beside him, returned his gaze to the treetops and hills, the single star coming out low on the north horizon off to his left. She watched him for a moment, then stepped over and settled onto the bench beside him.

If she asks me, he thought, if I'm okay, I will–

"We had a long talk with Iris today," Freya said in her low, almost musical voice. "Iris, and her daughter-in-law, Cora. We mostly talked about the babies – Helen's, and Cora's. But – I thought you should know – Iris spoke to me alone for a while. About you."

He gritted his teeth against a curse.

"They – they think that – you and I – that we're – well, there were things Iris told me because she assumed that I was – that we were – that I was in a position of having a right to know." Beside him on the bench, she was twisting her fingers together. "I thought that if I – tried to explain about – about Padlow, there would be a lot more gossip here than you'd like."

"Don't worry about it," he said. "I know what they think, and I didn't correct them either. There'd be a lot more questions for you too, personal questions."

"Oh," she said, sounding disconcerted. "I didn't think about – yes, I suppose there would be." She felt silent, and sighed, but kept sending him glances from under her long lashes.

"What is it?" he said tiredly.

"You should eat your dinner before it gets cold," she ventured.

"You've eaten?"

She shook her head, and he shoved the plate over to her. She tried to protest, but he gave her a hard look and she subsided with a slight down-turning of her brows, removed the napkin and picked up the fork.

"Merlin?" she said. After a moment of silence, she went on. "When I asked if you minded staying a few days, I asked if you were sure, and you said, We'll see. What do you think now?"

He let his head fall back against the wall of the barn with a thud, closed his eyes, and concentrated all his energy on remaining perfectly still. When he trusted himself, he said, without opening his eyes, "You want to stay longer? You tell me – am I still sane? Do me a favor – you see me frothing at the mouth, cut my throat. Just do it from behind, so I don't see you coming."

For some moments there was silence, save the sighing of the wind, the clop of horses' hooves moving about the corral, the soft scrape of Freya's fork on the plate. Then she set it aside.

"Iris told me, she was the one to find you and your family," Freya said quietly.

He raised his hands and pressed the heels of them against his eyelids until he saw yellow and purple stars. "I don't… really remember."

"I think she's been worried about you. She said she used to talk with your mother, that she's wondered about you since you've been gone. And there's folks in Emmett's Creek who think–"

Merlin interrupted her with a harsh curse, every word spoken with individual emphasis. And found that words continued to pour out of him, words describing what little he remembered of finding his family dead in their own blood, of striking out when they took him to see the bodies laid out before the funerals. Of the clumsy well-meaning attempts of Ealdor folk to keep him calm and contained until an agent could come for him, how he broke free and returned to the farm, unable to think any further than his father's plans for the next day, and the next.

Break ground in the north ten, plow furrows, plant potatoes.

He told of Arthur, riding across the plowed ground he'd always hated yet refused to leave, the humiliation of being tied hand and foot, flung over the plow-horse. Then there was the keen frustration of being a prisoner, the rising panic of leaving his home and land to strangers, the growing suspicion that nothing would be done about the murders. The sense of urgent responsibility – all growing til the thought of three years' service made him fear for his sanity, made him reach for his boot knife to attempt a nighttime escape.

Arthur's discovery of him, the frightened stabbing of the agent, the burning of his home, and the flight into the dark, heading ever east.

Gradually Merlin came to himself, realized he was talking in circles, his mouth dry and his throat hoarse.

Freya was holding his hand, her fingers laced through his, his fingertips brushing the fabric of her skirt across her lap. She wasn't looking at him, but gazing off across the thickening darkness. There was enough light left that he could see tears rolling down her cheeks. He wondered if she knew she was holding his hand; usually she shied from physical contact as much as he did.

Merlin slumped back against the wall of the barn, clenching his teeth against an uncontrollable inclination of his teeth to chatter with sheer nervous energy. "I'm – sorry," he forced out. "I shouldn't have – laid that all on you."

She was rubbing his hand now, still as if unconsciously. "Please don't be sorry, I'm glad you told me." Her voice was husky, dropped to a whisper. "These days – I know it's been hard for you. Thank you." If he moved a muscle, she would become aware of his hand in her lap, and then – "Helen was feeling much stronger today. She was out of bed all day except for a couple of long naps when Anna Jo and the baby were sleeping."

Suddenly aware of their connection, she jerked her hands away, slid to the back of the bench. He said nothing, but laid his palm on the rough wood, curled his fingers over the edge. He did feel better after that outburst, somehow.

Slightly.

"What I mean is, we can leave tomorrow," she added, a little breathlessly.

He would definitely welcome that. There would be no final escape for him, not til the freedom of death, if then. But it would be a relief to be away from the constant reminders.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

It was almost a full day past Ealdor before Merlin spoke to Freya again beyond the most basic necessary exchange of information.

He had been silent during the farewell to Chadin and Helen, though he shook the rancher's hand cordially and nodded to his wife. Shook his head without speaking when tentatively offered the decorative tree that had been his family's. He was tense and tight-jawed on the ride through town, though they left early enough that most folk were still inside their homes, or too busy to notice them beyond a call and a wave – but there were a handful who recognized him, called him by name, and sent questions after them.

Freya hadn't found sleep easy, that last night. Merlin's words – few enough to describe what he spoke about – were graphically succinct. She understood from Iris that he'd been both stubborn and independent as a boy, which perhaps explained his less-than-rational reaction to the loss of his family, and his attack on Arthur.

It had occurred to her that she'd already been living as Padlow's wife in Emmett's Creek when he committed these murders, and that thought led to a faint but very real sense of guilt. She had known as well as any, and better than many, what violence he was capable of. Perhaps if she'd spoken out, made more of an attempt to reason with him, persuade him, found someone who could stop him…

And hovering around all this thought was the feeling of Merlin's hard lean hand in hers, the strength in his fingers even when he relaxed his iron grip, the calluses that spoke of hard work uncomplained.

Had he reached for her? Or she for him? She wasn't sure, but either option gave her butterflies in her stomach, relieved only by the thought that he hadn't seemed to notice. She'd hoped that they would retain the feelings of openness and closeness, but his taciturnity today indicated an embarrassment at what he probably viewed as a loss of control.

In any case, by the time the afternoon sun was glaring down on them, she was so tired she climbed into the back of the wagon, pillowed her head on her arm, and slept. She slept so hard that she didn't notice when the wagon stopped, or when Merlin jumped down.

"Freya."

She woke to the sound of his voice saying her name, and a slight pressure on her arm. She opened her eyes; he stood next to the wagon, sideways to her, looking back down the way they'd come, and he was moving his hand back from touching her. She struggled to sit upright, squinting in the brightness of the warm sun.

"What is it?" she said thickly.

"Someone's coming," he said absently, his eyes still focused in the distance.

She shaded her eyes and tried to see who he meant. Since leaving Camelot they'd met plenty of folk on the road, passing them or allowing them to pass, or going in the opposite direction. It had never before been an occasion for Merlin to stop and scrutinize; if he was doing that now, something was different. Maybe something was wrong. She could see a cloud of dust, and a rider preceding it. As far as she could tell, there was nothing special about the rider, though he was coming on at a trot that would soon overtake them.

"It's Arthur," Merlin said.

She slid to the end of the wagon to climb down; he walked beside her and handed her to the ground without taking his eyes from the rider. She opened her mouth to express disbelief, to ask if he was sure, but closed it again without saying anything. He wouldn't have said it if he hadn't somehow recognized the agent.

It was some moments later, some distance closed between them, that Freya saw for herself that Merlin was right. She remembered seeing the agent ride into Emmett's Creek alongside Merlin, the leggy chestnut stallion, the piercing gaze beneath the hat brim pulled low against the sun's rays. She dropped her eyes under that gaze as he slowed the stallion to a walk to approach.

"Merlin, Freya," the agent said, dryly but politely, tipping his hat to her.

"What do you want?" Merlin said, not exactly rudely, but not very patiently, either. His hands were on his hips.

Freya looked at him, startled not by the shortness of the question, but the implication. She noticed now that the agent wore no look of surprise at catching them up. Of course he'd known their destination, and therefore their route, but Merlin's demeanor indicated he suspected this was no chance encounter.

"You were making good time til Ealdor," Arthur said. "I didn't think I'd catch up with you, otherwise."

Merlin didn't respond, didn't move, but he suddenly felt tense and hard beside her. Without looking, she guessed there was anger in his eyes again, that fierce predatory gaze that said he was looking for an opportunity to fight.

"We're burning daylight, standing here," he said only. "I wanted to make two-three more hours today."

Arthur nodded, gesturing them to continue as though it were his right to allow them, and they returned to the driver's seat. The agent rode beside the wagon where the road allowed, but neither man attempted conversation. To bridge the gap, she asked after Gwen – Fine, Arthur said. Feeling better. Then, silence again.

By the time the first stars showed themselves, Freya felt ready to cry.

With the arrival of the agent, Merlin had withdrawn into the same angry silence he'd worn when first they met. He wasn't rude to her – never had been, really – but he neglected the small courtesies he'd fallen into when it had been just the two of them, and slipped back into non-responsive defensiveness. It was as though his outpouring of feeling and their unintentional hand-holding had never happened. Once again he had sealed himself off from everyone, and that included her.

"Must have been a hard six months," was Arthur's first attempt at conversation, as they sat down to Freya's hurriedly-assembled stew and flat biscuits. "I've heard stories about Nathlan that would curl your toes. I expect you could tell a few stories, yourself."

Merlin said shortly, "I expect you're right."

More tense silence.

Freya was acutely aware of the history of these two men; because they'd worked together in Emmett's Creek did not mean their truce would continue. In fact, it seemed that Arthur was bent on provoking Merlin; every time he made a comment, he chose Ealdor, Chadin's ranch, and their neighbors as topics. This met first with stony silence from Merlin, then fierce glares.

The last attempt, Freya noticed in alarm, had Merlin feeling at his empty hip as though he intended pulling a knife on the agent again. Arthur noticed also, and grinned as though he found Merlin's reaction amusing, but his eyes were hard and wary when he looked at the younger man.

The agent directed a few remarks to Freya, but she was sensitive to Merlin's mood and volunteered nothing. Finally Merlin made a pretext of checking on the horses, though it was the third time he'd done so, and left Freya with Arthur at the fire. She kept scrubbing the stewpot, angling it so the agent wouldn't know it was already as clean as it was possible to be.

"You had a hard time of it in Ealdor?" Arthur said to her.

Freya glanced over to where Merlin was bent over one of the gray's hooves. "Why do you – say things to try to hurt him? Say things that anyone could see are upsetting to him?"

Arthur gave her a keen look. "You think he could make something of himself? Be someone that people can depend on? Be one of the few truly honorable men, upholding justice wherever he chooses to live his life?"

Surprised, she sat back. Whatever Arthur saw on her face, he nodded.

"Something I didn't recognize when I first met him, to my pain. And shame. He was on a razor's edge, in many ways he still is. Who knows what will be too much for him to handle, or when will be the moment he'll break? And the consequences to whoever is depending on him?"

Freya thought of their first night in Ealdor, his reaction to seeing his family's tree on the wall; he'd been back by morning, though, and in control of himself. "Are you trying to make him break?" Freya said. "Or make him tougher?"

Arthur shrugged, sitting back. "He still owes me. If I'm going to work with him, I have to know he has control of himself."

She shook her head. She understood him, but what did he care if Merlin did break, as he put it? Would he be there for whatever came after? She'd seen Merlin pushed these last few days, seen him pushed in Emmett's Creek. He fought, he paced, he worked, he lost his temper. He might always be close to that edge, though.

Freya watched Merlin drop the hoof and straighten, gazing away from them into the darkness. Watched him contemplate walking away… watched him decide to stay, to return to the campfire circle, however reluctantly. She set the coffeepot in the coals to heat; Merlin knelt and fixed his eyes on the agent with a faintly ominous air of expectation.

In a moment, Freya thought, he'll demand, Well?

"Turad," Arthur said. "I'm heading there on official assignment. You may remember I mentioned the possibility?"

"We heard the tolls were getting out of hand," Merlin said.

"There's been complaints to reach Uther's ears," Arthur said. "My writ covers investigation of the complaints as well as authority to adjust Turad's standing laws. There's a judge there that I'll be working with."

"Under?" Merlin said shrewdly.

The agent gave him a wry look. "It's rare for an agent's writ to exceed a judge's authority."

"What do you want from me?"

Arthur reached into his vest, withdrawing a folded paper, passed it into Merlin's uncomprehending hand. "I've an agent's writ with your name on it."

Freya was still gaping at the surprise – the honor – thinking, no wonder, all his talk of upholding justice and depending on Merlin.

And Merlin pitched the sheet into the coals without hesitation. She gasped and reached for it as if she'd rescue it, even as it caught the flame. Merlin never took his eyes, dark and narrow with suspicion as they were, from the agent.

Arthur barked a short laugh. "I figured you'd do something like that," he said. "I have the actual writ in my saddlebags."

"No."

"You were in Turad a year and a half," Arthur said, as if he hadn't heard Merlin's refusal.

Freya looked at Merlin, wondering if there were other reasons he'd agreed to bring her on this journey. People he missed.

"From the little your lady there would actually tell me, you became quite familiar with the layout of the city, the lower classes. Working with – under – Judge Alined, I'll have access to the higher classes. Between us, we could–"

"No," Merlin repeated, softly but definitely. Yet he didn't look away from the agent.

Arthur stared back for a lengthening moment. Freya was struck by how similar they were – each absolutely motionless, yet at any moment they could either leap for the other's throat, or roll over and fall asleep. There was a readiness, an alertness; they'd both been trained to be prepared for anything.

Merlin, an agent? He didn't have the personality – or the desire, she suspected – to work well with strangers. Yet he did possess an innate and unyielding honesty, a stubborn determination to complete what he set out to do, that would make a good agent. If he could somehow come to peace with his past.

"I hear Turad has a fine jail," Arthur said easily. "You can serve your time there, if you prefer it to a temporary writ. Last I checked, it was five years for assault on an agent."

Merlin's eyes slid shut, his jaw and fists clenched. Arthur looked past him at Freya, the first either had noticed her since Merlin's return to the campfire. She was never any good at hiding her feelings, and he must have seen how she felt about his threat; he frowned at her.

"It's now," he said harshly, transferring his attention back to Merlin. "I'm trying to do you a favor, putting my reputation on the line to get you an agent's writ, instead of throwing you in jail. But I'd rather that than chase you from here to kingdom come again and waste more years doing it. You pay now for what you did to me, revenger."

"You could just forgive him," Freya spoke up. "Go your separate ways in peace." She blushed at the blank looks both men turned on her, though the dim light from the fire's coals probably hid it.

"What'll it be?" Arthur said to Merlin.

He rounded on the agent, which meant his back was mostly to Freya. She reached for the tin cups to fill with coffee, but heard him anyway, to her embarrassment, heard the words he used to curse the agent, before he agreed with a terse, "I'll do it."

The rest of the trip passed with very little conversation between the three of them, and no incidents, save one.

Freya was involved in packing dinner supplies from the back of the wagon when Arthur approached her soundlessly, and from behind, laid a hand on her shoulder. She reacted instantly as Merlin had taught her, with an elbow to his gut, a heel slammed on the top of his boot, a fist to his unprotected neck – and stopped her knee from rising to complete the defensive sequence.

The agent stumbled back, coughing out momentary pain; Freya began to gasp apologies, and an amused bark, Ha! rang out over the camp. When she looked, Merlin's back was turned as he loosened reins at the horses' headstalls, but his shoulders were shaking suspiciously.

Merlin, laughing? She'd never heard him laugh. And then she wasn't sorry for her reaction, if it had caused Merlin to laugh.