Between The Lines The Real Story Grows
Freya/Vivian, 8.8k, @merlinreversebang fic for @merlinsdeheune (beautiful wonderful art posted here and here)
Freya liked the library. It was warm and quiet, full of people who were too preoccupied to pay her any mind. It smelled like old paper and binding glue. There were more squishy armchairs and sofas than there ever were readers to sit in them, and even computers open for anyone’s use.
And more than anything else, no one ever asked her to pay for anything. She could spend hours in the stacks, roaming the aisles, curled up with one of the infinite books, and no one ever came over to chivvy her out the door or demand she buy something instead of loitering around. She could be there the whole day and not a person would complain about it.
It was almost perfect. The only thing it was missing was a shower, but that was what the local gym and her basic membership were for. And a bed, of course, but Freya was long since used to going without that. The old sleeping bag tucked away in an alcove of an abandoned warehouse nearby served her well enough most nights. And for nights when it didn’t, the gym was open twenty-four hours, so she just had to stay awake all night: the price of not freezing to death.
The other thing she liked about the library wasn’t a thing at all, but a person. Old Man Em was indeed old, wrinkly and slow with a white beard almost to his waist, and he never told anyone his real name. He was a sweet man, always ready with a smile for anyone who came his way, but he was quick as a whip and had a sharp tongue he wasn’t afraid to unleash on anyone who misbehaved in his precious library. It was his home, and it seemed like he had read every single book on the shelves and a thousand more besides.
He was by far Freya’s favorite of the librarians. They were all nice enough, but he was the only one that had never side-eyed her during the weekdays; more than once, the others had looked a second away from calling a truancy officer or otherwise demanding why a girl her age wasn’t in school. She didn’t want to answer those questions, and she really didn’t want to have to find a new safe place to spend her days, so she was immensely grateful for Old Man Em’s serene, nonjudgmental presence.
He seemed to have taken a liking to her as well, quicker than she had to him. The first time he had tried to feed her had almost sent Freya running for the hills. It had been a large platter of fresh strawberries, grapes, pretzels, and little cheese cubes. He had claimed that it had been left over from a function that morning and that anyone was welcome to it, but it had been such a thin excuse that Freya’s hackles had raised automatically.
“It don’t need your pity,” she’d snarled at him, arms wrapped around herself like it could hide how thin she was.
Old Man Em hadn’t been intimidated in the least. He’d just popped a cheese cube into his mouth and smiled at her, blue eyes bright and keen and strangely familiar in a way Freya could never find words to explain, even to herself.
“There is pity,” he’d said, “and there is compassion.”
He’d added nothing more. He had simply went on snacking, though he did turn the sampler around until the strawberries were directly in front of Freya. Still smarting from the clear assumption that she couldn’t feed herself, she had tried to keep hold of her indignation, but strawberries had always been her favorite.
That wasn’t the last time he had brought her food, and Freya had long since stopped protesting. Sometimes he brought in old clothes too, coats and gloves and scarves he claimed were throwaways from his niece even though the other librarians were certain that Old Man Em had no family. It should’ve felt like charity. From anyone else it would have, but something about the gentle warmth in those eyes made Freya feel safe and cared for in a way she hadn’t in a very long time, and she couldn’t bring herself to turn the gifts away.
There hadn’t been any gifts or snacks today. In fact, she was fairly sure that Old Man Em wasn’t on shift, but then she wasn’t usually in quite this early in the day. She’d taken refuge inside well before mid-morning because someone had moved into the alleyway outside the building she squatted in: a man with long, scraggly hair, dirt under his ragged nails, and a smile that made her cower. She was never comfortable around adult men—Old Man Em being the exception to that well-earned rule—but this one especially set off all her alarms until she’d had no choice but to flee.
Now she was holed up on the second floor of the library, hidden in the stacks to avoid the children’s group having story time in the main reading area. She didn’t have a book herself, but she didn’t need one. She just leaned her head back against the closest shelf, wrapped her arms around her legs, and listened for the teacher’s voice. He was reading a kid’s book about King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. Freya had always liked those stories, though she was more partial to those of Merlin and his love Nimue, the Lady of the Lake.
She had almost managed to doze off—tired after a night of uneasy half-sleep, too wary of the man outside her building to actually relax—when the clomp of heavy footsteps nearby roused her. Her head made contact with the shelf above her and she couldn’t quite muffle her yelp, more of surprise than pain. She was still rubbing at her forehead when the footsteps rounded the corner into the aisle.
Old Man Em blinked down at her with a benign smile, apparently not at all surprised to find her there.
“There you are, dear thing,” he said, voice creaky but undeniably pleasant. “What’re you doing all the way down there?”
“Just listening,” Freya told him, thumbing over her shoulder in the direction of the reading group.
“Ah, yes,” he said. “You do love your knights and castles, don’t you?”
Freya gave him a sly smile. “I don’t know about that,” she said. “I think I rather fancy the wizards and ladies. The knights are too high on their horses for my tastes.”
Em laughed, long beard swaying as he shook his head.
“You’re not wrong there,” he wheezed. “Bunch of dollopheads, they were.”
Freya chuckled too; she was always tickled pink by the strange things Em said, his creative insults in particular. She ducked her head to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear and when she looked up, Em had stopped laughing. He was just looking at her now, head tilted and lips pursed in thought.
“You fancy ladies, you say?” he asked after a long moment.
Freya clenched a hand in the skirt of her dress on reflex, an uneasy chill running up her spine. She wished that it wouldn’t, that she could be completely at ease and trust Old Man Em without question, but experience had taught her that wasn’t wise. No matter how kind someone has been to you in the past, that doesn’t guarantee they always will be, not if they hear something about you that they don’t like.
She wouldn’t lie though. She was done lying about herself.
“So what if I do?” she asked through gritted teeth.
Em just nodded to himself, like he was pleased with her answer—not a response she had ever gotten before. Then he brought a hand up to stroke his beard contemplatively and said, “What about castles? How do you feel about those?”
Freya frowned up at him, utterly confused now.
“They’re…fine?” she said slowly. She couldn’t really say that she had an opinion on the matter, given that she’d never been inside one. Or outside one, for that matter. They looked lovely in pictures, at least.
“Why are you asking me all these questions?” Freya demanded, horrified to feel a blush creeping up on her cheeks at the leading tone in Em’s words.
