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PROLOGUE

The Scotland Highlands, 10th Century 

Beyond the castle walls, past the farmlands and up a rolling hillside, there stands a small clearing, recently razed. Here, the smell of crushed grass, trampled under the foot of horses and servants and clansmen, is strong and sharp. It’s just yet spring— the bluebells littering the roots of creaking pines have yet to bloom. But unless there be a frost, they will blossom in a week or so. The weather will grow steadily warmer and they’ll be mistaken for will o’ wisps, fluttering in the breeze beneath the canopy dabble.

It is in this crudely made little clearing that three sets of posts have been tamped into the wet, forgiving earth and three tents have been draped and tied down over them. Milling about are DunBroch clansmen, readying for the hunt, and servants quickly putting away the food before the pollen starts to stick. Among them—but distinctly separate—is the queen. She is on a hunt all her own and not to be disturbed. 

“…Where are you? Come out!” 

Merida giggles, ducking down under the table, pressing herself flush against the side. Her wild bright hair gives her away from every possible angle, but her Mother feigns being none-the-wiser. 

“…I’m coming to get you!” With a grin, the queen dives low, flipping the rich green table-runner out of her way, certain she’ll find her wee rascal hiding where she last saw her. But Merida is nothing if not precocious and has slipped away just in time. Elinor, bemused, hums as she straightens back up. 

She can already hear the soft footsteps approaching from behind, barely louder than the repressed giggles they accompany. Still, she plays along and taps a finger to her chin, waiting for the wee thing to toddle just slightly closer…

With a roar, she whirls around and Merida screams as she’s scooped up into her mother’s soft embrace. 

Merida squeals and giggles, kicking frantically to get away. But the queen’s grip is surprisingly steady and strong, nimble fingers tickling the girl’s sides until she’s nearly blue in the face from laughter. Elinor pretends to bite at her sweet, rosy cheeks and delights in each high-pitched trill she elicits.

Suddenly, her grip slackens and Merida takes the opportunity to scramble away, looking very much like a newborn horse on all fours. Nothing but a mess of fast, gangly limbs. She giggles on, expecting the game to continue and for her mother to give chase, but Elinor is already standing again, hands on her hips. 

“Och, Fergus,” she chastises, voice stern but light. “No weapons on the table!” 

Her father, the king, has just dropped a very large, very hefty bow onto the same table where platters of fruit and meat sat ready. It clatters where it lands, causing a couple of the apples to roll away. He chortles in that deep, rumbling way that Merida likes— it tickles when he’s holding her— and pulls his lady wife in for a kiss. 

While they’re distracted, Merida darts over to the table. Fat round hands gather the table-runner into fists and she begins to pull until the bow falls over the edge. She reaches up to catch it but misjudges the weight and ends up falling flat on her bottom, the bow on her lap is as heavy as one of her father’s dogs. Her parents startle at the commotion and share a fond laugh at the sight.

“Can I shoot an arrow?” she asks her father, whistling slightly from the missing gap where her two front teeth used to be. She’d taken quite the tumble out off of a stable fence not too long ago. Elinor had been livid. “Can I? Can I?”

Fergus chuckles, shaking his head. “Not with that you can’t. But how about one of your very own?” 

He procures a small, lovingly crafted bow from seemingly nowhere and hands it to his bonnie lass. The sight of her eyes widening and twinkling is enough confirmation that he knows her well— she’d been wanting one of her own for ages. 

They stand before the straw and canvas target, at first roughly twenty feet away, then closer and closer as Merida continues to fire them down directly into the marsh. 

“Now, there’s a good girl,” he encourages, kneeling down to her level. She was such a small thing compared to him. She can hardly keep the end of the bow from clipping. “Listen. Draw all the way back now, to your cheek. That’s right, keep both eyes open, and…” 

Following his instruction to the best of her ability, she looses the arrow— too high. It soars through the air and disappears beyond the trees. Her shoulders fall. 

“I missed.”

“Go and fetch it, then,” says Elinor with an encouraging push toward the forest. Merida hands the bow over to her mother and races off after the arrow, hair flying every which-way. 

“Fergus,” she begins, turning toward him with the weapon outstretched. “Now, I dinnae know how I let you talk me into giving her any weapons at all, but I thought we agreed— not until she’s older!” 

“Och, it’s fine. I didnae give her a sword or an ax, did I? Besides, d’you see how happy she is? Ha! Nearly burstin’ at the seams.”

Elinor lightly slaps him across the chest, rolling her eyes. 

“Just you wait,” she tells him. “In a few years, she’ll care not for such things any longer. She’ll be a lady.” 

There’s a slight, bruising sting on her rear as he pinches her and she gasps, smacking him again with more force this time. He chortles and she goes red, laughing along, just as smitten with him today as when she was a girl.  

“Merida! Come along, dear! We’re leaving!”

Merida comes racing over the hill, out of breath, arrow clutched in her round little hands. And as she stumbles to a stop at her mother’s skirts, she rasps, “I saw— a wisp! I saw a wisp!”

Elinor chuckles, moving a strand of bright red hair out of the way. 

Fergus rolls his eyes and scoops the little princess into his strong arms. Elinor is called away as her horse is being saddled and, in the small moment they have together, he tucks Merida under his chin and says, “Don’t listen to any of that nonsense about fate and destiny, me wee darlin’. Only you control what the future holds, you hear? … no wisp or fairy can tell you if you’ll be a great archer, nor if you’ll be a right proper lady like your Queen Mother. You decide, alright?”

He pinches the round skin of her cheek, reddening it worse than it already is from the cold morning air. But, Merida grins big all the same and buries her head into his scratchy beard, delighting in the rumble of his chuckle

Fergus grins. He turns then toward his queen who is watching from across the field. She’s still vexed at him for the whole bow debacle. But there’s the slightest curl to her sweet, blessed lips. And he grins back, just as shaken by her beauty now as he had been when they first met. 

He watches then in confusion as her soft expression twists into one of pale, abject horror, her mouth opening wide and hollow, her eyes going wide as flat river stones. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as a horrible shriek rips from her lungs and she topples to the ground, knees weak, pointing over his shoulder. 

The blood drains from his face. 

Whirling around, he stares up— up into the dull and hateful eyes of Mor’du, the demon bear, as it towers ten feet tall. A low growl emits from its sharp jowls, the sound rattling around in the wide breadth of it’s chest. For a moment, he can only stare.

Then Merida, seeing the beast, screams too. And he’s shaken from his stupor.

Without thinking, he tosses the wee girl, roughly, as far as he can. She lands and rolls along the grass, whining in pain, and is scooped up by her Mother who scrambles toward the horses. At the sound of her whimpers, the great demon bear huffs, then lets out a roar so deafening he could swear he felt it in his very bones. 

“Elinor!” he shouts. She’s already saddled up upon the Shire horse, Merida in her lap. She snaps the reigns as he barks, “Run!”

The clansmen hoot and holler, grabbing the gear and weaponry and coming to their king’s side. Fergus stands and whistles for one of the lads to throw him a spear. The weight of it is familiar in his grasp. Comforting. He charges the beast without so much as a bit of hesitation. But as it drops to its haunches, Mor’du swipes at the tip of the spear, snapping it like it were a branch underfoot and just narrowly missing Fergus’s right arm.

Fergus falters, taken off-guard by the sheer strength the devil possessed. But undeterred, he draws his sword and his men gather ‘round him, spears at the ready. They’re all trembling. Scared out of their wits. The great demon bear had not been felled in centuries. Legends say it cannot be killed. 

He glances, then, toward the trail and spots Elinor’s long braids whipping in the wind as she rides off on horseback. He can see Merida, in her mother’s arms, curls bouncing along with each mighty gallop. In but a moment, they disappear through the brush and are out of sight. 

Good. 

He returns his full attention to Mor’du as the bear wines low and deep. For a moment— and only a moment— Fergus hears a hint of…real anguish in it. Then the great beast starts toward the trail, to follow after the retreating queen, and Fergus lashes out with the sword, cutting through the thick hide on it’s back. The smell of iron blood, coupled with Mor’du’s furious roar, gets Fergus’s heart pumping as it has not done since the war. 

The beast once again rises to its haunches, turning on the king. The long, gnarled scar running from its milky white eye down toward its neck twitches in irritation. And Fergus, his sword in hand, feels no fear. 

“Come on, you!” 

Mor’du bellows. 

And lunges. 

Twenty years have passed since the demon bear Mor’du had killed her father and then disappeared deep into the foothills, never to be seen again. Merida chose to believe that, with his dying breath, Fergus had felled the beast or left it gravely wounded— that the great black bear had sauntered off into the shadows where he found some murky river bend to fall into and die. She liked to envision the earth reclaiming its body, setting upon it like a fever, picking it clean and leaving no trace behind but a dark spot on the sand. 

But whether or not that’s true, it hardly matters anymore. The damage had already been done. 

For twenty years, her mother has ruled alone and done a very fine enough job of it. Elinor had always been the voice of reason and dignity, skilled at handling more diplomatic matters. But she hasn’t been herself in ages. She lost a bit of that mirthful spark in her eye when she watched the Lords Macintosh, Dingwall, and MacGuffin lower Fergus’s body into the tomb. And she’d lost a bit more of it when the stress had taken it’s toll on the babe they had beenn expecting. Babes, actually. Triplets, said the midwife. That alone would have done her in entirely, if it weren’t for young Merida. 

She knew if she lied down and faded from this world, Merida would be all alone and at the mercy of the neighboring clans.

The Lords Macintosh, Dingwall, and Macguffin had not waited very long at all after Fergus’s death before they became… persistent. Or completely out of fucking line, as Merida saw it. Letters started arriving; just inquires at first. Invasive prying disguised as innocent questioning How is the kingdom fairing? Here’s hoping the harvest this year is bountiful. And is young Princess Merida fairing? She’s a beauty, for certain. She’ll make a fine bride, some day— with the right lad. 

It was clear to Merida, and not at all lost on keen Elinor either, what they were truly after. And though the queen managed to stave them off for an astounding twenty years, they were now ready to charge the castle and take it by force. 

“You cannae be serious,” Merida whispers, “You dinnae expect me to marry one of those—those—!”

“Careful, lass.”

“Och!” She paces the short distance between the narrow stone windows and the hearth where her mother sat, shoulders square and chin held high. “You’re the queen! Tell them to go. They cannae have their way— coming here, unannounced, making demands! I won’t go through with it.”

“Merida,” begins Elinor, wearily. 

But Merida cannot calm herself, hands burying into her hair and tangling there as she scratches at her skull and tries to think. “This has got to be an act of treason. A declaration of war!” 

Elinor chuckles weakly. “It’s only marriage.”

“No, it’s a hostile takeover! They’ve been here four months now and won’t leave ‘til I… ‘til I wed one of them! They don’t want me, they only want to be king! How long until they barge up here and break down the doors? They’ve made it this far, ‘aven’t they? What’s a few steps more? Who’s going to stop them? Maudie?”

Maudie, standing attentive by the door, makes a squeaking sound.

“Calm down.” Elinor stands and instantly commands the room, even after all these years. But it’s unnecessary; Merida has collapsed into a nervous, nail-biting slump upon the foot of her bed. Sighing, the queen reaches out to place a gentle hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “Listen, lamb… I’m afraid this is all long overdue. You ought to ‘ave been married in your eighteenth year. I did all that I could to prolong it because I knew you weren’t ready and…,” she pauses, seems to choke on the words. Merida, through the cage of her fingers, glances up and finds Elinor blinking away tears. 

“Mum?”

“…No, that’s not true. I just… who could possibly replace your father?” She sniffs, steeling herself as Merida has seen her do almost daily. If it weren’t so heartbreaking to watch, Merida might consider it impressive. Steadier now, she continues, “Lamb, I’m afraid the time has finally come. A kingdom needs a king. And a king—,” she tilts Merida’s face up at her with the tip of her thumb. “—needs a Queen to give him wee bairns. Heirs. So that the kingdom can flourish…”

Merida recoils, disgusted, and stands. 

Elinor sighs, “You’re a grown woman, lass. You must know how these things work by now… you’re only getting older. Running out of time—,” 

“Och, I know,” Merida snaps, harsher than she meant it to sound. Her mother just looks exhausted, and that doesn’t help one bit. Softer this time, she says, “But you can’t expect me to choose from that lot out there! They’re… so old.” 

‘Tis true, of course. The lords who’d fought alongside her father had either failed to produce heirs— as was the case for Lord Dingwall, having already been in his fifties before he even took his first of six wives— or lost their sons in war, as was the case for Lord MacGuffin and his only son. Lord Macintosh was a peculiar case, as the younger Macintosh lad’s fate was unknown. She’d heard it said he simply run off with some milk maid a handful of years back and never returned. But if you were to ask Lord Macintosh senior, he’d tell you his son had died a hero in battle.

And so, it is only the elder lords of each house left to contend. They had tried for Elinor’s hand at first. But when the queen had lost the three babes in one night, rumors had spread she would not produce ever again. And so their attentions, horrifically, had turned to Merida. 

She’d been but sixteen at the time. 

Swiping at the angry tears that have formed in the corners of her eyes, she begs, “Mum. Let’s write to the smaller clans along the fringe. Let’s call to them for aid and have them run the lords out of the castle—,”

Elinor, her face as blank as a slate and her eyes dull as glass, says, “Love, they’re far too small and this castle is a fortress. More importantly, you’d ask them to risk their lives when the easiest solution is right in front of you? You need only choose one of the suitors and all this will be done with.”

Merida stares at her for a long while, running through possible loop-holes, plans, and round-abouts in her mind. Each time, she comes up short and, each time, she grows increasingly angrier. 

“I won’t do it,” she insists. “They cannae win.”

“Tis not a battle. Tis not a game… Merida,” Elinor stands, black skirts, still in mourning, pooling around her feet like smoke. She takes Merida’s hands in her own, giving them a tight squeeze. “I’m asking you to do this. Tis your duty, my sweeting. Tis always been what your fate held and it… was wrong of me to put it off for so long.”

Merida’s hands swiftly pull away as she takes a staggering step back. 

“Mother—,”

“Tonight, you’ll think on it. And in the morn, I’ll expect an answer.”

“You cannae be serious. We’ve held them off this long, we can still—,”

“Merida.” Elinor squares her shoulders, a stern but wanning expression upon her round face. She holds it for a moment or so, as long as she’s able, before sighing and closing her eyes. “There once was an ancient kingdom—,”

“Mum,” Merida interjects. 

“—ruled by a fair and just king who was much beloved. And one day,” Elinor crosses the room and takes up the chessboard collecting dust in the corner. She holds up the stone carving of the king and places it in the center of the board. “He decreed that he when he died, he would divide the rule amongst his four sons so that they may lead the kingdom together.” Here, she picks up three pieces, a white knight, a white rook, and a white bishop. Then the adjacent black king piece. She places them at the four corners and sets the board down atop them, balancing it there. 

“Mum, I’ve heard this story before, I—,”

“But the eldest son was selfish and refused to abide by his father’s wishes. He gathered his brothers in the throne room and, while they drank and ate and made merry, killed them all. After the slaughter, he vanished and was never seen or heard from again,” She swipes a hand under the chess board, taking the four pieces out all at once. As a result, the chessboard clatters to the table, pieces scattering and going in every direction. “In the aftermath, the kingdom had no one to reign. War broke out, enemy kingdoms closed in, and all it lead to was chaos and ruin.”

“Let’s hear it, then,” Merida drawls dryly. “Am I the prince again? Or am I the king this time?”

“You’re the queen,” Elinor retorts, “Or you should have been a long time ago. I’m tired, Merida. If you don’t embrace this, if you refuse to choose, these Lords— they’ll destroy everything your father and I built. You’re a headstrong lass, you’ll have no trouble at all keeping an unruly husband in line. This kingdom is depending on you.”

“And I’m depending on you! You cannae give up, not now! Don’t you see this is what they want! They want you to make me do this. Well I won’t— I’d rather—!”

“You’d rather what?” Elinor’s tone is sharp and clear, ringing around the room. Maudie nearly jumps out of her skin. Even Merida is taken aback. “You’d rather those lords lay waste to DunBroch, your father’s land? You’d rather them come up here and— and take what they want? For all you know, lass, that’s the least they’ll do! Your head, mine, even Maudie’s— could all be on a spikes by sundown. Is that what you want?”

Merida, awash with dread, mumbles, “I… no, of course not, I just— it isn’t fair.”

“Fair!” Elinor chuckles and it lacks mirth. It’s clear her mind lingers on that hillside clearings from years ago— on bluebells and freshly trampled grass and Fergus’s deep laugh. When she stops, her face goes stony and stoic and she looks not at all like the woman she used to be. “Of course it isn’t. Precious few things are. But you should know that by now, you’re not a child anymore! You haven’t been for a good long while. I bought you nearly twenty years. Twenty years to run around in the woods, firing arrows, free to ignore the suffering of your people. But you couldn’t have seriously believed you’d be free to roam forever? I thought you were smarter than that, Merida!”

Merida gasps, she cannot help it. And though she tries to hide the hurt and betrayal by glancing away, her mother sees it all the same.

Elinor sighs. Crossing the length of the room, the Queen cups her daughter’s face in her hands and pulls her closer, planting a kiss to the center of her freckled forehead. 

“I’m so sorry, lamb,” she whispers. “I didnae mean…” 

Pulling back, Elinor examines the unshed tears in Merida’s averted gaze and the embarrassed, frustrated flush to her cheeks. A wave of emotion washes over her and she sucks in a deep, shaking breath. 

“If,” she begins, nearly choking. “If only your father were here, I…”

Merida glances back and they share a long, quiet look. But in the end, Elinor takes another deep breath and steps away. 

“Think about it. Make your choice. I’ll be back first thing tomorrow morning.”

Then, without waiting for her retort, Elinor turns heel and leaves the room, a flurry of black skirts trailing behind her.

Merida stares after her for a pause or two until, deep in the hollow part of her chest, comes a low, frustrated growl. She whirls around, hands running through her hair again, and paces the room back and forth. Maudie, by the door, jitters anxiously, steepling her fingers together as she witnesses the tantrum. It starts with Merida turning over all the  chairs and ends then minutes later with the chess board— pieces and all—chucked into the nearby hearth. 

The princess stands at the center of her room, panting and lightly sweaty, looking more like a feral dog than the sweet little lamb her mother referred to her as. She collapses onto the trunk at the foot of her bed, biting at her nails, and resorts to one of the only traits she shares with her mother— wits. There were very few predicaments Merida was not able to fib or otherwise weasel her way out of, so why should this be any different? If only she had more time…

If only your father were here.

Her chest clenches tight, suffocating. What if Father was still alive? What would he do? That’s easy enough. Fergus was a warrior, through and through. He’d take up his sword and he’d show those Lords why they made him king in the first place. He was fearless.

Merida’s hands clench into fists upon her lap. This trait, too, she shares.

Quickly, she jumps off the trunk and opens it, sifting through. Finding what she’s looking for, she takes a step back and begins to slip out of her day gown until she’s standing in front of the fire in her chemise. Maudie, at the door, watches with wide eyes, whimpering in that anxious way that Merida always found annoying. The princess crosses over to where her Mother had been seated, uprights the chair, and sits down. 

Maudie yelps when Merida snaps at her, producing a thin blue ribbon. 

“My hair, tie it as tight as you can make it,” she demands. Then, craning her head to glance at Maudie, adds, “Oh, and I’m going to need to borrow all that. Come on, now.”

The lords have taken to the throne room like flies on honey, refusing to leave no matter how often they’re swatted away. MacGuffin and Dingwall, despite being in their sixties to seventies, brawl almost daily and Merida, jogging down the stone steps, sneers at the damage they’ve made to the stone floors, the tapestries, and the wood carvings along the walls. Even worse, she finds Macintosh reclining upon her father’s throne, chortling as he watches the latest scuffle. He waves his shortsword around with wanton abandon, knicking the delicate wood engravings along the headrest. Merida nearly barks at him to get up, but she cannot. 

Instead, she pulls the white coif tighter around her brow, struggling to conceal the red curls that threaten to burst free at any moment, and ducks into the servant’s corridor as Lord MacGuffin calls for another round of ale and the entire hall roars with approval. 

The girls in the kitchen are smarter than the drunken men outside and recognize Merida past her disguise almost instantly. 

“Is that Maudie’s?” asks Effie, pointing at the stiff brown cotton dress that matches her own. “Just what are you up to, Princess? If they see you…”

Merida ignores her, navigating around tables stacked high with plates of food— stockpiled food, meant to last them ‘til the winter. Bastards. She snatches up a sloshing bucket of water and heads out the kitchen door, pretending as though she’s on her way to  fill up the water trough. Taking quick, long strides down the gravel path, she moves with purpose in the hopes to go unnoticed. Men from each of the three clans loiter about, sparring with one another, drinking, sleeping in the hay, and pissing against the stone walls of the castle. Merida doesn’t think any of them will recognize her in their rotten, drunken states… but that doesn’t mean they won’t keep their dirty paws to themselves should she draw their attention. 

Angus is relieved to see her. She feels sick looking at him. The stable master had long since been run off by the state of things, leaving Angus to be taken care of by the scullery girls. And with Merida being trapped in her room half the time, he never got a ride in. Or even a good brushing, for that matter. His mane is matted and dirty and his hoofs look overgrown and painful. Something other than anger swells in her chest and she fights back a sniffle. 

“I’m sorry, laddie,” she tells him, saddling him up as he nips at her hair. “I’ll put a stop to this, just you wait.”

In no time at all, they’re racing along the downhill trail leading into the forest. Macintosh scouts on the wall holler and demand she turn back around, but no one can stop Angus at full speed. She prods him once or twice, just to ensure they put enough distance between them and anyone foolish enough to follow. Then, once she’s sure they’re alone, she slows to a steady trot and leads him toward their familiar walking path, yanking her hair free of the coif.

These forests used to be her home away from home. But she hasn’t visited them in months now. Still, she has not forgotten how to navigate over brambles and roots, leading Angus off-trail until they arrive upon a familiar oak tree, struck dead by lighting a few years back.

In the hollow of this tree, she’s hidden her bow and her arrows. The string has slackened a bit with disuse and the arrows have taken on some moisture, the wood softer than it ought to be. It brings her a great deal of shame to see it in such disrepair, but she’d had no choice. If the lords saw her with it, they’d have seized it on sight to keep her docile and helpless. She suspects she’s a bit out of practice. Perhaps she can no longer shoot down a sparrow in flight or a fox as it dives for the underbrush. But she’s accurate enough still to put an arrow into the soft spot between the eye and nose of an old, fat lord.

As she turns, preparing Angus to head back, her eye catches movement deeper along the forest path. She thinks its nothing more than a bluebell in bloom. But Angus seems to notice too, for he whinnies anxiously and tries to tug her back toward the trail. 

She scans the woodland where she thought she saw it, but there’s nothing but green moss and wet brown earth. 

“I’m seein’ things,” she mutters, prepared to let it go. But then, not but twenty feet in front of her, appears a small, flickering blue light. 

Merida stares at it dumbly, an almost bovine look in her eyes. And if it were not for Angus’s nervous huffing and trotting in place, she might think it was a trick of the mind. 

“A wisp!” So bewildered is she to lay sight on such a rare creature that she nearly leaps off Angus to go chasing after it. Merida pulls on the reins, squeezing the horse’s haunches until he complies and sets off after it. 

They pass through three distinct, different trails all familiar to Merida, ducking under low-hanging branches and navigating through thorn and thistle. Eventually, the way becomes foreign to her. Uncharted territory. The wisp never stays in sight for too long, constantly flickering at the farthest reaches of her vision. Finally it disappears all together and Merida, so focused on the chase, doesn’t notice at first the cottage tucked away under the face of a cliff, shrouded in willow branches. 

“What do we have here?” she whispers to Angus, already planting her feet firmly on the ground. The stead huffs and fidgets, clearly disturbed, but Merida ties him up to a mossy hitching post and placates him with the soft caress of his nose. “Never seen this here before. I’m going to check and see if it’s abandoned.”

Despite Angus’s continued protests, Merida approaches the weather-worn front door and. With the lightest touch, she taps her knuckles against the door and finds it swings right open. Curious and not at all interested in making a hasty return to the lord infested castle, the princess steps inside. 

“Ah,” she nearly instantly trips over a plethora of wooden carvings. “Hello?”

At once she is overwhelmed by the abysmal clutter all around. Dozens encroaching upon hundreds of crude— yet somehow astoundingly elaborate —bear carvings of all different shapes, sizes, and purposes litter the small abode. Merida twirls her finger around a wind-chime string of salmon that seem to be leaping into the open maul of a fat, round brown bear and snorts at the absurdity. 

“An old bampot must live here…” she mutters to herself. 

“If you see anything you like—,” 

Merida yelps, spinning around and getting her hair tangled up in the wind-chime. It rattles horribly and Angus, outside, neighs in concern.

“—feel free to ask. Everything is half off.”

She claws at the wind-chime obscuring her vision until she finally swats it off. It falls to the ground in a heap of wood, string, and hair. At last, she can see who is speaking to her. 

In a dark corner of the shop that she could have sworn was vacant just a moment ago, there now stands a very small— very old— woman. She’s still somewhat hidden in shadow when she gestures to a carved table. “That one there is spoken for, I’m afraid. But anything else is yours— for the right price.”

Merida squints and approaches, wary but deeply and incurably curious. “…I dinnae understand.”

The old woman glances up and Merida makes A Sound at the sight of her large, bulbous nose and even larger, rounder eyes. 

“What’s there to misinterpret?” the old woman snaps. By all accounts, she seems offended. “There’s wood. I’ve carved it. I’m selling it. If you dinnae want it, then leave.”

She has to stop herself from repeating ‘I don’t understand’ again and risk further insult to the strange woman. So, instead, she collects herself and says, “I… alright. Sorry to…? Bother you. I must’ve… been mistaken.”

Ducking under more hanging, dangling hazards, she completely overlooks a series of wooden, bear-esque garden gnomes. And when she leans down to straighten them back up, the old woman staggers forward, rasping, “S-seventy percent off!”

“What?”

“Och, you drive a hard bargain. Eighty. And that’s as high as I’ll g… ninety.”

“I’ve no desire to buy anything. D’you not know who I am?” says Merida, growing increasingly more put-off. Why would the wisps have lead her here? She shows the woman her family crest emblazoned onto a pure silver necklace and doesn’t notice when the old hag’s eyes light up. “D’you not know who my father was? I dinnae want any accursed bear carvings.” 

“Princess!” coos the old woman, her face splitting into a wide, crooked smile. “My goodness, it’s been ages, I hardly recognized you. Been expecting you I have! Just didn’t know when. So sorry for the theatrics.” Here, she claps her hands together and the cottage goes pitch black. No sun from outside seeps in through the windows, no sound of birds or wind or Angus’s agitated stomping. Merida gasps but no air fills her lungs. For a moment, she starts to panic. Then, at the center of the room comes a faint green glow of a cauldron. It illuminates the entire hut— now free of any carvings and instead littered with glass bear-shaped bottles and old books. At last the grip on her throat subsides. “Never conjure where you carve.”

“You are a bampot!” Merida balks, both alarmed and deeply fascinated. “A witch! That’s why the wisps led me here! You can help me! There are suitors at the castle— lords, demanding I marry one of them… it’s just me and my mum, we cannae stop them. But if my dad, the King, were still alive— he’d cut them down! I-I need a spell of some kind, one that brings him back—,”

“No!” 

Merida flinches. The witch had already been throwing ingredients into the glowing, bubbling cauldron. But she’d stopped dead in her tracks to bark at the princess, her eyes going glossy white. 

“No spell can bring back the dead.”

“Alright… then, one that changes the past? Changes fate?”

The witch hums, crushing up a bundle of bluebells and tossing them into the mixture. The green glow turns a deep, oceanic blue and the room grows colder. “You can try all you like, princess, but you cannae change fate. What is meant to be will be.”

Growing agitated, Merida throws her hands up in the air, pacing away. Then, as realization dawns, she slowly turns back, waving a finger at the witch. “Wait a tick. You said I could try? Does that mean there is a spell? One that can change the past?”

The witch sighs and, grabbing a pair of iron tongs, dips an empty bear-shaped vial into the mixture, filling it up to the brim. She blows on it with two puffs of breath, each one whistling between her missing teeth. Then she hands it over to Merida. 

“Aye,” she says. “Of course there is.”

When Merida eagerly reaches for the vial, the witch clicks her tongue and yanks it back, saying, “Och! Not so fast, lass. You cannae get something for nothing, you know. Let’s talk… payment.”

She gestures with one bony finger toward the silver necklace around Merida’s neck and the princess is quick to remove it and hand it over. They exchange items, the witch cackling and holding the silver medallion over the light while Merida turns the vial over in her hand, examining the thick, glowing liquid inside. 

“What do I do with it?” she asks. 

“Drink it, of course,” retorts the witch, already skulking back toward her dark corner. “What else would you do?”

She sniffs the contents of the vial and bristles. It smells like freshly trampled grass and spring air. A familiar, terrible smell. Bracing herself, she brings the bottle to her lips and knocks it back, letting it slide like a slug down her throat. 

“Oh, and one more thing—,” she hears the witch say. “Once you go…,”

Merida sputters, gags, and hunches over into a coughing fit. Her eyes water and her mouth tastes of something spoiled. She’s going to be sick. 

“…you won’t come back.”

The princess races from the cottage, bursting through the weathered door and stumbling into the clearing. Here, she vomits onto the ground, falling to her knees as each wretched heave rocks her entire body. There’s a ringing in her ear. Her head spins like a top. And for a terrifying moment, she thinks the old hag has poisoned her. 

Then, when her stomach is empty, the world slows down and she can finally open her eyes again, blinking through tears. 

“Angus—,” she calls, reaching out for him blindly. “Come on, laddie, let’s get out of—,”

She turns and finds he’s no where to be seen. The cottage, too, is gone. She’s somewhere else now, sitting in the grass and surrounded by a circle of giant stone pillars. Merida clambers to her knees, unfamiliar with this place. 

“Scaffy witch,” she curses under her breath. “Where’d you put me?”

She looks to the sky. The sun is overhead, slowly setting toward the west. She turns, orienting herself to the north where DunBroch castle must be. 

“Once I deal with the lords, I’ll be coming for you next you old bampot.” 

As she reaches over her back for her bow, she groans, realizing she’d left it strapped to Angus. And, oh, poor Angus! She’d have to retrace her steps and find him again, lest he wander off deeper into uncharted woods and get lost. It is as her thoughts linger on the horse that she hears the welcome sound of galloping hooves over wet earth. With immense relief, she sighs and whistles to draw him to her; at least she won’t have to walk all the way back home—

Her face falls when, past the stone pillars, two riders on horseback come through the woods and not Angus at all. She doesn’t recognize the pattern of their tartans. When they spot her, they point and shout, snapping the reigns on their steads and setting off, quickly, up the hillside. She’s trying to recognize the family crest on their banner when, much to her alarm, they begin circling her. She stumbles when one of the riders brings his stead too close and knocks her onto her rear. 

“Hey!” she roars, taken aback. “Is this how the honorable lords advise their clansmen to behave?”

“Silence, lass!” bellows one of the scouts. Reaching down, he takes a fistful of her hair and lifts her, screaming, from the ground. “A runaway, aye? Thine roaming feet will be the end of thee!”

He spoke in a strange form of Gaelic, one she could understand but only with some difficulty. Merida, blinking through the pain, says, “…what?”

The scout clicks his tongue and grabs her by the back of her dress, pulling her up onto the horse where she squirms and objects. One swift, harsh slap to her rear silences her instantly our of pure shock and embarrassment. They laugh heartedly and the rider with her starts tying her hands behind her back with a thin piece of leather. 

“Thou wouldst be wise to hold thy tongue,” says the other scout. “Runaway serfs receive twenty lashin’s. Pray thine caterwaulin’ does not earn thee another ten.”

Merida, furious, goes to tell him exactly what she’ll do to him once they return to DunBroch. But when she opens her mouth, the scout behind her slips a thick rope over her head and between her teeth, muffling her screams of outrage. The scouts chortle, amused, and— much to Merida’s concern and confusion— start pulling their horses westward, away from DunBroch tower.

And far, far away from home.

4

A True Heir

If only she had her bow. It would be all too easy to end this here and now, put an arrow into the back of the eldest son’s skull as he trots ahead of her on Quinn. But alas.

Snapping the reigns of her own pony, she pulls ahead of him on the narrow earthen trail. “This way, my prince. Not much farther.”

He grunts in response, eying her as she leads the way. 

Merida wonders why the wisps stopped her from speaking with his brothers. Is she meant to do this a certain way? If so, she certainly would have appreciated it if the witch had mentioned that. Or would framing him have simply failed? Whatever the reason, she does not dwell on it. This is just as opportune as far as she’s concerned. For already she can hear the distant roar of the river.

Climbing the fire falls is a very dangerous affair. One wrong foot hold and you’d fall to your death. She’d climbed the Crone’s Tooth enough times to know exactly where to place her feet and what rocks were too loose to grab—but the prince did not. With any amount of luck, he’d fall and that would be the end of it. And if all else failed… she might be able to give him a helpful nudge.

 “Who is it that trained thee in archery, wench?”

She jumps upon the saddle. They’d been riding in near silence for the most part; the eldest son is not particularly fond of small talk, she’s discovered. 

“What d’you mean?” she responds. It sounds far too suspicious. She must lighten her tone. 

Glancing back at him, she finds him sitting straight and regal upon Quinn’s back, cloak abandoned and bare chest basking in the canopy dabble. And, fook’s sake, he is huge. Merida grits her teeth examining the size of his arm, nearly the entire width of her head. If she were going to kill him, it needed to be quick. Be cause if she failed… no doubt, he’d be able to snap her neck with one hand tied behind his back. 

As he pulls his horse up to a trot beside her pony, she shakes these thoughts from her head.

“Thine hands,” he gestures with the tilt of his bearded chin. Merida glances down at her freckled, pale palms and fat little fingers. “Upon thine knuckles I spy scars. Callouses. Such markings are common amongst scullery maids, aye. But tis the other scar, that one on thine cheek, that gives thee away. Only a practiced archer bears such wounds.”

“Ah,” Merida runs her calloused fingers across the smooth, shiny scar on her cheek where the fletching had cut the gentle skin too many times. “Aye, well spotted… my father taught me how. Long ago. Our, ah… our family was very poor. And my father had no sons. So it was up to me to go out and hunt.”

This is a half-truth. Fergus had taught her how to shoot, though his lesson had long since been forgotten, overshadowed by all else that had transpired on that fateful day. And yes, she had no brothers to speak of— which is, in a roundabout way, also Mor’du’s fault. She grips the reigns hard and glares at the road ahead. Their climb could not come soon enough. 

The prince studies her for a moment or so, then seems to lose interest.

“I see.”

Something about his tone only vexes her more. Careful not to lose her temper, Merida holds her chin high and rebuffs, “I suppose a warrior such as you thinks a young lady ought not to be well-versed in such things.”

He makes a contemplative humming sound. 

“Stow away thine ire, wench. Every man, woman, and child ought to know how to wield a weapon. Come winter will mark ten years since my father’s kingdom has been at peace. The people therein think war shall ‘nere touch these hills again.” He tilts his head up, glancing at the overhead foliage and the bright midday sky beyond. “I fear the day we are called back to the battle.”

Merida listens, watching as his one white eye shines cold. He’s seen war before. Waged it and won. Such is the right of a prince. These are his sole duties and expectations. She’s almost envious.

The cold thaws and his one good eye flickers toward her. With another grunt, he adds, “A dark day it is indeed that a treacherous, thieving runaway is better prepared than our clansmen.”

Merida grins. She grins. Struck dumb with a inexplicable sense of satisfaction. Mortified, she snaps the reigns, pulling ahead of him so that he can no longer witness her foolishness. 

“It’s just up here,” she mutters. “Keep up now.”

The Crone’s Tooth looks exactly as it always has. Nearly fifty feet up, it stands just beside where the northern river falls over a cliff side— the Fire Falls. At the base is deep, deep pool of water that overflows and leads further down the hillside, out toward the sea. Merida has bathed in these waters before, in the summer. Salmon are abundant, the water is warm and clear, and a natural hot spring bubbles up near the side of the cliff. She’d always wanted to dive down into the pool of water and see if she could touch the bottom. But, after several tries where she’d gone as far as she could on one lung full, she’d gotten the jitters and never tried again. It must be a natural cave of some sort, down there. It could go on for miles. 

The Tooth itself is a slick, sheer rock pillar that stands just a few feet away from the deep pool below. She’d tried several times to pluck up the courage to jump off it and try and land into the awaiting depths. But as brave as she was, she wasn’t suicidal. The winds up here could blow you off your mark so severely that you might miss the water altogether and land on the bank. 

What a terrible accident that would be.

The prince stares up at the crone’s tooth with that same emotionless, stoic expression he always has plastered upon his sharp features. Quinn huffs and whinnies, desperate to get a drink from the pool, but his rider keeps him firmly in place. 

Merida dismounts from her pony, not bothering to tie him up as he goes to graze the tall grass next to the riverbank. Here, she starts rolling up her sleeves and tying her skirt up over her knees. 

“What art thou planning, wench?”

Merida freezes, her heart stopping. 

“What’s that?”

When she turns, she finds the prince staring pointedly at her stocking-clad legs and the slippers she’d kicked off into the grass. 

“Ah,” she might have sighed in relief would it not risk furthering his suspicion. “I’m getting ready for the climb. I cannae rightfully do it in hose and slippers, now can I?”

“Tis foolishness.”

“Tis necessary if you be wantin’ to reach the magic.”

Merida knows exactly what she’s doing. She slips off one of the stockings. Then reaches for the other. She hears Quinn’s hooves stomping as the prince pulls him right, then left. 

“I’ll go alone,” he says.

“And here I thought you were gettin’ nervous,” she chuckles and approaches the pillar, reaching for a dip she knows to be just within arms reach. It’s shallower than it will be in a few hundred years, but still her grip is strong. She sets about climbing, making quick work of it, and when she’s nearly fifteen feet off the ground, she stops and turns her head to find Prince Tormud still sitting upon his horse, frowning up at her like she’d seen her mother do a thousand times. “Come on, now. You didn’t come all this way just to sit on your horse, did you?”

He dismounts, taking up both great axes from the sheathes on either side of the saddle. 

“Get down,” he demands, the rumble of his voice mixing with the roar of the water. “I said I’ll go alone.”

“I’m already this far…,” she begins. 

“Get down.” His tone is firm and frightful. “Now, wench.”

Merida, already so far above him, presses her lips into a fine line. She’s known men like him before— stupid, blustering, prideful fools. And so delicate was the prince’s ego that it would one day become legend. She need only give him the slightest nudge in the right direction…

A grin splits her face and the prince frowns sternly. He’s in no mood for antics. Perfect.

“If you’re really meant to be a king,” she taunts. “Then come and make me.”

That does it. 

Very briefly, she spots a spark of fury flit across his face. Then, it goes smooth and still like stone and he steps forth, plunging an ax into the black rock surface. Merida nearly squeals like a child being chased, genuinely terrified, and scrambles up the side of the Tooth faster than she ever has before. She can here the rhythmic ‘shk, shk, shk’ of either ax sinking into the rock, close behind. 

In no time at all, she reaches the flat surface at the top and pulls herself up, out of breath and shaking from over-exertion. Quickly, she falls to her knees and peers over the edge, spotting the Prince just a few feet behind her. His long black hair catches the wind, billowing out around him like a dark banner. He’s hardly breaking a sweat, the bastard. 

Now would be the time to do it, she thinks. 

Leaning back, she spots a bit of debris that’s fallen off the cliff side and landed atop the Tooth’s flat surface. There lies a big enough rock— if she can pull it over, she could drop it down atop him. She wonders which would hit the ground first?

But as she crawls over to pick it up, a sharp caw breaks the monotonous roar of the waterfall and Merida yelps as an eagle flies overhead, almost brushing the top of her head with its talons. She watches as it sails the wind, riding it down toward the hemlock trees at the forest’s edge. And as she does so, her eyes trail upward toward the vast hillsides, cornflower blue in the distance, and the sprawling open sky. 

It looks exactly as it always had. It looks like home. 

So taken aback is she that she misses her window of opportunity. The prince reaches the top to find the kitchen wench sitting with her knees hugged to her chest, staring forlornly out at the vast expanse of Highlands. 

“Wild thing,” he curses her, “Thy moods are as fickle as the sea.”

He turns then, ignoring her, and approaches the waterfall. Cupping his hands under the cool, strong current, he catches but a single spoonful of the raging current and brings it to his lips. Merida, having forgotten her purpose here, leaves him be. 

“I taste no magic,” he mutters after a moment.

“No,” she agrees, “The real magic is out here.” She gestures to the majesty around them. With a sigh, she continues, “Tis the most powerful kind there is. I’ve climbed this rock a thousand times and it never fails to amaze me. I’ve no responsibilities when I’m up here. Nothing to worry about at all— except, I suppose, if it starts to rain.”

The prince approaches, his leather soled boots steady even upon the slick rock, and comes to a stop a few feet behind her. She can tell he’s observing the same breathtaking landscape she is, beholding all the glory the land has to offer— and the temptation to get lost therein. To feel true freedom. 

She is reminded of his fate, doomed to wander these woods for centuries. Perhaps it is a dangerous sort of allure. 

Before she can really give the thought enough time to ruminate, Prince Tormud inquires, “Enlighten me, what crippling obligations dost a kitchen girl contend with?”

Merida shrugs. She’s thinking of music lessons with her mother, of countless hours studying the geography of the land, days of her life wasted reciting poetry in the grand hall. And, most recently, these last few months when she’d been a prisoner in her own home. 

“Marriage,” she tells him plainly. Somewhat bitterly. He makes a face that she doesn’t see. 

“Thou art far too old to be unwed. I took thee for a widow. Tis no wonder thou were sent away to serve; such a burden thou must have been on thine parents.”

Merida sours, wishing she’d lobbed the rock at his head when she’d had the chance. 

Seeing the ire upon her face, he grimaces and remarks, “Scorn me all thou like, wench. Thou cannae change thy fate.”

She twists around until she’s able to look up at him and spit back, “Aye! And neither can you, no matter what magic you seek!” 

He looks almost surprised. Almost. His eyes widen with both shock and fury, his eyebrows turning downward at a sharp angle. But this is all that she sees. The long beard makes it very difficult to read him and it doesn’t so much as twitch when she speaks. A better way to weigh the severity of his mood is to study the way his chest and arm muscles tense or the way his hands ball into fists at his sides. 

Merida laments her own candor, but does not shy away. Aye, let him do his worst. If her father wasn’t frightened of a ten foot beast, then she wouldn’t be afraid of a man. Just a man. Only a man.

The prince, having not expected to be so forcefully made to recognize his own fallacies, turns his cheek and glares off toward where the river meets the sea. And there he stays for a moment or so, his chest rising and falling until he’s calmed down. At last, he closes his eyes and sighs. When he opens them again, she finds that same soft expression upon his face that she’d witnessed that night in his father’s chambers. There’s pain there, just beneath all the bluster. 

Merida, disquieted by it, turns back around. 

“I dinnae know why you want to be king of a land you’ll never be free to roam. Just look at this place! T’was right under your nose and you didnae know it existed. Aye, you’d be the ruler of it all but you’d never touch it. You’d spend every day inside those stone walls and you’d never leave and you’d grow old and you’d wonder… what was it all for?” 

She’s painfully, crucially, aware that she’s not talking about him any longer. These worries are her own and have plagued her for years. She’d seen the crown slowly chip away at her mother, making her weaker and smaller. And despite how badly Merida wanted to relief Elinor of that pain, she herself was too frightened to take the crown upon herself and bear that same burden. Too frightened to meet the same fate. 

Tormud stares down at the kitchen wench, examining the mounting distress upon the girl’s face. 

“Wilt thou tell me thine name?” 

She blinks, surprised. Had she told anyone her name since she’d come here? Innes had been calling her ‘fool’ and so the other girls and followed her lead. Truth be told, Merida didn’t mind. It was more fitting than ‘princess’  had ever been.

“Merida,” she tells him after a pause. The name feels odd on her tongue. She hadn’t been herself in so long. 

The prince grunts in approval. “Come to me, Merida.”

She stiffens, put off until she turns and sees he’s facing the other way, his attention elsewhere. Somewhat begrudgingly, she does as she’s told. The prince does not take his eyes off the horizon. 

“Look there,” he instructs. 

Merida squints but only sees blue, faded mountain ridges and low hanging fog. 

“Nay,” he corrects. Reaching around, he gently guides her chin in the correct direction. The touch alarms her, setting every hair on the back of her neck on end. His grip is firm and his fingers calloused and, try as she might, she cannot forget that these hands would one day kill her father. She shivers. “There, beyond the river.”

He awaits her answer. Merida quickly tries to swallow her fear. 

Squinting, she does actually spot the smallest silhouette of a castle in the distance, laid within the cradle of several foothills.

“…Is that another kingdom?” she guesses.

“Aye,” he grunts. The growl of his voice does nothing to calm her, nor separate his image from that of the demon bear. “And there, past that ridge?” 

He guides her now by the shoulder, turning her around until she spots another castle in the depths of the forest. 

“Another. Shouldst clan MacTyre fall tomorrow, they will fight over my land. Go to war in these very forests. Hark, see there? That grove yonder? T’was a battlefield long ago and a forest ere that. See how war hast scarred the earth like none else? We must be strong. I must be strong, so that all this—,” he gestures wide to the rolling hillside and the mist covering the valley and the jagged tree tops as far as the eye can see, “—dost not fall into their hands. So that my sons and daughters shall come to look upon it, just as you do. Dost thou understand, now? Tis the duty of a true heir.”

She does understand it. That’s the issue. Elinor had tried to teach her this lesson a thousand times and Merida had never fully grasped it until now. To be lectured— to be taught by the great black beast that would eventually plunge this land into the very chaos he so described… it is an indescribable but distinctly awful feeling.

“Aye, duty,” she mutters, barely audible over the roaring Fire Falls. “One of the noblest ways to say sacrifice.”

The prince frowns at her, looking disappointed. 

“I would not expect thee, a peasant girl, to comprehend something only one of noble blood possibly could.”

Merida frowns. He couldn’t know the insult he’d just paid to her. 

He turns back toward the Fire Falls, glancing forlornly at the spray of the water as it plummets off the edge. Merida turns, too, and realizes that she has the perfect opportunity to do away with him at last. They’re standing very close to the edge. He’s distracted. All it would take is a quick, hard shove and he’d stumble and fall to his death. Then this would all be over— she could go home, she could forget she’d ever been here. She could forget it all.

But she doesn’t. She cannot. Two parts of her quarrel within and she cannot make sense of her own motivations anymore. 

Soon, the moment has passed. The prince is preparing to climb back down. Tightening the leather around his wrists, he glances up at her through the long, black strands of his hair and sighs upon seeing her dejected, vacant expression.

“Wench,” he says to her, already forgetting her name. “Come hither and climb upon my back. I shall carry thee to the bottom, lest another mood take hold of thee and compel thee to leap.”

So consumed by her thoughts is she that there is no room for embarrassment or consternation. She does as he says, wrapping both arms around his thick neck and locking her legs around his waist. He descends the Crone’s Tooth in a similar fashion to how he climbed it, destructive, forceful, and precise— though at a considerably slower pace.

Merida listens to the soft grunts that escape him and, for the first time in her life, leaves the Crone’s Tooth with more on her mind than ever.

6

Human After All

Merida isn’t entirely sure what she’s supposed to keep an ear open for. It isn’t like one of the lords is stupid enough to admit, in the grand hall, over dinner, that he planned the assassination of the eldest son.

Still, she inserts herself wherever she might potentially hear any little tidbit of information. Refilling drinks, sweeping cobwebs near the bedrooms, lighting candles in the study. All she really discovers is that they all see her, and the other servants, as less than human. Just like the poor serving girl who’d been struck by Lord Olsen, several other castle staff have been accosted, shouted at, abused, and degraded as the ale keeps flowing and the ceremony draws closer. Merida’s not sure any of them could have plotted the death of a prince— they haven’t been sober since they arrived. Then again, the entire assassination attempt was shoddy from the start… so who could be sure?

When she isn’t spying on the lords, she turns her attention to the brothers— Iomhart, Diarmud, and Aodh. Though they were the stable boy’s intended targets, no one stood to gain as much from the eldest son’s death as the brother three. But after a few hours with each, she finds nothing of note. Kind Iomhart spends his days down in the village, speaking with merchants and advising town leaders. Just Diarmud, much like her mother, runs himself ragged trying to appease the rowdy lords and keep them from getting so drunk and disorderly that they tear the castle apart brick by brick. And wise Aodh holes himself up in one of the towers, pouring over huge tomes for hours and hours without so much as food or drink. She doesn’t think any one of them could have done this on his own.

As troublesome as all this is, it does afford her a little bit of wiggle room when it comes to her responsibilities around the castle. The eldest son had convened with Innes to ensure Merida was given plenty of roaming privileges— he claimed it was reward for having stopped his assassin. And while Innes had later scoffed at the idea, she was all too happy to get one more body out of her already crowded kitchen. 

Merida now sits on one of the parapets overlooking the courtyard and the great, gray loch beyond. It sparkles cold like crystal, its waters deep and unknowable. She bites into a tart apple— which she’d asked for— and ponders what to do next. This investigation of hers has turned out to be fruitless thus far. Perhaps the prince had set her on a wild goose chase. Perhaps it was only a waste of time that could be better spent figuring out how to stop him from becoming Mor’du. 

At the very least, he trusted her now. Should she make no progress uncovering this conspiracy against him, she could easily do away with him herself. 

She licks the juice from her fingers, humming. 

That’s not what the wisps want, though. The fae know something she doesn’t and they don’t seem too keen on outright telling her. 

No matter. The day is yet young and the lords and princes are convening in the great hall. She’s of no use to anyone at the moment… 

Her eyes flicker toward the stables where Quinn has been huffing nonstop, watching her eat. Grinning, she tosses him the apple core and he catches it between strong, powerful teeth. 

…might as well go for a ride.

“I shall speak it only once more,” begins Diarmud, addressing the room. “T’was father’s  last decree as king that we four rule as one. Disregard his wishes and bring dishonor upon his memory! Defy his order and bring shame onto yourself!” 

Tormud, surrounded by a crowd of lords who have all banded to his side, holds an ax high and rebukes, “Shame? You dare speak of shame when it was ye who stood idle while our father turned weak in the mind and feeble! When it was ye who told me to stand aside and do nothing while our father forgot himself time and time again! …I will have no shame. I am the eldest born son of Beolin Mactyre— and t’was I that were his chosen heir when he was of sound mind and body!”

The crowd around him roars in agreement while the rest of the room, full of lords who are still on the fence and clansmen who feel torn between two right answers, wait for the other three princes to retort. 

Diarmud looks exhausted, tired of having this debate time and time again. This attempt is his brother’s fifth and, he worries, it will not be the last. “We’ve no such laws that unbind us from a king's command due to the poor fortitude of his mind and body. Great-Grandfather sent us o'er the sea when he beheld it foretold in a dream, or doth thou so quickly forget thy schooling, brother? Had we tarried there as thou doth now suggest and remained in our homeland, we might ne'er have found these green lands beyond the fjords. We might not have plundered, conquered, and spread our roots.”

There is a smattering of voices across the room, resounding in agreement. Tormud looks around, studying the hesitation on everyone’s faces, and scowls with disgust. He starts to pace, flipping one of the heavy axes around in his grasp until he’s pointing the handle at Diarmud. “Thou take special interest in our laws and traditions, brother. I hath always admired this in thee.”

Diarmud’s eyes widen. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “I thank thee—,”

“Tell me, then, as I’m sure thou knowst better than I— what laws have we regarding the rights of succession?”

The muttering and whispering in the great hall falls silent as the crowd around Tormud goads the second son, demanding an answer. Tormud and Diarmud share a long, hateful gaze before the younger, disdainfully, retorts, “The rights of succession decree that the eldest born son of the king shall inherit the throne.”

The room erupts. More and more of the crowd who had previously been on the fence seem to be slowly but surely siding with Tormud. This is not at all lost on Diarmud, who feels a pressure slowly building at the base of his skull. Lords and clansman start to quarrel, words coming to blows, disagreements turning to threats, and at the center of it all stands his brother, scowling at him, prowling back and forth. A single rotten apple spoiling the bunch. Diarmud seethes from his seat beside the empty throne. 

He rises from his chair, startling Aodh and Iomhart at his sides. With the wide sweep of his arms, he gestures to the mayhem unfolding. “Hark! Look and see how thou dost sew the seeds of strife and conflict! Look how thou dost bring chaos into our halls! And still, thou dares to question father’s judgment? Who art thou to question the commands of a king!?”

“I AM THY KING!” roars Tormud, eyes a light with fire, raising his ax on high. In his pacing around the room, he has placed himself in front of the stone carving their father had made of the four of them. He brings the ax down—

—and splits the tablet between himself and his brothers. 

For a moment, there is only the sound of rock cracking and giving way, tumbling to the stone floor. His brothers stare in shock and horror. The eldest son, breathing hard, turns and meets their gaze. 

Then the room breaks out into chaos. 

Clansmen take up their spears and lords their swords and soon the great hall where their father had taught the four of them how to hold a shield becomes a battleground. Diarmud anguishes at the thought alone. But Tormud, both axes in hand and murderous rage in his eyes, does not back down— 

—until Iomhart stands from his seat. 

“Tormud,” he says, “T’was thee who father favored most. He spoke often of how much he saw a reflection of his younger self in thee.”

 His soft voice silences the mob and his words pierce the hardened facade Tormud had built for himself. Eyes going wide and brows arching upward in surprise, the eldest son finds himself overcome with surprise, grief… and shame. And the shame infuriates him all over again. The steely grip on either ax refuses to slacken though both broad shoulders twitch, longing to let go. He will not yield. He cannot—

“Perhaps,” Iomhart continues, face turning grim. “T’was for this reason he deemed you too dangerous to rule alone.” 

Tormud lets go. Both blades fall to the floor below, sinking into the rock.

“In his younger years, he did lead us to war and nearly to ruin,” says Aodh, his head in his hand. When Tormud catches a glimpse of his face between his fingers, disappointment is written there plainly. “Perhaps he thought, with good reason, that you might do the same.”

Tormud can only stand there, like a fire doused. 

The crowd of clansmen and lords, seeing how quickly and easily their would-be leader has been thwarted and made docile, become embarrassed and make haste to distance themselves from the eldest son. In his trance, Tormud glances around and realizes that while this may not be a battlefield that he stands on, he’s been met with his first defeat all the same.

“What say thee, brother?” goads Diarmud, more empowered now than ever. “Will it be war, then?”

His words echo against the brick walls, so quiet is the throne room. All eyes are upon the eldest prince, awaiting his answer. 

He storms into his room, nearly knocking the heavy wooden door from its hinges. For a moment, he paces the short distance between his bed and the hearth, spinning both axes in his grasp with an anxious energy, as if preparing himself for a fight. But that opportunity had come and gone, hadn’t it? All while he’d just stood there looking like a fool. Looking weak. Yet it is not embarrassment or humiliation that sickens him now, but the truth of it all. Father had thought him too volatile and unforgiving to be king, too ruthless and vicious? 

T’was father who designed him that way. Taught him to be strong. Taught him that this was the duty of a king.

With a frustrated snarl, he flings one of the axes across the room where it cuts a mounted bear head in twain. Fur and wood and teeth fly everywhere, clattering to the ground, and the prince stares at the mess in its wake.

For a fraction of a moment, he doubts himself. Had father been right about him? Was he too dangerous to rule alone? To quick to anger? 

…no. It is his birthright! His fate! And it had been foolishly denied to him. He will go to war with them all if he has to— he’ll kill all those who oppose him until he stands the only man left alive… the only one worthy to be king. 

Rushing to his desk, he hastily scrawls upon a piece of parchment with a quill. He’ll call upon the clans who stand in favor of the right of succession, and rally them to his aide. Then he will confront his brothers, declare war, and announce himself the rightful heir.

With the ink still wet, he rolls the bit of paper up and goes to stamp it with his signet ring— 

—only to find it missing. He often kept it on his desk in the rare case that he needed it. Yet it was no where to be found. No matter. 

Into the hall he emerges again, parchment crushed inside his mighty grasp, and heads toward the stairwell. He takes each step quickly and swiftly, almost levitating down the winding pathway until he slams, hard, into another man going, much slower, the same direction.

The poor cloaked fellow goes staggering forward with a shout, falling against the cobblestone wall and dropping all that was in his hands. 

Including a signet ring. 

It clatters down the steps noisily. Tormud and the man both stare after it as it skips step after step, until at last it rattles to a stop, the Mactyre family crest plain for all to see, catching the torchlight. 

The cloaked man is deadly still, hands splayed open against the wall. Neither of them make a move for a long, intense second. 

Then he lunges, scoops up the ring, and darts off, running down the stairway faster than a hound after a squirrel. The poor bastard is terrified. And he has every reason to be.

The eldest son is right behind him. 

Down the spiral servant’s steps Tormud chases this cloaked man like a dog on a hunt. He can see nothing else and hear nothing else, only the panicked breathing of the poor bastard scrambling to get away. These steps are narrow— not at all to Tormud’s advantage. Every turn results in him slamming against the brick walls where he pushes himself off again with a growl, propelling himself closer and closer to the hooded man. Still, the stranger is faster. Nimble. No matter how quickly the prince moves, he can only ever catch a glimpse of the gray cloak before it disappears again around the bend.

At last he reaches the bottom. Stumbling into the kitchens, he’s halted by a flock of scullery girls in the midst of their dinner preparations. They yelp and squeal in surprise as he almost plows right through them. 

Surprised, the head maid bleats, “Y-Your highness!” 

It’s far too crowded in here— he can’t see—

Cold light pours in through the side door as the cloaked man, bobbing and weaving past the girls, scrambles out into the courtyard. 

Tormud growls.

He pushes past the kitchen girls, being far too rough with them as he makes a bee line toward the exit. They shout and gasp, bags of flour flying out of hands and trays stacked high with dirty dishes clattering to the floor. The head maid is bold enough to swear at him for this— and lucky enough that he is too preoccupied to hear her. 

Stepping out, he is met with an empty, muddy yard. Storm clouds brew overhead. The horses in their stables whiny and huff and the pigs in the nearby pin squeal, thinking their dinner is about to be delivered. Rain starts to fall in a light, misty drizzle as the Prince catches his breath and scans the open courtyard. He swears under his breath. Gone.

It is then, by pure luck, that he is greeted by a familiar sight. One he hasn’t seen in some time now. 

A small, fluttering blue light, just out of reach. 

Down the slope of the hillside the wisps lead him, appearing and then disappearing almost instantly as he rushes right through them in great big strides. They take him past the blacksmith, past the mason, until at last he stops, staring up at the falconry. 

He arrives at the top of the steps just in time to throw open the door and find the cloaked figure standing near the window, a messenger bird perched atop his wrist. The man startles as the prince appears and quickly slips a small scroll into the bird’s awaiting holster. But before he can get the chance to set it loose, Tormud lunges across the room, snarling, and with the full brunt of his force, he slams the hooded man into the brick wall. The man crumples like a doll onto the hay and shit covered floor, releasing the falcon as he falls. And before the prince can swipe at it and catch it, it screeches at him and darts out the window in its panic.

“No!” he bellows, throwing himself against the window and thrusting an arm through the narrow gap. His fingers splay out and just barely graze against soft black feathers, not quick enough to catch it.

It flies away, carrying with it the hooded man’s message.

Tormud roars in anger, slamming his fists on either side of the window. For a moment, he stands there and breathes heavily, helpless to do anything but watch the falcon soar along the wind, flying across the marshes—

—where it is shot down in the arch of it’s flight. 

The prince stares in shock, leaning out the window to watch it’s lifeless body spiral to the ground. It drops in a heap, not but sixty meters away from Merida. 

She sits atop the back of a horse, his horse, armed with a bow she’d likely snagged from the training grounds. She’s still mid-shot, bow poised out in front of her, fingers dancing over another arrow— as if she could have possibly missed in the first place. As she lowers her weapon, her eyes trail away from the fallen bird, across the grasslands, and up the tower until they meet his. 

Her hair is loose and free, bright as fire against the cold green and blue of the marshland. A will ‘o wisp of a different kind, to be sure, but no less bewitching.

Merida dismounts Quinn, immediately regretting her decision as both feet sink ankle-deep into the soft, wet earth. When it had first started to thunder, she had considered staying out in the forests for a little bit longer, shooting off the rest of her arrows. But not wanting to get absolutely drenched and die out here, hundreds of years in the past, without having even done anything to change the future, she decided to call it quits a bit early. 

It would seem that, despite what her mother had always said during lyre lessons, the princess did in fact have good timing.

She picks the falcon up by the fletching of the arrow, examining it with a curled lip. Definitely dead, poor pitiful thing. Around its ankle, it wears a holster for ferrying messages. Curious, she unclips it and sets the bird back down so that she may unravel the little scroll and read what it says. 

It’s that same strange language again. Discerning nothing other than the similar thin, blocky handwriting as before, she is more than willing to hand the note off to the prince as he approaches.

“Hated to do that,” she says in regards to the dead falcon. “T’was a beauty. Tell me I did it for a good reason?”

The prince, flushed in the cheeks from all the running and covered now in a thin layer of sweat and rain, skims the writing on the scroll. His brow knits together, expression darkening. Merida watches his left hand flex, index finger slightly discolored where his ring once sat. 

“’Tis a declaration of war to the neighboring kingdoms,” says he, voice low. A streak of lightning paints the sky in shades of blue and violet. “With my signature and signet stamp.”

Merida snatches it from his hands and he lets her. She stares hard at the wax seal, indeed indented with the crossed double axes of clan MacTyre. 

The prince glances away, tense. A roll of thunder shakes the earth. The scroll in her hands, the one she’s staring at with fear and apprehension, is almost identical to the one he had been about to send himself. What could it mean when every move he makes is matched, unwittingly, by those who seek to destroy him? What does it say about him that he truly is so predictable? 

The declaration of war weighs heavily in his pocket. But not nearly as heavily as his signet ring weighs in hers. Merida runs her fingers over the wax stamp. 

“This cannae be,” she mumbles. “It’s stamped and everything…”

“Aye,” says the prince with a deep, sorrowful sigh. “My signet t’was missing from my chambers. Stolen, no doubt, by the scoundrel in the falconry.”

But Merida knows better. Her throat feels dry.

“Pray thee, give me good news. Hast thou discerned anything from spying upon the lords?”

Merida’s heart races. It was not one of the lords. It couldn’t have been.

“Merida?”

She isn’t accustomed to hearing her name on his lips. Large, scarred fingers lightly brush against the back of her trembling hand. Light as a feather, despite their gruff and calloused appearance. She flinches away and looks up, finding a look on his hardened face that she’d never seen there before. She can’t even recognize it. Whatever it is, it’s bordering on concern.

“I—,” she stammers, “—I haven’t heard a word. I’ve been up and down the castle halls day and night. Been slacking on my actual duties just to be at the right place at the right time. But nothing. It’s been quiet. I’m… I’m sorry.”

“No,” he says, too quickly. Taken aback by himself, he is slower when he adds, “Thou  hath done more for me than I had any right to ask.”

The concern ebs away and as it goes, that other look returns. She’s staggered by it. It’s not compassion, nor pity. More akin to remorse. But rooted far too deeply in pride. Something very complicated is going on behind all his bluster and she cannot even begin to fully understand it.

To his credit, he is able to forcefully shake himself out of his stupor as the drizzle turns into a proper shower. Merida’s unruly curls are flattening against her head; they’ll be a nightmare tomorrow morning, for sure. She hastily tucks them away under the wimple, soaking it through as she does so. 

Tormud whistles at Quinn and the lumbering beast trots over, shaking off his tail. 

“Hope you don’t mind,” Merida remarks, “You said I could—,”

“I did,” says the Prince, softly. “And I don’t.”

Reaching out, he grabs the end of the bow where it is slung around her shoulder. 

“This, however, I don’t remember mentioning.”

She smiles sheepishly, hands clasping behind her back. “Och, come now. It was implied.”

“Hmph. An excellent shot, nonetheless.” 

Merida thinks he smiling. She can’t be sure. Regardless, he drops the conversation as Quinn ambles up. Those large, calloused hands run down the length of the horse’s back, smoothening the dark fur and wiping away raindrops that have built up there. She sets about hiking her skirts up, latching them at her waist so that they don’t get in the way as she treks back to the castle. But it is for naught— when she looks up, the prince is waiting for her, hand outstretched. 

“Oh, I can walk back,” she tells him. “Tis only a bit of rain.”

If ever she had any doubt that fate and the fae were working against her, no sooner do these words leave her lips that another flash of lightning touches the treetops just a mile or so away, followed by a deafening roll of thunder. So loud it is that Quinn startles, needing to be soothed by Tormud’s steady hands. 

“Come,” he tells her. “Lest thou be plannin’ to make another run for it? I’d be happy to give chase— but I praythee, not today. I’ve a scoundrel awaiting me in yonder tower.”

Merida snorts in that sort of unladylike way that would make her mother languish. 

“Fine, fine,” she crosses around him, ignoring his offer, and goes to mount Quinn on her own. “Some other day, then—,” 

She yelps as two huge hands close down around her waist, pressing into the soft flab of her belly, and turn her ‘round. He lifts her off her feet and she, in her surprise, reaches out and grabs at his shoulders, holding on tight. He’s strong. Well of course he’s strong. She knew that just by looking at him. Still, she hadn’t been prepared to feel the subtle shift of muscle beneath flesh nor the softness of his long hair, caught between her fingers. 

Human after all. Just a man, not a monster.

Tormud sets her atop Quinn, careful not to let go until she has steadied herself. Merida cannot let go of him quickly enough. 

The prince clicks his tongue against his teeth and Quinn obediently starts forward toward the castle. So disoriented is she by the strangeness of it all that by the time they reach the falconry and find the hooded man missing, her thoughts had all but completely strayed away from the issue at hand. 

Tormud rages, pacing the falconry floors and muttering to himself about lords and traitors and snakes. And Merida, her fingers tightening around the signet ring in her pocket, says not a word. 

The broach she’d traded to the witch had been a signet as well. Her mother shares its match. Likely, this ring is one of four in existence. One is in her pocket. And the other three belong to and are in the possession of his brothers.

Iomhart, Aodh, and Diarmud.

One of them is trying to frame the eldest son. 

But… it doesn’t quite add up. What of the stable boy? What of the letter found on his body, instructing him to kill the three younger princes? 

Merida considers bringing this to the eldest son’s attention, then thinks better of it. So much of the legend had been proven false or inaccurate. But still, as she watches him rage around the tower, his snarls and roars echoing all around them, she sees more of the beast than the man. Without proper evidence, she dare not implicate his brothers— lest she accidentally start the wheel of fate rolling toward disaster. No, she will keep her trap shut for now. Wait until she knows for sure. Then she will handle it herself.

Fortunately it takes only two days before Diarmud calls upon her again, just as she was hoping he’d do. In all the lessons her mother had taught her, whether they be about underwater selkie kingdoms or fairy monarchies, one thing was always consistent— the second born child in line for the throne stood to gain the most if the eldest child were to suddenly be rendered unfit. 

This particular case doesn’t quite fit that same mold; after all, the four brothers were meant to rule together. The second eldest son had everything to gain and no reason to do away with his older brother— unless it was far more personal than the simple right of succession. 

Regardless, Prince Diarmud was at the top of Merida’s suspect list. Followed by Iomhart and Aodh respectively. And so, as she reports to his quarters as commanded, she prepares herself to withstand the worst, if only to potentially find something condemning. 

But what she finds is not at all what she expected. The second son stands atop a stool in the center of the room, having his armor refitted and his tunic adjusted for the coronation ceremony. A younger woman kneels before him on the floor, threading a needle through the hem of his sash. And when Merida enters, only the girl acknowledges her whatsoever. 

“You there,” she says, sweat on her brow and cheeks flushed from the heat in the hearth. “Go hither and strip the prince’s bedding. See that it’s washed.”

Merida frowns. “I’m not the linens girl.”

The woman throws her hands up in the air, needle and all, and lets them fall into her lap. She fixes Merida with a look that implies she ought not to be trifled with. 

“Did I ask thee such a question? I hath called upon Saoirse nigh on three times and she cannot be found. So, aye, today thou art the linens girl. Congratulations! No get to it before I tan thine hide!”

Merida shuffles across the room, eying the prince as she passes. His bearded chin is held high, his lofty gaze averted from her almost intentionally. With a sigh, she approaches his bed and sets to work. 

“Thine dress is filthy, girl,” remarks the seamstress, needle wedged between her lips. “Do not further sully the prince’s linens. When thou art finished, clean thyself. Shameful.”

Merida rolls her eyes. A bit of mud isn’t going to hurt these sheets. They’re stained yellow with sweat and wrinkled, as if he’s been tossing and turning. They smell stale and musty. Her nose crinkles as she pulls them off, bundling them into a pile in her arms. It is as she’s reaching for the feather pillows that she notices a stack of parchment next to his desk, sat beside a quill. 

Merida glances back to the prince and the seamstress. They have resumed ignoring her entirely. 

Leaning over the bed, she pretends to undress the pillow while glancing at the writing. It’s hard to read. Ancient Gaelic, just like the notes left with each hooded figure. But the handwriting is not at all the same blocky style. Diarmud’s writing is thin, wispy, and slightly slanted. She grimaces. It was not him. 

“Girl!” snaps the seamstress. Merida jumps, swearing under her breath. “Get on with it!”

She nearly trips over a bit of sheet as she drags it behind her, scurrying out the room. 

“Have you seen Prince Iomhart?” Merida asks, dropping the second son’s sheets into the awaiting linen basket. She’s no intention of washing them. 

Innes raises an eyebrow and slowly stops stirring a bubbling pot. “Why?”

She shrugs, playing herself off as innocent. She lies, “Prince Tormud was asking for him earlier. I didn’t know if he’d been found.”

“Oh, Prince Tormud,” sings Innes mockingly. The other kitchen girls giggle and Merida, not liking her tone one bit, bristles. 

“What?” 

“I thought better of thee. Going off and becoming the eldest son’s comfort girl. Have you no sense?”

“His comfort girl?” Merida echoes and the entire kitchen squeals louder than the piglets outside. 

“Aye!” Innes snaps, “Hath thee no sense? Or no respect for thyself? The man had thee whipped for stealing a cake! He had thee stand with the yoke for hours on end! And still thou wouldst share his bed!”

Merida blanches, shrinking under the scrutiny of her gaze and the wicked laughter roaring around her. She sputters, “I would never—!”

“Thou art lucky he hasn’t killed thee yet in a fit of rage. Fool.” The pot of stew starts to smell burnt but Innes continues to stir it vigorously. 

“I haven’t… fook’s sake, I haven’t done what you think I have.” Merida ruminates for a moment, muttering to herself, “I dinnae think he’d let me. Even if I wanted to, and I don’t. You were right, he’s very… focused. I don’t mean a thing to the man, Innes. Honest.”

“Liar,” Innes rebukes, simple and cutting.

“Don’t be like that—,”

“Merida,” says someone behind her. The princess whips around to find the kitchen has gone quiet. The others have returned solemnly back to their chores, keeping their heads down. Only an orphan boy sweeping the floors, speaks up, “Someone hast left a gift for thee in the bunk house.”

She stares, confused. Looking around at the side-eyes she’s getting, she feels a sudden flush of hurt pride and marches out of the kitchen and into the bunk room. Not but two steps into the narrow, cramped living space does she see exactly what all the fuss is about. There, beside the bunk she shares with another girl, rests a beautifully crafted bow. Perfect in size and structure, smelling of freshly carved yew wood from where it sits across the room. She knows instantly who has bestowed her this gift. In her throat she can feel her heartbeat, fast and suffocating. A sick feeling settles in her stomach like ice. 

The man who has gifted her this bow had murdered the man who had gifted her the first.

Unbeknownst to the princess, the rest of the kitchen staff have gathered around the doorway to catch a glimpse of her reaction. Whatever they are hoping for, she refuses to give it to them. With her chin held high and her shoulders squared, Merida strides across the bunk room and plucks the bow up. She takes notice of the weight— balanced, light, flexible— and languishes at how badly she wishes to run off into the woods and use it. 

“Out of my way,” she barks at the lot and they scatter like a flock of sheep. 

“Fool!” Innes shouts at her back. “Tis too late now, if thou casts away this gift thou wilt spurn the prince!”

Out the side door and into the courtyard Merida emerges, flushed in the face and bleary eyed with frustrated tears. She doesn’t want his gifts, she doesn’t want his favor or his fondness. Toward the blacksmith she storms to return the wretched gift, a flurry of hair escaping the wimple, snot and tears stinging in the cold wind. And when her foot catches a stray rock and she goes tumbling forward, falling face-first onto the muddy path, it takes everything in her power not to lay there and sob like she used to when she was a girl. The bow and quiver of arrows had launched from her grasp, landing a few feet away, and she can just barely see them through her watery eyes. 

“Jings crivens help ma boab,” she mutters to herself. “Pull it together.”

With the only  patch of her sleeve free of any mud, she swipes at her eyes until she can blink away what little remains. Her entire face feels puffy and raw. With a sniffle and a groan, she looks down and studies the absolute travesty that is her servant’s dress. It’s pitiful. 

“You a’right, miss?” Comes a tinny voice from her side. Merida groans, having hoped no one had seen her blunder. 

“Aye. Right as rain,” she waves a dismissive hand, prepared to pull herself up onto her feet. A small, freckled hand appears out of her peripheral vision and Merida sighs but takes it, letting herself be pulled up. “Much appreciated, lassie. I didnae— Saoirse?”

The young linens girl blinks back at her, looking sheepish. In her free hand, she’s folded up her apron into a pouch full of something bulky. Merida fumes. 

“Och, where’d you run off to today? I had to pick up your slack, you know.”

The child appears apprehensive. She takes a measured step back and stammers, “Sorry, I must be off… much to do.”

And with that, the girl scuttles away toward the village like a wee field mouse.

Merida watches her go and catches her breath, perplexed but not entirely interested. After a moment, she picks the bow up off the ground and lets out a sigh. It really is expertly made— not at all damaged by the fall. Still taught and fit for use. Her fingers trail down the soft yew wood. Easy to carve. A beautiful gift. But one she will not accept. 

With a sigh, she reaches to collect the quiver… and hesitates, hand just inches above the strap. In the mud, a foot or so away, is a roll of bandages. Saorise must have dropped them from her apron. Merida takes up the quiver and goes to grab them as well. 

Odd, she thinks. The girl had seemed just fine. 

Something in the back of her mind scratches at the walls while she turns the roll over and over again in her hand. It is a feeling, an inkling of suspicion. And before she can let it even fully come to fruition, she’s already set off after the girl and toward the village.

The relatively small plot of land that sits in the cradle of the valley, just beside the loch, is home to over two hundred families. Merida had yet to have a chance to walk through and weave between the little stone cottages like the does now. Farmers return to the fields from lunch and wives mill about the markets while their wee bairns run around, chasing stray chickens. It is a charming sight and one sorely unfamiliar, as Merida had spent much of her life as princess either within the castle walls or in the forests, wasting no time in between. 

Passing through someone’s vegetable garden, Merida spots the linens girl as she navigates around scouts on their horses and merchants with their carts piled high. It takes a fast step to keep up with the child, especially since Merida has no idea where she’s headed and Saorise clearly knows the way like the back of her hand. More than once she loses sight of her— when the child evades a throng of fishermen that Merida plows right into, and then again when Merida steps into a cowpie and has to stop to wipe away the filth. 

But at last, Saorise reaches her destination.

At the edge of the village, attached to a barn, is a small stone hut with only the one window next to the crooked wooden door. The child dips inside, not bothering to look around. If she had, she might have spotted Merida sneaking up. 

Pressing herself flush against the side of the hut, Merida leans and peeks into the humble abode. Dirt floors, a small hearth, and scarce furniture lay about. She watches Saorise approach a rickety looking dinner table and empty the contents of her apron onto it. More bandages, a needle, thread, and a small bottle of some sort of liquid. 

As Merida observes, the child steps into a backroom for a moment. And a few seconds later, emerges with the stable master in tow. Merida squints, confused, as he lowers himself onto one of the stools. He looks haggard and tired, gaunt in the face and pale all over. He’s saying something to the girl that Merida cannot hear— but when the child replies, he nods and turns the stool around so that she might tend to the enormous, open gash on the back of his head. 

Merida lurches, understanding at once. And before she can give it any more thought, she barges in. 

The pair startle at her abrupt entrance; Saorise drops the bottle of medicinal herbs she’d been using to clean the wound and it breaks into three even pieces at her feet. The stable master goes ashen— more so than he already was — as Merida slams the door behind her and whirls upon them. 

“Are you off your heid?!” she demands of him. “The prince chose to pardon you for your son’s actions and you go off and betray him? Don’t try to lie, I know it was you who he chased to the falconry! Why would you do this?”

The stable master clambers to his wobbly feet, holding both hands out before him. Saorise goes red in the face. She shrills, “Prince Tormud killed Finlay! He had the whipped! He’s a beast, what does it matter—!”

“Hush, child!” hisses the stable master, glancing quickly between Merida and the girl. “She doesn’t mean that, lass. This family serves the MacTyres, we have for centuries. But I beseech thee to understand— I had no choice—,”

“You’re working for someone, is that it?” Merida interjects, lowering her voice to a flat, unwavering tone. “Tell me, then. Who gave you the order?”

Having bled so much, there is hardly any color left in the stable master’s face. But even so, he goes milky white at her demand. Eyes wide and tinged pink around the edges, he begs her with only his stare. Please. I cannot say.

She’s been living in this land for nearly a month now. So long had she been away from her home and her mother. But never will she forget the soft, suppressed sobs coming from Elinor’s chambers or the cruel laughter of lords echoing down the halls her father had built with his own hands. Every second she spends here, in the past, ticks away at an unforseen clock. Time is of the essence— Mor’du will come to be if she does not act. And this will all be for naught. 

Merida raises her bow and knocks an arrow. She aims at the stable master who staggers back into the wooden table. It slides across the floor, sending bandages and bottles clattering to the ground.

“I will kill you,” she threatens. Her voice cracks slightly. Her hands have never been so shaky when holding a bow. “If I have to.”

Before the stable master can even get a word out, Saorise lets out a sob and throws herself between the two of them, wrapping her arms around the man and effectively blocking Merida from landing a good, clean shot. 

“No!” pleads the stable master, prying the child off of him. As she protests, he shoves her behind his back, holding her there with one hand while the other raises toward Merida, palm open and trembling. 

“Please,” begs the man, his eyes brimming with tears. “I cannae say. Understand that I was sworn to silence. My Finlay… he didnae know what he was getting into. T’was never meant to happen the way it did… But I had to make up for my son’s mistake, that was what was asked of me. I cry thy mercy, lass. I hath lost one child yet. Do not take my daughter too.”

Merida hesitates, taken aback, and lowers her weapon. The string of the bow goes lax. The arrow falls to the floor. Here stands a man protecting his child, his wee daughter… against a monster. 

She knows this scene all too well. 

“I will tell thee this and nothing more,” blurts the stable master. “The dagger, t’was not Finlay’s. It was given to us. The lad, he had trouble wielding it; t’was a left-handed blade. I cannae say any more, just leave us be—,”

His final pleas are unnecessary, for Merida is already backpedaling out the front door, tripping a little over her own feet as she goes. Nearly running into a scout on his horse, she startles when the fellow barks at her to get out of the way. Disoriented now and in a panic, she takes off at a dead-sprint toward the castle without once looking back. Her feet carry her well enough despite how badly her hands shake and how frenzied her nerves are. It isn’t until she’s well inside of the castle walls, up the muddy path, and in reach of the stables that they finally give out on her and she goes tumbling into an empty stall, face-first into a fresh pile of hay. 

Here, she hunches over on her hands and knees and struggles to breathe the stale, earthy smells all around her. Bile rises in her stomach and she coughs up a mix of spit and filth onto the dirt. As each empty heave comes and goes in devastating waves, she feels tears prickle at her eyes. And, eventually, the heaves become great big sobs. 

Into a ball she curls herself, back pressed flush against the stable walls and knees brought up to her chin. She’s never been more thankful for her mess of hair, as it creates a perfect little private canopy all around her. For a long moment, she sits there and weeps while the shire horses in the stalls beside her lean their massive heads over to get a sniff. Searching for food, no doubt. 

Merida only looks up again to gently push one of them away when he begins chewing on her hair. And when she does, she spots the bow she’d been gifted laying where it had fallen off her back. 

Was the point ever to save her father, who she barely remembers? …Or to secure her own freedom? 

With a frustrated snarls, she kicks it away where it goes sliding across the stall and disappears under a hill of hay. As soon as she does it, she feels like she might be sick, and immediately places her head back into her hands and starts sobbing all over again. 

She is only saved from her miserable, pitiful state by the sound of hoofs clopping through mud and the gentle nuzzle of a snout against her hand. Again she goes to push the nagging beasts away, but this time she finds Quinn staring down at her, wondering why she’s in his stall. And, over his shoulders, she finds the eldest son wondering the same. 

The prince raises his eyebrows, having hardly noticed her at first until he’d brought his horse halfway under the stable roof. Now that he does see her, though, he is no less surprised. Merida, with hay stuck in her hair and tears streaming down her cheeks and dried mud all down her front, must look absolutely out of her gourd. She’s got nothing to say. No good excuse comes to mind. 

Doesn’t seem to matter, though. Tormud dismounts without a word and removes Quinn’s saddle, paying her no mind—  asking no questions. 

Merida is grateful for this, at least. While his back is to her, she furiously swipes away tears. Crying twice in one afternoon? Eugh. Her entire face feels red and swollen. Though that could just as well be from the hay. 

By the time the prince finishes tying a bag of oats around Quinn’s muzzle, she is at least somewhat collected. He comes to stand in front of her, looming nearly six and a half feet above. From here, he appears very terrifying. But when he kneels down, putting himself closer to eye-level, she can almost forget who she’s looking at. 

“What troubles thee?” he asks, softly. It is almost a whisper. 

Merida runs a hand through her hair— where it gets snagged. Annoyed, she yanks it free, pulling out several orange strands. 

“I’m fine,” she tells him. An obvious lie.

The prince stares, unmoving. His stillness is indicative enough— he doesn’t believe her. Of course he doesn’t, he’s not an idiot. For a second or so, he studies her shifting eyes and trembling lower lip. His face darkens. 

He asks, “Did Diarmud call upon thee again?”

Tired, Merida retorts without thinking, “Aye, he did.”

His scar twitches. His eyes narrow. “I shall speak to him.”

She has a feeling that Tormud, his temper on par with her own, wouldn’t be doing much ‘speaking’ at all. Putting up both hands, she quickly corrects, “Ah, no, it wasn’t… he didnae do anything. That’s not why…”

She trails off, eyes closing as she squeezes the bridge of her nose. 

The eldest son, having been ready to go on a true rampage, must swiftly change course. The kitchen wench is in no mood to simply tell him what bothers her so, this much is clear. And as bothersome as that may be, he knows her well enough to understand she cannot be forced into being forthright. A shame. How, then, to proceed? Comfort is Iomhart’s virtue, not his. And the kitchen wench is such a fickle thing; she won’t even look at him—

“I have upset thee,” he concludes. He can think of nothing else. It seems likely enough; he’d been the cause for much of her suffering in the past. 

“No,” she breathes. Then, after thinking better of it, corrects herself and hisses back at him, “Yes! Why did you give me that bow? I never asked for anything from you! …I never asked for all this, I—,” Merida chokes, fingers curled into fists upon the dirty lap of her skirt. She had asked for this. She’d paid for it, too, with pure silver. She winces and throws her head into her hands again, refusing to let him see her cry. “I never should have come here. I want to go home.”

Tormud’s grinds his teeth as he contemplates, jaw tightening. More than once he tries to offer her some sort of comfort— to gently touch her shoulder. But every time he catches a glimpse of his own hand, fingers painted to resemble claws, all he sees is the death they’ve wrought. The violence they are capable of. He dare not touch her out of fear of himself. 

“Then go,” he tells her. 

Her blue eyes seem to glow against the pink and red flush of her face. She looks at him in equal parts confusion and surprise. 

“I can’t.”

“I will not follow. I will stop any who try.”

“No, I—,” Merida shakes her head incredulously. She can hear the witch’s warning, the final words she’d given her. Once you go, you won’t come back. “There is no going back. Not anymore.”

He nods, contemplative. “Thine parents, they bid you to wed.”

She rolls her eyes, sniffling. Right, that is what he thinks, isn’t it? 

“A cage of a different kind,” he remarks. There is a sorrow to his tone that she doesn’t quite understand. “And thou wouldst make a poor wife.”

Merida double-takes, her mouth falling agape. She sees in the deep earthy hue of his eyes a rare spark of playfulness. Beneath the sharp hook of his nose, his thick mustache curls upward as he smirks.

“Och!” she throws a volley of light punches his way, one after the other landing soundly and ineffectively against the barrel of his chest. He chortles, letting her get her hits in, before gently swatting away the rest. “I’d make a fine wife, I would! Better than any you’ll ever find! Or deserve, for that matter!” 

“No doubt,” he affirms, with unquestionable fondness in his voice. “What say thee, then? Wilt thou stay?”

Merida plucks bits of hay from her hair, flicking them away. “Aye, I reckon I will. Whose going to stop the next plot against you, if not me? I’ll say this, though— I’ve about how it with these boorish lords. If one more of them tries to get a peek under my skirt while I’m dusting I’m going to—,” she makes a strangling noise, holding her hands up in front of her as if she were wringing someone’s neck. 

Tormud chuckles. “Didst thou think the arrows were just for show?” 

She snorts again in that same boyish way as always. 

She cannot help it.

7

A Good Man

She balances the platter against her shoulder, careful not to trip over her dress as she takes each step. The eastern tower is poorly lit. Likely no one comes up here besides Aodh; Merida has observed and learned that he spends a good portion of his time locked away up here, pouring over the tomes. Easy pray. Nice and cornered. 

The clootie dumplings she’d whipped up just that morning are still steaming. She can feel the heat through the tray. The smell of rich spices and treacle waft up the stairwell as she goes, signaling her arrival long before she knocks on the thick oak door. 

“Come hither,” says a voice inside. And Merida pushes the door open with a flourish, sure to send a wave of toasted apple across the room. 

Aodh sits hunched over a small desk, surrounded by dozens of candles and several thousand giant tomes and scrolls. He does not look up at her as she enters, so engrossed he is in his work. He’s looks the most unlike his other brothers. He’s still massive, yes. But his muscles have a softness to them— thanks to the sweets he favors so much. 

Merida sets the tray down on the table, just within sight. 

“As you requested, my prince,” she says. 

Aodh tilts his head up from the scroll before his eyes ever leave the page. Each pass of his quill is quick and concise. At last, he reaches a stop and gives her— and the dumpling— his attention. 

“I didnae request anything,” he retorts, slowly. “Thou art mistaken.”

“Oh!” Merida makes a face, putting a hand to her cheek. “I could have sworn…? Are you certain?”

Again his gaze flickers down to the steaming, sweet dumpling. He lingers there for a moment. A finger strums against the table. 

“… I am most certain, aye.”

“Och, that fool Eilidh! I ought to ring her neck. She must’ve gotten you confused with one of your brothers. Apologies, my prince. I’ll get this out of your way, then—,”

She goes to lift the tray, only for his stout hand to lay along the opposite rim. He clears his throat and Merida tries to hide a shit-eating grin. 

“You may leave it, lass. I would not see our depleted rations go to waste.”

“Ah, very wise of you, my prince,” Merida compliments. She eases her way further into the room, glancing around as the youngest son starts to pick at the dumpling. He burns his fingers and flinches, but keeps attempting to tear off a steaming chunk. “My, I’ve never seen so many books! There must be hundreds!”

“Tomes,” he corrects, blowing on a hot piece of dumpling he’s ensnared. “And there are six hundred and four.”

She whistles. With her hands clasped behind her back, she pretends to peruse them before finally turning to peek over Aodh’s shoulder and get a glimpse at what he’s working on. 

She’d been hoping for something incriminating. But she can’t even tell what she’s looking at. 

“What, er,” she’s not sure how to ask without sounding invasive. “What are you working on, my prince?”

Sure enough, the look he gives her says she’s being nosy. Merida offers an innocent, stupid smile and he leaves it be. 

“Tis a restoration,” he says. His voice, though as low as Tormud’s, is much softer and sweeter. She can only assume he does not use it very often. “This tome is nearly six centuries old. I am re-writing the faded lettering. ‘Tis not all that I do, of course. The collection behind you is a history of the people who lived in this land before us. I’ve translated it into Gaelic.”

She makes a humming sound. “Sounds awfully time consuming.”

“Nothing that’s worth doing comes easily or quickly,” he states. Then, after tearing off another piece of the dumpling, he goes on, “Tell me, lass. What is the nature of thine relationship with my brother?”

Merida, so thrown asunder by the abrupt shift in conversation, almost doesn’t understand the question at first. When it dawns on her what he’s asked her, she could scream. Just how many people had their noses in her business? And here she’d thought she was being very covert about this whole thing. 

“There is no relationship between us. Of any kind.”

Aodh tilts his head and his shaggy long hair drapes across his eyes. He’s far less intimidating than the other three, too. Less like a beast and more like one of the long-haired highland cows grazing out in the moors. “Not even one of master and servant? Do you mean to say he treats you as an equal?”

“No, of course not,” Merida offers a reassuring grin, waving a hand. “Your brother, the prince, I think he finds me... entertaining. Between you and me, I’d rather his ire than his amusement.”

She chuckles but the youngest son does not join her. The mirthful sounds hardly reverberates against the tower walls, so crowded is the room with books. 

“Careful what thy wish,” he replies, voice barely above a whisper. With his brows raised like this, she can see that he and Tormud have the exact same earthy shade of eyes. “Tormud’s disdain can so quickly turn to violence. His temper is renowned. Thou hast tasted his hostility before; imagine, if thou wilt, what he is capable of doing to those who have truly wronged him. Diarmud has always found him to be incapable of change. And Iomhart thinks he lacks all empathy. But I must say— I disagree. I believe a man’s greatest weakness lies not in the absence of certain virtues, but in those he does posses. Such as pride.” He finishes the dumpling, pushing the plate aside. Merida listens and watches as he brushes his sticky fingers off on his tunic. “T’was his pride that father— a wiser man than the lot of us combined— feared the most. Tis pride that can cripple even the sturdiest of men.”

The youngest son sighs and reaches for his quill. Merida holds her breath. 

He takes it up with his right hand. 

“Dost thou understand, lass?”

Merida snaps out of her trance, fixing the youngest son with a tight, strained smile. He doesn’t seem to notice the insincerity behind it. 

“Yes, my prince. Thank you for the word of warning,” To punctuate this statement, she places a hand over her heart as she’d often seen her mother do during grand speeches. “I can see that you are busy, I will leave you to your studies.”

He watches, quiet, as she bows and backs away toward the door. Try as she might to keep her movements calm and unassuming, she is all but buzzing with adrenaline. 

Aodh is right handed. Diarmud’s handwriting doesn’t match. The only possible remaining suspect is the middle son, Iomhart! So much to do… how does she go about proving his guilt? She needed to find a way into his chambers— search for some sort of hard evidence—

“Lass?”

Merida halts, hands poised around the door knob. Her heart thunders in her chest, but she takes a deep, steadying breath before she answers, “…Yes?”

Silence. Swallowing to soothe the dryness of her throat, Merida turns her chin back to meet the youngest son’s eyes. He is staring down at his work, but it is not the tome or the ink that he sees. Even from here, she can see the forlorn look upon his face. The complicated expression she’d seen mirrored on Tormud’s just the other day. For a long moment, Aodh hesitates to say anything. But at last he wills himself to look up from his desk, earthy eyes sorrowful and sincere. 

“Hast he truly…?” he begins. He thinks better of it. “Nevermind.”

She frowns, watching him resume his work. 

Then her mind drifts back to the matter at hand and she hastens out the door and down the tower steps. 

Two days before the coronation, a series of games are held in an open field. 

Everyone from the castle and the village down the hill attends and it drags on from the early hours of the morning until well after dusk. 

It is tradition that the would-be king compete in such games alongside regular clansmen and peasants, the idea being that anyone fit to be king would demonstrate such prowess against the common folk. It is all in good fun. Or it is meant to be. 

For the first time in history, clan MacTyre presents four princes, all in line to be king in a matter of days. And the four of them compete not so much against the clansmen and villagers as they do with one another. From tossing cabers to horse riding, from sword-fighting to stone puts, every highland game turns into a pissing match between the four princes. Merida watches for the first half of the day, bemused by how soundly Tormud is stomping the other three… but otherwise terribly unimpressed by the haughtiness on display. She herself spends much of the midday and evening drinking her fill of ale and meandering about. Much of the castle reserves had been used for the King’s repeat parties. And so today, there was not much in the way of food— but plenty of drink to go around. As a result, everyone is absolutely rat-arsed and guttered, stumbling about and cheering on the festivities. 

She herself has only had a couple of pints, keeping her wits about her. After all, she’s got work to do. It’s only two days before the coronation— only two days before Tormud supposedly becomes Mor’du and slaughters his brothers. She has no time to waste. 

Fortunately, it isn’t hard at all to keep an eye on Iomhart. He and his brothers are at the center of every event today. However, she quickly finds that the younger two, he and Aodh, are not as physically inclined as the others. While Aodh is absolutely massive and gives each challenge his full attention, he hasn’t the passion for games. Often he gives a half-hearted attempt and stands aside as Diarmud and Tormud take turns trying to outdo one another. And Iomhart is much the same. He is disinterested in showing out. As the smallest of the four, Iomhart is nimble and quick, but weak. He does well in the horse riding portion but struggles through the hammer toss. 

However, Merida can see that he is passionate— just about the wrong thing. 

As soon as the third son finishes any given game, he quickly turns and interacts with the other competitors and the crowd. This seems to be where he derives his enjoyment. He prefers to stand aside and clap for the peasant man holding a sword for the first time or teach the children how to sit atop the ponies. Merida finds this strange, but not incriminating. Someone like this is capable of attempted murder and defamation?

In no time at all, the sky turns orange and pink and the torches are lit. The games are drawing to an end, but not before one final challenge. 

Archery. 

She had already seen Tormud’s attempts at the sport. And, judging by his sour— slightly drunken— expression, he doesn’t like his chances either. It’s well and good then that Diarmud is so drunk at this point that he can hardly hold the damn thing. With his only other real competitor out of the running, Tormud is quick to shrug off the final challenge entirely and saunters off, Diarmud and half the crowd in tow, in search of something to eat. 

It is now only Aodh and Iomhart left. Aodh looks miserable to have spent a whole day out of his study. And it is for this reason, Merida assumes, that his older brother allows him to sit this one out. 

Iomhart turns to what remains of the crowd with a smile and gestures to the row of targets. Seven there are, evenly spaced and ready. 

“Come forth, ye who wishes to prove thine might! I shall speak plainly: though I am not a warrior on par with my kin, I possess some skill in the art of the bow. Be not discouraged;'tis all in good fun!”

Perhaps it is the ale talking or the excessive displays of bravado she’s been faced with all day— but Merida raises a hand and steps forward. The crowd mutters. She may not be the first woman in history to compete in the highland games, but she is the first one today. 

Iomhart looks surprised, but not at all displeased. He welcomes her with a wide smile and shows the same level of enthusiasm for each of the five men who step forth as well. 

This’ll do, she thinks. Horse riding and tossing cabers and hammers required both hands. She hadn’t gotten a chance to see if Iomhart was truly left-handed or not and she’d been staring at him all day. But with archery, accuracy was key. And  one had to use their dominate hand to pull back the arrow. 

As it would turn out, though, Merida would have been better off standing in the crowd— the third son stands on one far end of the line and she stands at the other. Five men stand between the two of them; burly, thin, fat, tall, it doesn’t matter. She cannot see around them no matter how far back she leans. Damn it all. 

Fine then. The prince is a skilled archer? She’ll just have to out do all the others until it’s only the two of them left standing. 

A horn blows and she quickly knocks an arrow, the other competitors doing the same. Drawing back the string, she finds her hands aren’t shaking like they were the other night. And no matter how tipsy she feels, her arms and shoulders stay straight and steady. 

They each shoot five apiece, one after the other. And Merida’s are so bunched up at the center of the red that the hay target threatens to crumble in half. The crowd that had been muttering moments before now sound pleasantly surprised. But Merida is far too focused to gain any satisfaction from their cheers. 

One by one, the clansmen step aside. Some of them are quite good, actually. Just not nearly as good as she is— or as good as the prince for that matter. Merida may not be able to see Iomhart, but she can see his target plainly. He’s almost better than she is. His arrows are all bunched together at the center of the target, perfectly spread apart for maximum coverage.

Eventually, it is only the two of them.

Iomhart looks very delighted to be standing beside her. The smile on his face is genuine, but Merida can do nothing but grin— smug in her near-victory. 

“Hark! A prodigy perhaps?” he asks her. “Would that every soldier was half as accurate as thee. Perhaps my first decree as king will be to place my clansmen in the kitchens so that they may learn your secret?”

The crowd chortles. Merida rolls her eyes. 

“Let’s get on with it,” she tells him, swiping at her nose. The nip in the air paired with the flush of her cheeks makes her feel feverish. “Will you shoot first, or shall I…?”

The prince’s smile does not falter when he sighs and says, “Nay, it shan’t be necessary. Clearly you are the superior shot. Let us all congratulate the kitchen wench on a sure victory!”

“What?” mumbles Merida as the crowd applauds and hoots and hollers. She shakes her head to rid herself of the tingling sensation creeping down her spine. “No, that’s not— I haven’t won anything yet.”

The prince gives her a soft pat on the crown of her head. “Tis only a game,” he tells her, quiet enough that only she can hear. “You did very well. And I’ve no desire to make a fool of myself by besting a servant girl.”

He might have meant no offense, but Merida boils all the same. She swats his hand away and the crowd gasps. Iomhart’s smile finally falls. 

“You insult me,” she grunts. “I’ve proven myself to be a worthy opponent and I expect you to respect that.”

Iomhart frowns, his face twisting with discomfort as the crowd mutters and whispers. He laughs, weakly, and goes to give her another excuse. 

Merida tilts her chin up, narrowing her eyes. “A king would not back down from a challenge.”

All levity and geniality vanishes in an instant, as she knew it would. No matter how compassionate or kind a man might be, he is still a man all the same. And like all men, he cannot stand to have his honor pulled into question. 

Without a word, the prince sighs and bends down to pick up an arrow. Through her haze, Merida watches with baited breath as he turns to face the target. In one fluid motion, he slides the arrow into the knock and raises it, pulling the string back as far as it will go—

—with his right hand. 

Merida’s shoulders fall. She watches him fire off five arrows with near perfect form, each one hitting dead-center. Two arrows split down the middle and now dangle in the cool night air. Iomhart turns back to her once he’s done; there is no arrogance in his expression, nor smug satisfaction. If anything, he looks irritated at having his hand so forced. 

It is Merida’s turn now. The crowd gives her ample encouragement. The drink in her system has started to fade. And yet she cannot land a single one in the red. Her thoughts are too scattered, her chest too tight with panic. 

It wasn’t Diarmud. It wasn’t Aodh. It wasn’t Iomhart. She’d been wrong all along. Someone entirely unknown to her had been orchestrating the eldest son’s demise and she was no further to discovering who it was now than she’d been a week ago. 

The coronation is in two days.

She fires the last arrow. It hits one of the legs of the target and ricochets off into the mud. 

Just two days until Tormud approaches the witch for a spell that will turn him into Mor’du. Two days until he kills his brothers. Two days until she fails and history repeats itself.

The crowd is quiet. Merida stares off, past the field and past the treeline. She hardly notices when Iomhart sighs and addresses the crowd, beckoning them on to the next festivity. As they wander off, the prince examines her target one last time. Only two arrows have hit on the far corners of the canvas. He shakes his head. 

“I see now,” he tells her. “—why my brother is so fond of thee. Thou art the same. Prideful fools.”

He leaves her there, frozen in place.

The eldest son has had far too much to drink and hardly anything to eat. He’d taken to sitting near the fire, listening to his youngest brother drone on about whichever scroll he’d been restoring as of late, when the kitchen wench ambles up.

“I need you,” she tells him, her voice small and broken. Sheepish. Her ocean eyes flicker briefly toward Aodh who sits and stares, wide-eyed. “Alone.”

He blinks, seeing two or three of her. And when her words finally penetrate the drunken fog riddling his brain, he finds that he’d already sprung to his feet. Past several tents and tables they weave, heading further and further away from the buzz of merriment and warmth of the fire. He’s a big man but he feels light on his feet, grounded only by the girl and the tether of her small hand in his. She pulls him along, between the hemlock trees and down a small dirt path. The moon above is bright enough to see— but the earth beneath spins. His footing is unsteady on the uneven forest floor and his senses dull. He trusts that she knows where she’s going.

At last they come to a stop where the moon peeks through the leaves and cold moonlight illuminates a small clearing. Moss lay underfoot, riddled with bluebells. Nearby he can hear the chirping of summer bugs and the croaking of frogs out on the loch, the last cries of summer before winter breaks. 

“I’m sorry, I just—,” begins the kitchen wench. The sound of her voice mixes with the ambiance of birdsong and rustling leaves. “I have to tell you something.”

In his drunken reverie, the Prince does not notice the worry etched across her round face, only the freckles dotting her nose and the slight dimpling of her cheeks.

“Then speak it,” he urges, swaying where he stands. Her hand still holds his; he wonders if it’s too heavy.

“You have to swear you won’t be angry,” she begs. 

Damn him, he’s too deep in his cups. Her voice sounds far away. What he wouldn’t give to rest his head against the mossy earthen floor and sleep a thousand years. But would she still be here when he wakes?

“I swear it.”

For a lengthy pause, Merida says nothing. He cannot say for how long they stand there in silence, only that the cacophony of croaking frogs and chirping bugs nearly lulls him into sleep by the time she whispers, “I lied to you before. I know you spoke to the witch. I know what you asked her for.”

At once, the gentle coos of the forest become too loud. Too disjointed. He shakes his head, clearing his thoughts, and tries to understand what she’s said. 

“You—,”

“I don’t care about any of that now. But you have to promise me… promise you won’t seek her out again. Swear to me you’ll leave it be.”

Her visage, once blurry and ever-shifting, becomes clearer. Sharper. He can see now the deep circles under her eyes from sleepless nights, the frizzle in her hair from the humid day. Often, he’d likened her in his mind to the fae. A surreal, otherworldly wood nymph sent to cause trouble. But here, under the natural light of the night sky, she looks human and she looks afraid.

“I know not of what you speak.”

“Dinnae—!” Merida’s voice is shrill and furious. She stops herself, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment as she calms down. “…Dinnae lie to me. I was there. I know you were after a spell. She didn’t give you what you asked for, but if she had, you would have taken it… wouldn’t you have?”

The drunken haze starts to fade. 

“Careful, Merida—,”

“Wouldn’t you have?!” shouts the kitchen wench, red in the face. Her words echo up into the canopy above and into the night air. The eldest son glares, becoming increasingly put off by her tone. This is not her intention, and so she takes a deep breath and tries again, “I know tensions are high. I know we haven’t gotten any real answers as to who’s plotting against you. I know I sound crazy, but I’ve this terrible feeling you’ll… You cannot go back, Tormud.” She swallows hard, then looks up at him to hold his gaze. “I forbid it.”

His hands slide out of her grasp. He takes a step back, chin tilting until he’s looking down at her. For the first time in a good long while she sees that look in his eyes again— one of righteous, prideful spite. And it must be a trick of the light overhead, but when he backs into the shadows, they glint white. Like an animal’s. 

A shiver runs down her spine. 

“Thou forbid it?” he rumbles. “Forbid me?”

Despite herself, she’s trembling. Whether it’s the cold breeze or the way he’s standing so unnaturally still, she can’t be sure. 

“Who art thou to command a king?” the prince demands. “Hast this lowly kitchen wench again forgotten her place?”

The fear gives way to frustration; a far more manageable feeling and one she’s familiar with. She mustn’t forget who she is and where she comes from. She’s no wench, she’s the only child of Fergus DunBroch, the bear king who united the land. The iron clad. 

“You will do as I say,” she squares her shoulders. “Or I’ll tell your brothers what you asked of the witch. And I’ll tell them what she offered you instead.”

The wind rustles the trees overhead and the silver light dances. The glint in his eyes is gone and she can see now, with clarity, the pain upon his face. 

“…Thou wouldst betray me?”

“Thou wouldst betray thyself!” Merida snaps, throwing his words back at him. “T’was you who said you cannae change fate!”

The Prince lunges and Merida gasps, stumbling backward and landing hard on her rear. He takes two wide strides toward her, roaring, “My fate hast been changed! Taken from me! Stolen! I will not be denied that which I am owed! No one will keep me from my destiny…”

She backpedals against the mossy forest floor, crushing bluebells under clawed hands. The breeze vanishes and again Tormud is cast in shadow, looming above her as only a dark, hulking shape.

“…Not even you.”

For a moment, she wonders if he’s going to kill her. She’s made it all too easy for him. They’re alone, far from the encampment. She’s unarmed. Why had she done this? Why she allowed him to get the upper hand? Was she really so foolish? 

No. It was worse than that. She’d trusted him. 

At the forefront of her mind now she hears Aodh’s warning. Imagine what he’s capable of doing to someone who has wronged him. 

Merida shakes all over. But even so, she will not let him frighten her. 

“Is that a threat?” whispers the princess. “…Is that what you need to feel strong?”

His furrowed brow relaxes a bit. His fists at either side slacken. 

Merida pushes herself up onto her elbows. And even though he towers above her, she manages to tilt her head back and look down upon him. Elinor would be proud. “If you hurt me enough, will that make you feel like a king?”

All at once, his disposition changes and she’s staring again at the man who’d knelt beside her in the dirty stables to dry her tears. The true king.

It is clear by the shock on his face that he had almost forgotten himself. A moment ago, he’d looked upon the kitchen wench and hadn’t seen her— only a threat. And, to his horror, he had been prepared to do whatever it took to be rid of it. 

Pride no longer rules him, but shame. Shame and disgust. 

Without another word, he backs away from the kitchen wench and her unblinking, haunting stare. And before Merida can say another word, he stumbles back into the shadow and bolts away.

For the next eighteen hours, Merida begs the wisps to appear and show her what she’s meant to do. But none come and the coronation is tomorrow evening. 

The castle staff are bustling every which way, preparing for the ceremony. Innes looks thirty years older, stirring two pots at once while barking at the clansmen for tracking mud through the kitchen. Merida and a handful of others are tasked with scrubbing the stone floors of the throne room. Within the first few minutes, her back starts to ache and her knees begin to feel bruised. But she keeps her head down and does her job, happy to have some busy work to take her mind off of what she now must do. 

Once again she has no choice but to kill the eldest son. 

It’ll be harder this time. He’ll be expecting another assassin what with the ceremony looming so near. Getting into his chambers will be easy enough; he’s been missing all day. She’d heard Diarmud asking Iomhart where he was. No one knew. 

No one except the lowly kitchen wench, scrubbing the floors, who had a sinking suspicion.

He had to have gone to the witch, he must have. He could be asking her for a spell right now, as Merida sits here, sleeves wet and unable to do a damn thing. 

It had to be done tonight. Come tomorrow, it might be too late. 

When her chores are done and Innes’s attention is elsewhere, Merida ducks away and sneaks off upstairs. The hallways are littered with staff, clansmen, and the occasional lord on his way to to his own quarters. None of them think anything of the red-headed kitchen girl slipping into the eldest son’s room. 

After all, the two of them are presumed to be lovers. 

It has been a long time since she stood in here. Only a little over a week, aye, but it felt like ages. He’d cleaned it up since she’d been here last— and she knows it was him and not one of the maids, otherwise she’d have heard about it and likely been told to do it herself. The hearth has been swept free of any debris and ashes. The bedpost has been mended as well as it can be. The lone window overlooking the loch has been adorned with a new curtain that billows slightly in the breeze. It smells like rain outside. She hopes he doesn’t get caught in a downpour—

The thought makes her sick. 

Merida scans the room for the most optimal place to hide. She figures the wardrobe next to the door will be the best choice— there’s a clear line of sight to the bed. She goes and stands in front of it, mapping out the angle. Lifting her arms as she will do tonight when equipped with her bow, she aims at the empty pillow where the prince will be sleeping. 

Her hands tremble. She shakes them off. 

One arrow ought to be enough, if she’s accurate enough. She prays that whatever trance had befallen her the previous night during the archery competition does not plague her again. She need only land one into his neck… or his eye, maybe…

Merida runs a hand over her face, trying to rid herself of the most horrible feeling.

Where are you? she wonders. 

Had he really gone to the witch even after she’d begged him? He was prideful and vain and hot-headed, aye, so was she. They’d had a few sore words, sure, but he trusted her.

Maybe her being here had changed the legend already? Maybe there’s no need to—

She feels a prickle run down her spine. Her legs feel weak. She slumps down against the edge of his bed, the wooden frame squeaking. 

When had she stopped seeing the demon bear when she looked upon the eldest son? When had she forgotten how he would ruin her life? Why is she hesitating? It shouldn’t matter if he’s innocent of killing the king. It shouldn’t matter if he’s being framed, or if there’s more to this legend than what’s echoed hundreds of years from now. All that matters is Mor’du. 

Just the beast, not the man. 

“I have to do this,” she mutters to herself, pacing the room. Her fingers claw at her scalp in frustration. “I’ve come too far to give up now. Everything I have is on the line… Nothing will keep me from my destiny, not even—!”

Not even you. 

She stops, taken aback. Crivens, they are just alike, aren’t they? She rubs at the back of her neck and laughs to herself. As soon as the meek sound slips past her lips, the iron rattle of the door prickles her skin and she jumps to her feet as the prince steps into the room.

They both freeze, staring at one another in perfect silence. Merida’s typical panic response has always been fight over flight, but neither seem viable. She’s unarmed and he’s blocking the door. 

Tormud looks surprised to see her at first. Then, ashamed all over again, just as he had been the night before. When this too fades, the tenderness in his eyes is enough to silence whatever excuse she’d been ready to throw at him for being in his chambers. Turning to the wardrobe, he opens it and starts to remove his cloak. He’s damp all over, ever so slightly. And yet she hadn’t heard a drop of rain hit the ground yet. 

“I cannae tell thee how many nights I have longed to come up here and find thee waiting for me,” he says, shrugging it off. Merida stares at the muscles in his back, how they bend and move with every little motion. “I hath been patient. I knew well not to give chase, lest thou startle and run. I hoped, like the wild thing thou art, thou wouldst come to me when thou yearned for me the same. And here thou art, at last.”

Merida turns six shades of red. 

He thinks… he thinks she’s come up here to bed him. Whatever excuse she’d concocted evaporates on her tongue and she can only stand there like a blushing idiot when he turns to look at her. She languishes under the sheer want and need in his stare. 

He approaches her slowly as he speaks. 

“I see that my bluster from last night has not deterred thee. I am glad. Though I might have known; thou hast never before been shaken by my foolishness.” Tormud stops just a foot or so away. Merida cannot meet his gaze, staring hard at the unlit hearth. A large, rough hand brushes against her cheek, tangling in the curls at her temple. She tenses and, much to her own bewilderment, leans in to his touch. “Tis why I cherish thee so.”

“You can’t mean that,” she whispers. “You don’t even know me.”

“I don’t know thee?” he murmurs, brow furrowing. His thumb caresses the round apple of her cheek. “We are the same.”

Her heart flutters and cannot tell if it’s panic or wretched excitement. 

“You told me to know my place,” she says, daring to glance up at him. Her words give him pause. “I know it well. Do you? You’re a king.”

The word upon her lips does nothing but make him harder beneath his tunic. He takes a deep breath through his nose and runs his thumb over the plump flesh of her lips. She stands perfectly still; it’s been far too long since anyone had touched her like this. Her head’s spinnin’ like mad. God in heaven, he is handsome. She’d been all but ignoring it up until now.

“Hmm.”

Tormud steps away and at last she can breathe again. He circles around her, stopping so close that she can feel the heat coming off of him. And just when she gets a chance to catch her breath, she hears the soft shuffling of fabric. Then feels the cloth of his tunic hit the floor, brushing against her ankles. 

Whatever restraint she had moments ago is gone now. 

His hands run up the length of her arms and she shivers when he gathers up the wild mess of curls and pulls them aside, exposing her neck. 

“A scullery girl thou may be,” he murmurs against the dip of her shoulder. His wiry beard and mustache scratch her skin and she yelps in surprise. “But thou hast the spirit of a queen.”

He has no idea how right he is. Merida could just scream. 

As his fingers trail down the back of her bodice, unlacing her from her dress, her breathing becomes increasingly more erratic. She’s hot all over. The heavy cotton over dress falls off her and pools around her feet. Standing now in just the thin chemise, she leans back and lets his hands roam as he pleases. His manhood presses into her lower back and she whines at the base of her throat.

“If thou wouldst allow it,” he murmurs against the curve of her ear. His mustache tickles. The heat of his breath sends goosebumps down her arms and legs. “I would take thee as my queen.”

His hands are so big, his fingers so strong. He ghosts them over the thin fabric of the chemise, teasing her nipples into stiff peaks and watching in satisfaction as the pale skin of her bosom flushes pink.

“Thou wouldst be as the free as the day is long. Thine castle shall be the hemlock grove and thine tower the Crone’s Tooth. And if you bid me to climb it’s walls every morning to kiss thine lips and take thee softly, I would see it done.”

Like a woman starved, Merida spins on her heel and all but jumps at him. He kisses her hard, too hard. Desperate and hungry and angry to have waited so long. 

What am I doing? He bites her bottom lip, hands sliding down the length of her back until he’s found what he’s after, taking two gruff handfuls of her rear. He squeezes and pulls her forward, slipping his erection through the gap of her thighs. Merida moans as he moves in shallow thrusts, pressing against her heat. What am I doing?

It is a blur. One moment, he’s rutting between her slick thighs. With a fistful of her hair, he has her arching backward while he mercilessly bites and sucks upon her breasts. And the next, she’s has him beneath her on the bed as she straddles his face, mewling as his tongue moves inside her in ways far beyond the capabilities of the blacksmith boy. It becomes too much too quickly but he won’t let her move; mighty arms wrap under her legs and hold her steady by the waist. His fingerprints will bruise her skin for sure; there will be traces of him for a week or more. And, fuck, as he brings her over the edge and she comes for him harder than she’s ever done for anyone before, she’s considering letting him leave as many bruises as he likes. 

And for as long as he likes.

Her head feels heavy on her shoulders as he licks the traces of her pleasure away from the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. She would have hoped that her thoughts would be clearer now— that she’d be able to think straight and realize what they’re doing together. But if anything, it only spurs her to take it further. 

She slides herself down the length of his body, raking her nails across his stout chest and delighting in the thin red marks that swell up against his pale skin. He makes a soft sound of approval; his eyes are hooded and he lays back, content to let her do as she pleases while he commits the sight of her to memory.

Merida is pleasantly surprised at how complacent he’s being. She’d always imagined he would be very domineering. Or, well. Not always. Once or twice. 

Her hands shake as she lifts herself up, leans forward, and reaches back to position him properly. Fuck’s sake, he’s big. Her middle finger and thumb don’t even touch as she  strokes him. The noises he makes beneath her, his scarred face pressed into the pillow of her curls, is enough to keep her from getting cold feet. 

It is no easy fit, despite how well he’d prepared her. Lowering herself bit by bit, she winces as each inch stretches her more and more. Pleasure tows the line with pain no matter how slowly she goes. 

Tormud groans against her ear and she can feel the tenseness in his stomach as he fights hard not to buck up and fill her all at once. He’s muttering something unintelligible into her curls, but it is unmistakably praise. His hands lovingly pet her hips, soothing some of the pain. Merida holds her breath and, just as she starts to worry she won’t be able to fit all of him, she manages to sit flush against the skin of his lap. 

It is done. 

The sweet sigh that leaves her lips is almost enough to push him over the edge  right then and there. She starts to move, lifting herself up halfway before rolling her hips and siding back down. 

He has taken lovers before, however rarely. After battle, when the stench of blood is still in the air, tis nothing better than laying claim to a young maiden fair. But this is different; no battle has been won this day. If anything, he had at last conceded. And she was no woman at all, but a creature from another world. A wisp, always just barely out of reach and impossible to hold onto for more than a moment. 

She moans and sighs as she rides him. And when her trembling legs nearly cause her to tumble backwards, she laughs and the sound is better than all the others combined. So awestruck is he by the maiden’s beauty and how unabashedly herself she is, even now, that he nearly lets her finish him off then and there. But not yet— he did not wait so long only to admit defeat within the first few minutes.

He sits up, abruptly, and lifts her off of him. Merida whines at the empty ache left behind and he shushes her affectionately, turning her around and laying her onto her stomach. ‘Tis all the same to Merida, who enjoys the soft fur pelts against her skin. But Tormud almost instantly regrets it. Across the freckled map of her back are five thin scars, still healing. He swallows, ghosting a hand over each of them. 

“Don’t dally,” she whispers, coyly glancing over her shoulder. “I would like to be able to say I bed a prince and a king all in one day.”

That does it.

He takes her hard and swift from behind, bowed over her like a beast, and all but crushes her against the soft hay of the mattress while she squirms and screams and begs him not to stop. The wooden frame of the bed creaks and groans where he’d patched it. With each violent thrust, it threatens to bring the whole thing down atop their heads. It wouldn’t stop him, though. He’s too far gone, face buried into her hair, one arm wrapped around her neck, applying the perfect amount of pressure, while the other keeps him from completely smothering her under his weight. 

He doesn’t ask her before he empties himself into her warm embrace, filling her to the brink while she gasps and claws at the sheets. His teeth sink into the skin of her neck, just hard enough to leave marks, and he gently ruts against her until the last of the pleasure dissipates. 

Merida taps her hand against his forearm, still tight around her neck, and he quickly releases her. She falls flat to the bed, panting and dazed and grinning with satisfaction like she’d pulled off some sort of elaborate ruse. Tormud rolls onto his back and catches his breath, bemused but befuddled. The only thing he’d fallen for had been her.

“You must think you’re very clever,” says his little wisp, propping herself up onto her elbows. “Reeling me in with all that smooth talk of making me queen.”

Tormud gives her a very serious look. “T’was not merely chatter. Thou need only say the word and I shall declare it ere tomorrow’s ceremony.”

Merida snorts. But the longer he stares, the more obvious it becomes that he’s not at all joking. And in her embarrassment, she looks away. Reaching over and gently taking her by the chin, he guides her eyes back to him only to find worry and fear written plainly across her face.

 “Merida?”

“Where were you today?” she whispers. Her clear ocean eyes fix upon him and refuse to let him go. “Everyone was looking for you… tell me you didn’t—,”

“The Fire Falls,” he interjects, hoping the earnest tone in his voice is enough to prove to her that he speaks the truth. 

She looks relieved, if only for a second. She raises an eyebrow at him, skeptical. “Why?”

The prince’s head lulls to the side, glancing toward the narrow window. It has been raining for a while now. “I hoped to taste the magic this time. T’was my last hope.”

Merida sighs, weary. “Tormud…”

“Tis not an easy task thou would ask of me,” says the prince, breathing deep. “To so easily surrender that which is mine. ”

Tilting her head and perking her lips to the side, she reflects on this. “Aye, I know too well. But you’ve asked me to marry you, so I’d say we’re… even…”

At once, she sits up, wild hair draping over her naked body. There’s a spark in her eyes now, one that he finds both endearing and foreboding, and a grin that pulls at her rosy lips. 

“How’s this, then? I’ll be your lady wife…” says she, sitting straighter. “And you won’t go back to that scaffy witch.”

Tormud frowns, dark brows furrowing and wrinkling the shiny pink scar. His reluctancy works hand-in-hand with annoyance; how he so detested being forced into a corner. 

“Lass—,”

She reaches forward and takes his face in her hands, holding him firmly. It is her turn to be deadly serious.

“No. You listen to me now. No witch or spell can make you what you already are—,” She runs her thumbs over the jagged skin of his scar. “—a king. Show them. Prove them all wrong.” She pauses, looking a bit embarrassed. But as quickly as it comes, it goes, and she allows herself a moment of genuine vulnerability. “Like you proved me wrong.”

He tenses beneath her. For a long moment, he is quiet. Merida can see the turmoil brewing inside, just beneath the surface. He fights against him self, as he always has. Then at last he closes his eyes, takes a steadying breath, and drawls, “I will never accept the fate my father chose for me.”

Merida’s smile falls. 

His fingers trail down her back, tracing the jagged scars he’d left her, and she shivers. He won’t touch them, hovering just above.

“But neither can I live without thee.”

The tears welling up in her eyes surprise him. 

At last. At last, she’d done it. 

“I love you,” she says and is surprised that she means it. She flushes hot and red; it’s far too early to say such a ridiculous thing.

But Tormud chortles, bringing a strand of messy orange tangles to his lips. He breathes deeply the smell of grass and bluebells. “I should hope so. T’would be a poor marriage if not.”

She snorts again in that crass way that he loves and pounces upon him like the wild thing she is.

Long after she’d burrowed under the fur pelts and found a spot for herself curled up at his side, her words still consume him. Into the early hours of the morning he lies there, listening to her soft snores and the pitter-patter of rain. And as dawn breaks on the day of his coronation and his kingdom awakens to find that the rain still has not stopped, at last does Tormud close his eyes and let sleep soothe him for however long it will last.

Tis here that Merida stirs, sweaty and hot. She grunts, displeased, and throws the blankets off, sitting up to find herself not in the bunk house, but in the prince’s chambers. She blinks, bleary-eyed, and shivers as the cold night air chills her damp skin. 

“I must confess something to thee.”

Jumping, she whirls around to find the eldest son sitting perfectly still at the edge of the bed. Hunched slightly, his long dark hair creates a drape that shields his face from her. But just from the way he stares endlessly out of the window and into the night, she can tell there’s something keeping him up.  

“Oh?” she hums, pulling the fur pelts up over her shoulders as she shimmies across the mattress. Tucking her feet beneath her, she comes to sit beside him.  

“It can wait no longer,” whispers Tormud. She can barely hear him. Growing concerned but not overly so, Merida grins and rests her head on his arm. 

“Let’s hear it. Then you come on back to bed.”

Silence. And the longer it goes on, the more her smile fades. 

“Tormud?”

It is a bold decision, no doubt, to reach over and pull his hair back, draping it over his shoulder so that she might see his face. It was certainly worth the risk; though grief and guilt etched deep into the creases of his usually stoic features has her immediately concerned. 

Even when her fingers thread through the thick forest of his beard to find the sharp angle of his chin and pull him to look at her, all she sees is his one, haunting white eye.

“You’re scaring me,” she says. And it’s true. He’s less frightening when he’s angry. 

The prince takes a deep, sorrowful breath. 

“T’was I that killed the king that night,” he tells her, grimacing as if the words cut against his tongue. “I killed mine father.”

It is not the cold early morning air that causes her to go instantly rigid— paralyzed where she sits. Her heart drops into the pit of her stomach where the icy hand of fear has  a firm grip. 

Before she can even say anything—or do anything— he takes another pause then says, “I was summoned to his chambers that night. Truth be told, I was prepared for more senile nonsense about the war or... perhaps sentimental talk of mother. But for the first time in months, he seemed lucid. I knew not how long it would last, so I lost nary a moment. I called him an old fool and a coward. I swore I'd watch his kingdom crumble for the slight he'd dealt to me.” 

Merida winces. She sighs, shaking her head in disappointment.

“…I told him,” the prince continues, struggling to get the words out. “If he had any honor left, he'd do right by us all and die ere he shamed himself further. And he did just that. Started… gasping. Couldn’t catch his breath, grasping at his chest. And then he was gone.”

She presses her lips into a thin line, contemplating this. It felt strange— this innate compulsion to comfort him over the death of his father when she herself was still coping with the loss of her own by his hand. But as she looks at him, she doesn’t see herself as much as she sees Elinor, her mother. The weight upon his shoulders. The grief shackled around his ankles. 

“Tis not your fault,” she says to him now, as she’d never had the courage to say to her mother. “T’was no one’s.”

“Lies,” he mutters, staring down at his open palms. “He saw something within me… something foul and ravenous. And, Gods, I see it too.”

Her hand, much smaller but no less covered in little shiny scars and callouses, slides into his own.

“So do I,” she whispers against his shoulder. “Sometimes. Is that all you see?”

He looks at her, puzzled. 

“When you inward,” her hand slips away, trailing up the length of his arm until it rests atop his heart. “Is it all you feel? Just… rage and jealousy? When you asked me to be your queen,” the hand travels up to his neck, fingers tracing the line of his collarbone. “Did you feel it then?”

“No,” he murmurs. As she’d started speaking, he’d begun leaning in. Closer and closer, until his brow presses flush against her own. 

“Do you feel it now?” she breathes, earnest blue eyes looking right through him. 

His own close. “No.” 

“You’re only as good a man as you want to be,” she tells him, threading her fingers through his long hair. He relaxes into her. “So tell me— are you a good man?”

They kiss. It is gentler than before— less… fervent. He sinks into her open embrace like a weathered ship surrendering itself to the deep sea. And Merida, like the fathomless waters, drags him down slow and sweet.  

8

The Self Same Beast

 It is well past day break by the time she cracks open an eye and blinks against the harsh sunlight filtering into the room. 

Pushing herself up, she stretches until her neck pops, then relaxes again against the soft hay mattress. As she’s considering wasting another thirty minutes lazing about, Tormud shifts beside her, grunting as he awakens. 

Like mounting a stead, she slings a leg over his waist and startles him out of his haze. Her kisses are plenty in supply this morning and show no signs of stopping, so it is up to the poor prince to slow her down before he loses himself again in the cradle of her thighs. There’s work to be done today. Snakes in the grass even still. And he’ll need to be more vigilant than ever. No distractions—

—not even her hand traveling down the grooves of his stomach, finding her prize. 

“No, no,” he groans, taking her by the shoulders. “I must go.”

She strokes him up and down, a wicked smile on her lips. “Just a minute. Two minutes. A few.” 

He takes a deep breath of self restraint. 

Then gives her ten. 

By the time he does peel himself off her, Merida has been effectively pacified, sprawling across the ruined sheets, pleased as punch and red as. She rolls over, watching him dress himself, and says, “I suppose I ought to be hurrying off, too. Innes likely has a whole list of things for me to do before the ceremony—,”

“No.” He tightens his leather belt, reaching for his boots. “In a ten-day, the scullery maid shall take her orders from thee. This castle is thine own. Stay, if thou please. Go, if the mood takes thee. So long as thou doth return to share my bed come nightfall, thou art free to wander where thou wilt.”

She’d been grinning through every word, but at this last passing comment, she frowns. “D’you not want me there? To attend the coronation?”

“Aye, I do,” says the prince, attempting to braid his long hair. She’d only ever seen it down, free and loose. And, as she watches him struggle with it, she understands why. Merida pats the side of the bed and he obeys, sitting down and causing the entire mattress to sag. She begins threading the long dark strands together as he continues, “But still there is the matter of he who seeks to bring me down. I would have thee keep away from the castle today, in case another attempt is made.”

She slows to a stop. 

“Well that settles it then. I’ll be there.”

He sounds weary, but not surprised when he groans, “Merida…”

She tugs his hair to silence him, “How many attempts to frame you or kill you has there been?”

“I dislike questions that beg no answer.”

“Two, that’s right,” she chimes, returning to her work on the braid. “And how many have I graciously thwarted for you?”

He shoots her a withering look over his shoulder. 

“Right again, good,” finishing, she wraps her arms around his waist and rests her cheek upon his back. “You might as well give up, I’m as stubborn as a mule and I bite like one too if the mood strikes me.”

To prove this point, she pinches his sides.

“Fine,” his grumbling voice tickles beneath her cheek. “But thou shalt stay above in the gallery. I would not have thee in the hall should a fight break out.”

“All the same. Better vantage point up there for a shot.”

“Tis my thought exactly.”

With his cloak clasped around his shoulders, effectively hiding the thousands of claw marks she’d raked up and down his back, he gives her a final kiss on the crown of her head and departs to prepare for the rest of the day. For another hour or so Merida lounges on his bed and thinks.

She’d done it. She’d stopped Mor’du from coming to pass. To think she’d done this in the first place to escape her suitors only to be betrothed in a month’s time. 

Ah, the suitors. DunBroch. Mother. 

The witch had said she couldn’t go back. Or forward, rather. Is she stuck here? Will she live in this time until she’s old and gray and passes from this world? Only to be born again hundreds of years from now? A strange, almost frightening thought. And how much of the future has she changed…? There would now be an entire kingdom Westward of DunBroch. Would it still be standing all those years later?

Will she remember any of this? Will she remember Tormud at all?

Very quickly, such thoughts start to overwhelm and panic her and so she chooses to put them from her mind. What’s done is done now. She’s still here… so Mum and Dad must still one day exist and meet. That has to be enough for now. 

Besides, she’s very hungry. And this takes precedence over all else. 

Standing from the bed, she immediately winces as the ache in her legs and back. He’d really done a number on her. She picks her chemise off the floor where it had been discarded last night and slips it over her messy hair. Throwing the overdress on after it, she takes her time lacing it back up, thinking of how his fingers had undone it the night before.

Och. Keep your heid. All those years of fighting off filthy old men had really done a number on her. She’s chompin’ at the bit now. 

Electing to not bother with the wimple this morning, she next reaches for her slippers. They’d been kicked halfway under the bed, much to her chagrin. When she kneels down onto the stone floor to fish them out, her muscles scream. First thing she’ll do as queen is demand a nice, hot, soothing bathe—

Her fingers brush against something glass. It rolls away, tinkling against the hard floor, and emerges on the other side. 

Merida freezes, hand still outstretched for her slipper. She knows exactly what that was, but as she rises to her feet and slowly crosses around the bed, she’s hoping against hope to be wrong. But she isn’t. 

There, clear as day in the cloudy morning light coming from the window, is a little glass vial. Long, thin. Slightly curved at the end.  

The witch’s poison. 

Merida stumbles away from it like it would burst any second into a thousand cutting shards. But it has no magical properties. No dangerous tricks. Not anymore. 

He’d taken it after all. He’d killed his father. 

And with this realization comes another, just as ruinous. 

Whoever had been trying to frame him— they knew. 

They knew what he’d done, but they couldn’t prove it. And, just as she had been prepared to do, they were trying to frame him. For murder. For inciting a war. All in the hopes that he’d face justice for what he’d done to the king. 

And Merida…? Merida had been helping him. Merida had trusted him. Merida had given herself entirely to the self same beast who had killed her father. 

Tormud stands before the torch that had been lit the night his father had died. It is kept burning by an honor guard that ensures the pitch therein is constantly replenished and fed. On the ramparts it sits— a beacon for all to see— and it will remain lit until the coronation is over and a new king sits on the throne. 

He never wanted it to end like this. But, then again, so rarely do things go perfectly according to plan. He thinks of the wild little wisp that will be waiting for him tonight— and, Gods willing, every night thereafter. 

Perhaps it is for the better this way. 

The throne room is alive and thrumming.

Lords and their clansmen stand at attention, banners raised, as the four sons enter the main hall. Every step they take is accompanied by loud, booming drums and strumming lyres. Every torch is ablaze, every head bowed, and every hope held on high for the prosperity of clan MacTyre. Tensions are raised; never before has anything like this been done. Uncertainty lives in the heart of every man woman and child craning over one another to get only a glimpse into the throne room. These waters they tread are unknown— but their kingdom had been built by men brave enough to dare to cross the treacherous, mysterious sea. And to honor them, he would not flinch in the face of the unknown. 

He cannot say the same for his brothers. 

At a glance, nothing seems amiss. They walk beside him up to the thrones with their heads held just as high and proud as his own. But he can feel Diarmud’s gaze shifting in his direction every now and then. He can sense Aodh and Iomhart’s unease. Something is coming, and they know it too. 

He glances up at the gallery as they make their way down the hall. Servants and villagers gather around the railings. Scouts stand at the ready at various checkpoints in case something goes awry. Their presence is welcome, but not nearly as comforting as Merida’s would be—

—if she were there. 

He doesn’t spot her no matter how many times he scans the crowd. Perhaps she’d changed her mind and stayed away after all… But then again, how often did Merida ever do what she was told?

Her absence serves to only to put him more at unease. Had something happened? 

When at last they reach the steps leading up to the throne and stop, staring up at the holy man waiting at the top, a crown in his hand, Tormud hesitates. He’s waiting for something to happen— another attempt to prevent him from becoming king. 

And he’s given it. 

The sound of a dagger sliding out of it’s sheath is one that is painfully familiar to him.  Though he cannot say the same for the gasp that sweeps across the room. He sighs as the tip of the blade settles against the dip of his back, pressing into the skin just lightly enough not to cut. 

“T’was thee all along, was it?” he mutters, turning his chin. Diarmud adjusts his grip on the blade, his face stoic and grim. “I am to be betrayed by my own flesh and blood?”

“Thou hath done that thyself—,”

He tenses. To his left, Iomhart has drawn his bow. He appears deeply saddened as he aims it squarely at his brother’s heart. 

“—when thou didst murdered our father.”

Tormud’s eyes widen. The room gasps, clansmen muttering amongst themselves and peasants in the gallery shifting around, causing the wooden beams to creak under the weight. He sneers and turns to face them, Diarmud’s blade digging into his skin and leaving behind a thin, bleeding cut. 

“And what proof dost thou hath of that?”

Aodh reaches into his cloak and withdraws a small, familiar glass bottle. Tormud goes deathly still. 

“Where did ye find that?”

“Poison—,” begins Diarmud, starting to shake with outrage. “—is the coward’s blade. Father was a warrior. He deserved an honorable death!”

“Honorable?” echoes Tormud, voice raising. “What honor did thou afford him at the end? Parading him about like a prized pony, for the entire kingdom to mock? Thou would talk to me of honor? Thee who put thy blade into my back?”

With the quick swipe of his arm, Tormud knocks the dagger out of Diarmud’s grasp and goes to reach for his axes. 

“Stop! Thou art being seized for treason against thine king and father!” the bow whines as Iomhart draws it back as far as it will go, unblinking. “Do not make me kill thee, brother!”

As Diarmud shuffles back and goes to grab his other blade, the other clansmen draw their pikes and lances, prepared for a fight. Tormud’s eyes shift between the three of them, waiting for one of them to lunge. 

“You may try,” he grunts. The wooden handle of his ax is smooth where he’s gripped it so many times. 

With a roar, he ducks Iomhart’s first arrow and slashes out at him with the smaller of the two blades, cutting the yew wood in half. Iomhart shouts and staggers back and Diarmud takes this opportunity to jump at him, sinking his other blade into the meat of Tormud’s shoulder. He snarls and turns on him, bringing his knee up to his barrel chest before kicking out, landing a blow directly into his younger brother’s chest. It knocks the wind out of him and sends him flying. He rolls across the floor and lands near Aodh’s feet. His youngest brother looks weary; but all the same, he reaches for his own weapon. A huge, heavy hammer than Tormud had seen crush a skull with ease. 

The eldest prince huffs, banging a fist to his chest to taunt Aodh. Tis fruitless, he knows. The youngest prince had no love of fighting. All the same, Aodh was the only worthy opponent in a test of strength. 

The youngest son brings the hammer up with ease, lifting it high above his head, and Tormud, trapped under the shadow of it, is forced to duck and roll out of the way. He brings it down upon the stone steps, caving them in like a meteor breaks the earth. The holy man yelps and skitters out of the way as Aodh starts to lift it up again, gravel and pebbles scattering across the floor. Taking advantage of his slow, heavy movement, Tormud regains his footing and rushes forward, prepared to side-swipe him with both axes. 

But Diarmud is faster, always has been, and is back on his feet. He darts in, trying to land another cut, and Tormud spots him just in time, redirecting his attack. The back of the blades land into Diarmud’s side and he coughs, dropping his dagger. To Tormud’s annoyance, he manages to wrap his arms around the handles of both axes, holding his eldest brother in place so that Aodh has plenty of time to lift his massive hammer overhead. As he brings it down, both Tormud and Diarmud leap away in opposite direction. The hammer drops atop both of his axes, smashing the wooden handles and rendering them useless. 

Fine, then. 

Leaping from the stone steps, he lands on Aodh’s back and snakes his arms around his brother’s neck. With all his might he squeezes, closing his airways and choking him. Aodh releases the hammer, hands coming up to try and pry his older brother off. But it is in vain. Tormud knows exactly where to apply pressure and, in a matter of seconds, Aodh has collapsed to the ground, unconscious. 

He stands above him, breathing hard, and whirls around to find the entire clan has rallied behind his younger two brothers. Someone has supplied Diarmud with a sword and Iomhart now carries a spear. Every lord and scout and guardsmen has their eyes set upon the eldest son, shifting nervously from foot to foot, weapons drawn and ready. 

Tormud glowers. His eyes shift to the ground where both of his weapons are destroyed. Could he lift Aodh’s hammer? Perhaps, but not effectively enough to face nearly two hundred men alone. 

“Snakes,” he spits at them all, “Liars and fools are the thickest of thieves.”

“Stand down, brother!” cries Iomhart, pleadingly. 

“No,” he replies. He’ll kill them all with his bare hands if that’s what it takes. “I have been disgraced. I have been called a liar and a murderer. If thou believe it to be true that I killed our Lord Father, then thou should strike me down now! Come! Let’s see which of ye is brave enough to—,”

He hears a shaky exhale of breath behind him, accompanied by the gentle whine of yew wood bending. And even before he turns around, he knows exactly who it is standing there, an arrow knocked.

“…no,” Tormud murmurs, his shoulders falling. “Not you.”

He turns to face her. She’s standing at the top of the stone steps, bow in hand, blue eyes burning with rage. He shakes his head in dismay.

“Please, not you.”

“Tell them,” she snaps, her bright orange hair curls around her face. “Tell them the truth—,” 

Then, with extra vitriol, she adds, 

“—like you told me.”

He had never been able to tell what she was thinking. And that was as true now was it ever was. He couldn’t know that she’d found the bottle, that she’d been told the story of his betrayal her whole life. All he knew was this— he’d confessed his sins to this young maiden and, though she’d placated him with pretty words, she’d seen him for what he was.

A monster.

He takes a step toward her, eyes wide and earnest. If he could just… touch her, remind her... perhaps—

 She looses the arrow and it goes deep into his shoulder, searing with pain. He grunts, staggering back in shock and grasping at the fletching. 

“Merida—?”

“The next one goes in your last good eye,” she spits. And though each word is laced with venom, tears are streaming fast down her cheeks. “Don’t doubt me.”

He stares into her eyes and sees there that same hatred that had been there a month ago. In an instant, every soft, wistful dream he’d allowed himself to have of her turns foul and vile. Deceiver. Traitor. Wench.

She flinches. 

The eldest son turns then and faces the great hall. To the hundreds of clansmen, villagers, and his own brothers surrounding him at all sides, he declares, “Tis true. Twas I that killed mine father, our king. An old fool he was and a poor ruler. I freed him from himself.”

They seize him. Shackle him, like an animal. And though she hates him now more than ever before, Merida looks away as they drag him out the throne room. Clansmen jeer and shout, villagers up above spit at him as he’s lead away. And when Diarmud approaches her, she finds that she still cannot lift her head to face him. 

“T’was an honorable thing,” says the prince. “…coming to us with this revelation. I know ye were… close.”

“We weren’t,” she lies, swiping at her nose. “I suspected him from the start. I was only trying to get him to confess.”

“Well, all the same—,” Iomhart approaches, having helped Aodh to his feet. “—well done. We could not have done it without thee.” 

“Yes, thine intervention was aptly timed. We suspected him as well, but with no proof…,” Diarmud runs a hand down his beard, smoothening it. Already a giant bruise is forming on his chest where he’d been kicked. “Resorting to unsavory tactics such as framing him twas never our preference. But we could see no other way to deny him the crown that would not result in war and bloodshed.”

“Bloodshed?” echoes Merida, narrowing her swollen eyes. She hates how weak and uneven her voice sounds when she retorts, “And what of the stable boy? I suppose he doesn’t count, then?”

Diarmud makes a face, but Iomhart is quick to say, “An unfortunate mistake, to be sure. The boy was meant to come into my tent, where I would wake and spot him before he did the deed. Once captured, the note on his person would be confiscated and Tormud would have been seized then for attempted murder.”

“But the idiot boy walked into the wrong tent,” sneers the second born son, much to his brother’s chagrin. “And got himself killed. A pity, to be sure, but a nuisance more than anything else.”

“I suppose it was your blade he had on him?” she guesses, trying hard not to glower. 

“One of many,” he shrugs. “He was never meant to use it.”

“He wasn’t an idiot,” says Merida, pointedly. “He was a child. Why would he go along with such a plan?”

“We’d promised his family a enough money to leave the kingdom and start their own farmstead north of here. After he was seized, we’d pardon him by banishment. T’was a fine trade. The boy couldn’t see, the father was getting old, the daughter was too young to marry. Very fair.”

“And the note? The declaration of war?”

“Was to be intercepted by our scouts before it ever reached the neighboring kingdom,” remarks Aodh, rubbing at his swore throat. “Twas my doing. Restoring tomes has garnered me the talent to mimic mine brother’s handwriting.”

“Why do this? Why go through all this mess… just to keep him from ruling? Why not just kill him?”

They look almost offended by her words and this does nothing but make her angrier.

“He is our brother,” says Iomhart, earnestly. “We hoped it would not come to that.”

“And now?” asks Merida, nervously. “What will happen to him?”

They exchange a complicated look with one another. 

“He has confessed to the highest form of treason. He’ll be put to trial.”

“Just a trial?” Merida presses, unconvinced. “He said it himself, didn’t he? He killed the king. I would have thought he’d be… beaten, tortured—,”

Merida has to stop, feeling nauseous. She’d known the consequences of coming to them with evidence of Tormud’s betrayal. But she hadn’t been prepared to hear the word ‘torture’ so casually slip from her lips. She recalls history books given to her by her mother, detailing the various ancient forms of punishment. One in particular was incredibly brutal— and reserved for royal family members.

Iomhart, sensing her unease, is quick to say, “Put it from thine mind. For thine unflinching resolve, we would see thee crowned a lady of the court,” he smiles warmly, “If thou wishes.”

Merida shakes her head. Repulsed, exhausted, and heartbroken, she wanted nothing more than to walk back straight into the woods and never come out again. 

“I only ask to be free to go from this place,” she says solemnly. The brothers exchange a look with one another. “I’ve outlived my purpose here.”

“Do as thou wishes,” says Diarmud waving a dismissive hand. “Haste ye back shouldst thou change thy mind.”

But Merida is already halfway out the door. 

Through the marshlands and into the woods she stomps, ignoring the will ‘o wisps appearing and trying to guide her back toward the castle. 

She has no plan. No clear direction. But after a half hour of blindly stumbling around, taking whichever turn her gut tells her to and almost tumbling head first down a ravine that won’t be there in a hundred years, she manages to stumble across the witch’s cottage.

It’s as desolate and run down as ever, seemingly completely abandoned. But she knows better and barges right in anyway. 

Dark, empty, and full of far less carvings than it will be later, the cottage appears empty. Merida comes to stand at the center of the room and waits impatiently, tapping her foot. 

“Any day now,” she calls out. But no one answers. After another moment or so of silence, she sighs and pretends to peruse the little wooden bear-shaped chess set. “Oh, how… quaint.” 

“Fifty percent off for you, Princess.” 

Merida turns around with a scowl. The witch is in a once empty corner, carving away at a large log of wood. Chippings fly everywhere, creating a small pile of sawdust at her feet— which levitate somewhat off the ground. 

“I dinnae want a carving,” says Merida, “I want a spell.”

“Another?” the witch chortles. “Such a greedy lass. Did you not like the last one I gave you?”

Her fists clench at her sides. Scaffy old bampot. 

“You knew this would happen,” Merida spits, flushing hot with anger.

“No, no,” the witch waves her hands dismissively. “I remembered it happening. There’s a difference. Besides, I thought you’d fail. But you proved me wrong, lass. You changed your fate. Now—,” she claps her hands and that suffocating darkness returns, engulfing the room. When it dissipates, Merida has not so much as flinched and is now standing before the bubbling, burning cauldron. “—I reckon you be wanting a spell that will send you back to your own time.”

“…yes,” mutters the princess, feeling at odds. The chance to see her father again was just a spell away. What all would change? Would mother smile again? Would her wee brothers be alive? Long has she yearned for this, and she worked so hard to get here. Now that it was done at last and Mor’du had been stopped, she feels… nothing. No sense of satisfaction. No victory. Just sick down to her very core. “ But I thought you said it couldn’t be done? Once you go, you won’t come back. That’s what you said.”

“Oh, I don’t remember saying any such thing,” the witch is already plucking vials from her many shelves, uncorking them and dumping their dubious contents into the ever-shifting colors of the cauldron. “But ah… how do you plan to pay for this one, dear?”

Instinctively, Merida goes to grab her necklace only to find it isn’t there. The witch cackles lowly and Merida could have had her head on a platter for it. 

“Here,” she digs into her pocket, procuring Tormud’s signet ring. It's large and heavy in her open palm. Scuffed where he’d taken hits during battle. Merida stares at it longer than she’d like. 

“Oh! I love this part!” at once, it is snatched out of her hand. The witch rolls it around her fingers, eyes shimmering with glee. “The whole set!” 

She slips it into her pocket and returns to the spell. It takes Merida a moment or so to realize what she’s said. 

“What?”

The witch hums in response, tossing the final ingredients in. The cauldron foams over, glowing bright blue and smelling of crushed grass. 

“No,” Merida stops her from reaching in with a set of tongs. “What did you say?”

“Hmm? Oh, the ring. I’ve the whole set now!” She clasps her empty hands together and when she opens them, the four signet rings lay atop her palms. “All four, can you believe it? I’ll be set for centuries.”

“I dinnae understand— how do you have the other three?” Merida demands, trying to touch one of them. The witch’s face goes gaunt and long, her eyes rolling back in her head, and she glides backwards into the shadows. Merida yelps in surprise. Only the glow of the cauldron lights the room— and she can hear the witch crawling around in the dark. 

“Three they were who came to me that first night, many moons ago. Princes, all of them. Handsome men with heavy hearts— they asked me for a spell. The second son offered me his signet ring.” Her voice shifts and changes, lowering, until she speaks in Diarmud’s voice, “Dull mine father’s senses, said he, weaken his mind and allow it to bend to my persuasion. And so I granted his request.”

In the dark, Merida senses movement to her left and gasps, backing up against the cauldron as the witch skitters on her hands and knees across the floor and into another dark corner. 

“The second night they came, the third son asked me for a secret.” In Iomhart’s voice, she now croaks, “I know thou hath shown thyself to mine eldest brother. Tell me what thou offered him, witch, or I will see thee burn. He gave me his signet ring and I in turn gave him what I’d offered his brother— the poison. Soft hearted, he was. And he poured my hard work onto the forest floor… but took the bottle all the same.”

Merida’s thoughts are racing, but not as quickly as her heart. The witch cackles in the dark and, just as Merida thought to make a run for the door, something wet drops down onto her cheek. 

In horror, she looks up to find the witch on the ceiling, eyes bulging and toothless maw open, dripping saliva. Freezing in fear, Merida can only stare. 

“Last night, they came to me. Another ring, another spell,” in Aodh’s voice, she drawls, “Give to me a spell that will save mine eldest brother— a spell that will reveal his true nature. A spell that will allow him to walk free as a beast rather than face the execution block.” The witch drops to the floor in front of Merida, who screams. But all that lay in front of her now is the dirty cotton dress the witch had been wearing. She creeps toward the door, jumping at every little sound that comes from the darkness. The witch’s cackling is all around her, growing louder and louder. Merida backs into the door, hand pawing for the handle. The witch’s disembodied voice echoes around the room, “EMBRACE YOUR FATE, EMBRACE YOUR FATE, EMBRACE—,”

Throwing the door open, Merida backpedals out into the forest clearing, gasping and flailing. She lands hard on her rear, bruising her tail-bone. The pain does not hold mind for long; scrambling away and breaking into a dead sprint back toward the castle, she tries to put as much distance between her and the cottage as possible. But it is unnecessary— the cabin is already gone. 

Slipping back into the castle without being noticed is a far easier task than one might imagine. The brothers three had resumed with the coronation ceremony after things had died down and, with everyone piled into the throne room, the halls are relatively empty. 

She heads for the kitchens. 

The brothers had asked for a final potion, one that would change Tormud into his true nature— the demon bear, no doubt. They had no idea the destruction that will wrought upon themselves should they succeed. And so it was up to her, once again, to stop the ball from rolling. 

Tormud might be a hulking brute, but he is no fool. He wouldn’t drink something nefarious; if it’s a potion, then it’ll be slipped into his food. And fortunately she knows exactly who would be asked to prepare it—

Innes slaves over a boiling pot, as always. She is alone in the kitchen today; she must have sent all the younger girls to go watch the ceremony as she prepared supper alone. Stubborn, but selfless.

Merida hopes she’ll be more of the latter today. 

“O, hark! Look who hath come,” Innes glances up from the pot when Merida enters. Sweat beads on her brow. She’s got one hand on her hips, a dirty rag in her grasp. It’s terribly hot in here. “The princess. I suppose ye expect an apology for my harsh ways. Well, not today. I am busy. Mayhaps later.”

“Innes,” begins Merida, ignoring the icy reception. “Tell me, have any of the princes come to you yet? Have they given you a vial or… a bottle of some kind? It’d be full of a blue, foul sort of liquid—,”

“Watch thine tongue,” snaps the scullery maid, side-eying her. “They’re likely princes no more. Kings they be now and you will refer to them as such.”

Merida’s hands claw, but she hesitates to scrape them along her scalp, lest she shoot herself in the foot and offend Innes. 

“I—,” she begins, too gruffly. The scullery maid’s head snaps in her direction, a deep frown in place, and Merida starts again, slower this time, “You’re right. Of course. But my question still stands. Did they give you anything to slip into Tormud’s food?”

“No.”

“No?”

Innes smacks the wooden spoon on the rim of the pot, sending hot bits of soup flying everywhere. Merida jumps back to avoid getting some of it on her dress. Whatever lands in the open fire sizzles loudly. 

“No!” she barks, pointing the ladle at Merida. “And I will warn thee only once more: shun that devil! Put him from your mind! He is a traitor and a murderer and he’ll die for what he’s done. Best you let go of him now; save yourself some pain.”

“Innes,” Merida begins, sensing that the older woman is hiding something. “They did give you something, didn’t they? Tell me the truth.”

“I hath done so,” she returns to the pot, stirring it too violently. It sloshes around the edge, threatening to spill. “Be ye on your way.”

Merida presses her lips flat, weighing her options. At last, she says, “What do you suppose it is? This strange substance they want you to pour into his cup, no doubt? What could it possibly be… if not a poison?”

Innes just shakes her head, refusing to engage. 

“Is that fair, do you think?” Merida continues, stepping closer until she’s craning to meet the scullery maid’s eyes. “Certainly seems fair. A prince poisons the king, the princes poison their brother. Sounds perfectly balanced, doesn’t it? I didn’t know the king very well. But maybe that’s what he would have wanted? Do you think so?”

Innes grits her teeth and whirls around, hand poised to strike Merida across the cheek. But this time, the princess catches her by the wrist, stopping her mid-swing. 

They glare at one another for a moment. The longer they wait, the less time she has to sneak effortlessly down to the dungeons. She doesn’t want to, but she might have to bum rush Innes and search her pockets—

“No,” murmurs the kitchen maid, stepping back from the soup. It bubbles and scalds, but she ignores it and places her head in her hands. “No, of course not, he— he was a good man.”

Nodding, Merida tries to hide her anticipation. Innes sniffles a bit, crossing her arms together as she thinks. Time ticks away for far too long, but at last the kitchen maid sighs and throws her head back, staring hard at the ceiling. Then, wordlessly, she slips her hand into her bodice and procures the glowing blue vial from within. 

“Take it,” she tells her. “But if the kings do inquire, I shall declare ye stole it from me.”

“Of course,” Merida quickly nabs it, slipping it into her apron pocket. She heads for the door, wasting no time except to pause and say, “Thank you—,”

“Thou art a fool,” says Innes, looking disgusted. “And thou wilt only bring thyself to ruin.”

Merida stares in silence for a second, her throat turning dry. Her eyes flicker to the kitchen table where a tray of food is sitting out. She quickly trots back down the steps to grab it, saying, “I’m sorry.”

Then she turns and slips out the door, gone again. 

Innes sighs and returns to her work. 

Triumphant music plays loud in the main hall, signifying that the princes have officially risen to become kings. Merida takes advantage of the noise to quickly run down the dungeon steps, ducking beneath support beams and weaving between guardsmen. When at last she reaches the bottom, she is barred from entering by two tall clansmen in full colors, sporting spears. 

They cross them together, blocking her path. 

“Thou art not permitted to see the traitor prince,” says one of the men, his beard obstructing much of his speech. “Strict orders from Prince Diarmud.”

“Strange,” says the maiden, presenting the tray of food. “For I too have been given very strict orders from King Diarmud. I have the traitors final supper. But I suppose I can go interrupt his celebration to ask for clarification—,”

The two of them pale and step aside, allowing her through. She would be delightfully smug if not for the sense of impending doom. 

There are many guards down here. A laughable amount, really. As if the brothers three expected their eldest kin to pry apart iron bars. Merida has no trouble at all finding his cell— it is surrounded on all sides by armed clansmen and well lit with torch fire. While walking up, Merida tries to peer inside. But all she can see is shadow dancing between the iron bars. 

“I’ve come to give the pri— the traitor his supper,” she tells them. They don’t budge one inch, looking down at her through painted faces and wiry beards. She squirms. How is she meant to speak with him if they’re all standing about…?

“Let her through,” comes a deep, rueful voice from beyond the cage. Merida’s heart rises up into her throat. 

To her surprise, the clansmen bow and step aside. They file down the hall, giving the two of them ample space. And as the last one turns to leave, he bows low once again and says, “As you wish, my king.”

She stares after them as they go. Confused and thrown asunder, she jumps when she hears his voice again. 

“Loyalty. Tis in short supply these days.”

Tormud sits on the filthy dirt floor of the cell, his arms propped up upon his knees, hands shackled and danging out in front of him. His hair hangs loose, having come undone from the braid she’d given him that morning. She cannot see his face and she’s not sure if she would even want to. 

“Tormud,” she sighs, setting the tray aside. Relieved to see he had not been roughed up too badly by the crowd, she leans against the bars of the prison, “Thank God, I thought—,” 

A hand snakes out and takes her by the throat, silencing her instantly. Every muscle in her body goes rigid as he starts to rise from his seat. When he stands at his full height, Merida’s feet lift off the ground and flail, trying to find a hold against the bars. The blood rushes to her head, her airway clamped shut, and she claws at his hand fruitlessly. 

Dark hair falls around his face but she can see the milky white of his eye peering through. It glances down toward the platter of food, then back at her. 

“They have sent thee to mock me, did they? Tell me, wench,” he tightens his grip and Merida feels the blood start to pool behind her eyes. “Wilt thou be mine executioner as well? Look at how thou dost flail. Thine hands could not lift the blade.”

She can’t speak. Can’t breathe. Can’t get free. The torchlight dances all around her, growing dark then light again. Everything hums. Her hands that had been scratching at his arm a moment ago, start to become weak. With her last ounce of lucidity, she spots the gaping hole in his shoulder where she’d shot him— in the same arm that now holds her high. The last of her strength mustered, she reaches out and sticks her fingers into the raw muscle tissue, digging in deep. 

Tormud roars and drops her and she goes scrambling backwards. In her hurry, she hits the wall hard and kneels there, gasping and coughing and sputtering. 

“Damn you!” he snarls, pacing back and forth across the cage like a beast. “She-devil! Deceiver! Thou hast wrought destruction upon me in every way. T’was no doubt thine intentions all along! I should hath shunned thee and thine swinish eyes! Thou hath taken up arms with mine wretched deceitful brothers! Death is too good for thee!”

Merida struggles to speak through her bruised throat, “To-rmu-d… stop.”

“Begone with thee! What more couldst thou take? I hath given you all. I hath laid with thee. I hath loved thee. I hath bled for thee. Begone, now. Return to mine brothers and say unto them this— Tormud of Clan MacTyre, first born son of Beolin, will not bend the knee to false kings. Only death may conquer me now.”

“List-en,” his blood on her fingers mixes with the dirt on the floor, creating a sticky, horrible amalgamation. “That’s w-hy I’m here. Your brothers, they—,” she coughs again, spittle dripping onto the dirt. “—they planted the bottle of poison in your room for me to find. Deceived me just the same. They’d— gone to the witch! They orchestrated everything, they asked for the spell that weakened the king’s mind, they plan to—,”

He sinks down, squatting in the cell until he’s almost eye-level with her. His demeanor changes in an instant and he now grasps the bars, looking at her with wide, troubled eyes.  

“They what?”

“A spell,” she rasps. “They asked the witch for a spell to dull your father’s senses. It’s what made him so senile in the end. And with him so docile, they convinced him to declare a joint rule.”

Tormud breathes fast and shallow, eyes flickering left and right as he tries to grapple with what she’s just told him. Merida can see anguish and outrage fighting hand in hand for dominance until, as she might have predicted, rage wins. 

“Bastards! Blackguards!” He throws his fits against the iron, bloodying his knuckles. “I’ll see their heads on spikes for this, I’ll cut their tongue’s from their heads, I’ll…,” 

He stops, looking at her. They share a long, quiet moment. Then, he reaches through the bars and grabs her by the sleeve of her bodice, pulling her in. Merida winces at the cold iron against her cheek but snakes her arms through the cell all the same to hold him fast. 

“I’m sorry,” she whimpers. “I shouldn’t have doubted.”

“If I were guilty, I would nere have forgiven thee for turning thy cheek,” he whispers against her crown, fingers petting her curls. “Did I harm thee?”

“I’m fine,” she assures, trying hard to fight the coughs that threaten to slip through. “But, there’s something else I have to show you.”

With some reluctancy, he releases her enough so that she may reach into her apron pocket and procure the vial. It glows bright blue between them, illuminating their faces in the dim light of the dungeon. 

“Another?” he asks and reaches out for it. Merida recoils, holding it far out of his way. “…and what foul magic dost this hold?”

“Tis another of your brothers’ tricks. They planned to slip it to you before your trial. It…,” she hesitates to say. “It’ll turn you into an animal. A monster. They’ll set you off into the forest and claim you disappeared forever.”

“Give it to me,” remarks the Prince, lip curling in disgust. “Let me show them the devil they think I am.”

“No,” she holds it close to her chest. “No. I— I cannae let you drink it. We don’t know if it’s permanent.”

A lie. She knows it’s more than permanent. He’ll be cursed to an unnatural long life. Robbed of all humanity. Trapped in a cage of flesh that binds him to walk this earth on all fours.

“So be it. I will pay that price. They poisoned my father, weakened his mind, brittled his body! I will see them ripped limb from limb!”

Merida twists away, tucking the vial back into her apron pocket. “There’s still time— I can stop this! I won’t let history repeat itself. I can still save him… and I can still save you.”

She stands, hand curling around the bottle in her pocket. 

“What?” He rises to his feet with her, grasping at the bar of his holding cell. “Dinnae be a fool, lass!”

“I’ve proven to you enough times that I’m no such thing,” she retorts, “And I’ll fix this. I still have time.”

“I know my brothers as well as I know myself. Cowards they may be, but they will kill thee to keep thee silent! Merida,” he swipes out with a hand as she turns to go, fingers splayed out, and just barely grabs her sleeve. “Stop. Give me the spell and I will see this ended now!”

She yanks at his grasp as hard as she can and all it accomplishes is a torn sleeve. “I won’t! I’m so close to fixing this— I can save you! I can save you both, please— I can—,” she feels something thick in her throat. “I can change it. The witch is wrong! She is. Let me try. You have to let me try—!”

He drags her back to him as she struggles, wrapping his arms around her as best he can until she stops thrashing about like a caged swallow. He smells too much like himself— too much like the night before, when she’d been curled up in his arms, so sure that she’d beaten fate. 

“T’was foolish pride that bade I take thee into my bed,” he murmurs, a large hand running down her back. He sounds truly repentant when he says, “If I could step back in time, I’d undo it. Once unbound from me, thou would not be beholden to stay.”

Merida presses flush against the painted serpents against his chest. They twist and turn in knots and, just under his collarbone, eat one another. A viscous cycle of self-inflicted suffering and struggle. Indicative not only of the prince himself and his inner quarrels, but of the cycle of self sabotage as a whole. She closes her eyes and listens to the slow beating of his heart until her own falls into step.

Tormud, tilting her chin up to look upon her round, distressed features, says, “Thou art not my queen. Nor my consort. I will not see thee beheaded out of loyalty born of passion. Flee.”

“I can’t do that. Without the spell—,” she starts, “—they’ll have to kill you.”

“Aye, I imagine so.”

Merida flounders, at a loss. What to do? What to do? 

Then, as if for the first time in a month the planets have aligned and her world and his are in perfect parallel to one another, Merida has an idea. A terrible, horrible idea. Pushing away from him, she takes three or more steps back from the bars and says, 

“The spell— I’ll take it myself.”

Then off down the narrow dungeon hall she marches, ignoring his shouts and roars for her to come back. 

9

Mor’du

“A shame,” Diarmud remarks, standing over the enormous broken stone tablet. Into two pieces it has been cleaved; he remembers when father commissioned it made. “I would have wagered he’d put up more of a fight.”

“Perhaps we ought to have had the kitchen lass with us from the start?” wonders Aodh, rubbing at his beard. He sits hunched over atop the steps, refusing to sit in his rightful seat since the coronation. “Didst thou see how quickly she quelled the beast? Might have eased the burden.” 

“Is this truly what father would have wanted?” Iomhart’s soft murmur echoes louder somehow than his brothers’ words across the empty great hall. “Is this what’s best for the clan? For the kingdom?”

“Thou wouldst rather have Tormud leading the fray?” Diarmud is quick to retort. He turns to face his baby brother, finding him staring hard at the MacTyre banner hanging over the thrones. “Arrogant and vain and quick to anger? He was waiting for the neighboring kingdoms to put so much as a toe out of line— he wanted to go to war, to undo all the work Father had—,”

“Enough, enough,” Iomhart sighs, looking weary. “I cannae hear thee repeat thyself again… when will we do it?” 

“Tis likely already done. I gave the scullery woman the spell. Come the evening hour, Aodh shall journey down and lead him to the woods, set him free, let him roam. You and I, as discussed, shall gather the Lords and announce Tormud’s escape. Gods willing, that will be the end of it.”

“What sort of beast do you reckon he’ll become?” Aodh wonders aloud, running a nervous hand over his bare chest. “I cannae imagine him becoming more frightening than he already is. I cry thy mercy, but I am wracked with uncertainty...”

Diarmud frowns and squints. “Dost thou jest? Tormud shall be nothing more than a lumbering animal. Thou art a man, aye? Father deemed thee the wisest of us all, surely thou will be able to outwit a common beast?”

“Be silent,” snaps Iomhart, a throbbing pain forming at the back of his head. “He makes a fair point. If this beast is as formidable as the man, praythee, how will he usher him from this place without harm?”

“Ye both bestow upon our eldest brother too much credence, I am sickened by it.” Diarmud kicks at a bit of rubble beneath the broken tablet. “Hear me, we are almost to victory. I care not how you see it done— set upon him with whips if he be cattle, frighten him with fire if he be a hound, chase him from this castle like a rat if ye must, but be rid of him all the same.  I love our brother as much as thee, this I swear. But his very nature threatens the future of our kingdom. Too long have we tarried, awaiting a perfect opportunity. And I foretell we shall nere be gifted such a chance again. See it done. Or, mark me, anon I will lead thee into the forest on four feet. Ken?”

A deafening silence follows, though much is said in a glance between Aodh and Iomhart. Merida, from her vantage point in the gallery, laid flat on the wooden floor so that she may peer down without being spotted, can clearly see the doubt in their eyes. It is already all falling apart around them. She doesn’t know if she can fix it now, but she must at least try.

True to their word, it is not but a few hours later that the new Kings rouse the Lords from their chambers and gather them together in the great hall. Merida slips down the stone steps from the gallery, hiding between the muttering, groggy clansmen as they stagger into the throne room. Her heart beats fast in her throat. 

Aodh will be descending into the dungeons right about now. There, he’d find his brother— not an animal, but a man. She hadn’t much time. 

“I pardon the rude awakening, my Lords,” says Diarmud from his seat at the throne. Iomhart sits beside him, looking sick. “But I bring grave, troubling news.”

There is a bit of muttering all around, groggy but decidedly displeased. Too much troubling news as of late. Merida weaves her way through the crowd, eyes on throne. She knows what she must do— if it comes to it.

Drink the spell, become the beast, save the prince. Drink the spell. Become the beast. Save the prince.

Become the beast. 

Become the beast. 

Save the man.

“Mine eldest brother, the traitor Tormud, hast escaped from his cell this night!” 

The muttering erupts into alarmed, panicked shouting. Some of the Lords call for a hunt, eager for a chance to give chase into the woods and sink their spears into the flesh of a king. Merida grunts as she’s jostled about, getting jabbed by elbows and crushed between large, hairy chests. 

“Worry not! Mine youngest brother, your King Aodh, hast ridden into the wood to follow his trail. The traitor Tormud shall be caught before the morrow and brought to justice for the murder of our father. This I swear unto you!”

The room roars with bloodthirsty hoorahs and applause. 

“Put his head on a pike!”

“Perform the blood eagle!”

“Cut him limb from limb!”

“Scatter his body into the loch!”

“Liars!” Merida bellows, finally emerging from the throng. The shouting and hollaring comes to an abrupt, startled hush as she stumbles into view, face pinched with indignant fury. “Deceivers! T’was not the eldest son who killed the king!” 

Diarmud, stricken with surprise, stands from his chair. 

“T’was thee!” she cries, pointing a nimble finger at the throne.

The hall falls deadly quiet. At all sides, she’s surrounded by angry men who cared not for the lives of women. Already she can feel their surprise give away, morphing into insult and offense. Her own scattered breathing can be heard with aching clarity. Her hands shake with fear and she clenches them into fists to hide her nerves. 

“Wench—,” begins Diarmud, annoyance starting to seep into his carefully curated facade like ink through paper. “What is the meaning of this?”

She turns to the crowd of Lords. They look ready to pounce upon her and throw her from the ramparts. Or worse. Much worse. 

“The brothers three have framed your rightful king! T’was they who did dealings with a witch! T’was they who gifted their father a black magic spell that tainted his mind and made him their puppet! T’was their meddling that weakened his body and poisoned his mind! T’was their fault he died!”

Iomhat, looking pale and gray, makes a strangled noise. He leans forward in his chair, hands clawed over the arm rests. 

“Say it is not so,” he croaks. “I beseech thee, lass, tell me—!”

“Fool, heed not her slander!” thunders Diarmud, going blue in the face. This outburst gives the crowd brief pause. “This be the self same scullery wench who shared our traitor brother’s bed! Fickle is she and as flippant as the tides, just as he is! Scorned by the traitor Tormud, she was tossed aside when he had grown weary of her comfort. And now guilt demands she sing a different tune! Tell me, wench, was it thee who set our brother free from his cell?”

“You know damn well I did no such thing,” she spits back. “He’s in his cell right now. Go and see.”

“Lies!” 

“If I be a liar…” Merida leaps up the steps of the throne until she is perfectly between the princes and the mob. Raising her voice above the rest as Elinor had taught her to do, she says, “Then the princes should be able to present their signet rings!”

She turns, smug, to grin at the two of them. They look absolutely petrified. The crowd of Lords notice their trepidation.

“Twas their rings they traded to the witch for her services. Present them to us now, if you’re truly innocent.”

“Aye, show us then!” cries someone across the hall. 

“Proof this kitchen whore wrong, my king!” 

But Diarmud and Iomhart remain silent, sharing a look with one another. Iomhart looks on the verge of breaking completely, which only further infuriates Diarmud. Merida waits as their silence proves their own guilt, studying the faces of the clansmen and Lords. They, too, are beginning to doubt.

“How dare you command a king!” sneers Diarmud. He does not come across nearly as intimidating as Tormud does by nature, despite being nearly as tall and muscular in his own right. “I will not feed into thy folly. Clansmen! Seize this wench! I will see her flogged and stoned in yonder courtyard!”

Merida’s fingers inch toward her apron pocket to fish out the spell. This was it. Part of her is afraid— will she still be herself after she drinks it? Will she lose control? No matter. It had always been her dream to wander, free and untamed. Perhaps this was the answer all along.

“Brother! I cry thy mercy!” croaks Iomhart, rising from his seat. He looks ill-stricken and feeble, thinner from the toll of the stress. “Tis not right!”

“Tis justice!” rebukes Diarmud, turning his ire toward his younger brother. “T’was she, no doubt, who set him free from his prison! In his stead, she will pay for his crimes!”

“Will you not present your signet, my king?” asks Merida in a mocking chime. 

All eyes turn to Diarmud who looks nearly rabid. He takes a threatening step toward her; his hands curl around the hilts of his daggers.

“Not to the likes of ye,” he spits back. 

“Very well,” says she, going somber. Now or never. “For I have proof all the same— proof that the brothers three conspired with a witch! Proof that they planned to do away with their eldest brother!”

“No,” murmurs Iomhart.

“Aye!” Merida shouts back. 

She addresses the crowd again, climbing up onto the first step toward the throne. 

“I have in my possession the final spell the witch bestowed upon them!” she shouts, her clear and true voice as loud and far-reaching as a fog horn. “This spell was meant for their brother, your true king, Tormud of clan MacTyre, who they have sabotaged at every turn. Who they have robbed of his birthright! Who—,”

Merida, reaching into the large pocket of her apron, goes quiet mid-speech. Her fingers search the far corners, finding all manner of dust-bunnies and kitchen crumbs— but no spell. No vial. No proof. 

She panics as the mood in the room begins to shift and the Lords start sharing skeptical looks with one another. The princes Diarmud and Iomhart, realizing what’s happening, almost breathe a collective sigh of relief as Merida, mind buzzing with panic, pulls the apron over her head and turns it inside out attempting to find the bottle. 

“No,” she mumbles, “No, I dinnae understand—,”

A gruff hand grabs her by the arm. Another by the wrist. The Lords are pulling her left and right, spitting insults left and right. She wrenches away from them, only to stumble backwards into Diarmud.

There is a low, patronizing chuckle behind her. “The kitchen wench has called her own bluff, it would seem. How appropriate. Guards,” Diarmud snaps at the two scouts standing watch at the doors. “Seize her at once.”

They step toward Merida as she frantically pats herself down. Where? Where had it gone? Had it fallen out when she had been laying in the gallery? Had she dropped it somewhere along the way—?

No. 

When he’d hugged her, he’d taken it.

Her blood runs cold as the two guards grab her by either arm, hoisting her up off her feet as she goes rigid. 

No. No, no no.

She begins to thrash about wildly, kicking and screaming as the Lords and clansmen chortle and goad her. One of them smacks her on the rear as she’s being carried away but Merida hardly even feels it. 

“Stop!” she screams. Her voice cracks it is so shrill. “You dinnae understand— he’s taken it— he’s already—!”

Over her shouts and over the cacophony of rude laughter and jeers, a deep and terrifying roar reverberates around the throne room, coming from the outside the heavy oaken doors and from deep within the bowels of the castle. Merida has heard this primal, terrifying sound once before. She feels her knees give out beneath her. 

“No,” she whimpers, heartbroken. 

And no sooner does the word leave her lips that something big and powerful throws itself against the oaken doors, shaking the very foundation and startling the crowd.

The doors threaten to buckle under the weight and, instinctively, several clansmen rush forward to bar them. Almost a dozen able-bodied men throw themselves against the varnished wood, pushing against it with all their might— and it matters not. With another mighty blow, the doors fly open. Those who had been barring the doors are crushed on either side while the rest of the crowd staggers back, wide-eyed and horrified at the sight that lay before them. 

With heavy, thundering footfalls that are accompanied by a thin, dripping trail of blood, in saunters a hulking black bear the likes of which no one had seen before. No one but Merida, who is weeping and still weakly fighting against her restraints. It huffs through it’s nostrils; clouds of exhaust dissipating into the open air. In it’s shut maw, it carries the upper half of the Prince Aodh. His jaw hangs slack, his eyes wide and empty, his face contorted in horror. His viscera drops to the stone floor in steaming, wet piles. 

The bear’s glossy eyes surf the room, one black and the other white and marred with a long pink scar. Merida recalls having lovingly run her fingers down that scar just last night. He’d looked at her like he’d known her his entire life. 

When the beast’s gaze falls upon her, there is no recognition. Not even a flicker of emotion. 

She’s failed.

“Mor’du,” she breathes at precisely the same time as Diarmud mutters, “Tormud.”

But, quicker than her, he snaps out of his stupor, sees his youngest brother’s lifeless corpse, and roars from the most anguished pits of his soul:

“Kill it!”

Merida watches in horror as the room full of clansmen, collectively, are crippled by fear. Many of them have been roused from their beds and have come wearing nothing except for a simple tunic. None of them are armed or well-protected. Only the guardsmen who had come to apprehend her carry spears. Some of the Lords closer to the edges of the room are able to wrench old, dull blades from where they hang on display along the walls. But these are a scarce few. The others are defenseless. 

The bear drops his brother’s lifeless body. It hits the ground with a dull, unnervingly heavy thud. It growls low, raising up until it’s standing nearly seven feet tall on its back paws. The beast’s upper lip curls into a snarl to show off the cage of deadly sharp teeth, each one the size of one of Merida’s fingers. Out comes a terrible, earth shattering roar that no doubt wakes everyone within a thousand yards. Then the beast lefts one enormous paw— 

—and swipes it through twenty men, cutting them to ribbons. 

It is an absolute slaughter.

Merida is released by the guards and drops to her knees as they rush forward, brandishing their spears. They throw them and both land into the thick, fleshy hide of Mor’du’s back. It bellows in pain and anger and charges forward, trampling many more men underfoot, before snatching one of the guards up in its jaws and shaking him violently back and forth til he stops moving. The other guard reaches for his sword, but one of the Lords grabs the handle first and shoves the guard into the bear’s clutches. He’s ripped in half by another wide swipe while the Lord raises the blade and, shouting, rushes in. He does manage to jab it deep into Mor’du’s shoulder, but he struggles to dislodge it. In his fumble, Mor’du is easily able to knock him to the ground and disembowel him with its teeth. 

It goes on like this for some time. Diarmud and Merida watch— numb —as the throne room floor becomes a wading pool of blood, teeth, and viscera. Iomhart has placed his head in his hands, hunched over; seemingly, he’s embraced whatever fate awaits him. And perhaps that’s for the best. 

But his older brother has most certainly not. 

“Wench.”

Merida jumps at the sound of his voice. For several minutes now, she’d been staring vacantly at the carnage, trying to discern where she’d went wrong. 

“Command him to stop,” begs Diarmud, distraught. “I beseech thee, please. You must stop this.”

She stares up at him blankly. Specks of blood paint her cheek and another clansman is torn to shreds and tossed at her feet.

“I can’t,” says the princess, finally understanding. “I never could.”

As they speak, Iomhart stands from his seat. The throne room is all but empty now, save for a few injured, cowering Lords and a couple of clansmen trying to drag a comrade to safety through the open doors to the hall. He walks down the stone steps toward the black beast, as calm and collected as ever. 

“Iomhart!” shouts Diarmud once he’s noticed. “Move away!” 

Mor’du ambles around, black fur glistening with blood and sweat, to see his younger brother knelt down upon the filthy ground. He bows his head with his fists clenched upon his lap as Diarmud continues to plead with him to move. Mor’du huffs and growls, pacing in short paths around Iomhart. The sight of him— the middle child, the kind king— knelt in acceptance is a awe-inspiring image. No doubt, if there was anyone left alive, there would be paintings. Tapestries, maybe. Poems. 

Alas.

Mor’du, as expected, is not easily quelled. And with a fierce snarl, he lunches and sinks his teeth into Iomhart’s shoulder, biting down and sending ribbons of blood down his brother’s back. The youngest living son cries out in pain, slamming a fist into the side of the bear’s skull out of sheer reflex. But it is fruitless. With the flick of his powerful neck, Mor’du flings Iomhart to the side where he slides across the ground and collapses into a bloody, limp heap. 

It is now only Diarmud and Merida left. Her fingers twitch, moving to pull her bow from her back.

“Wench!” cries the final son, stumbling back toward the throne. He pulls his father’s sword from the wall just beneath the banner and brandishes it. “Come to me! Speak sense to him!” 

Mor’du’s glossy claws click against the hard floor as he prowls closer, blood and drool pour from his open, panting jaw. His eyes are hollow and reflect only the dim torch light. She cannot see a trace of the man left behind. 

“Tormud!” begins Diarmud. But that is not who this creature is anymore and it does not so much as blink at the name. Their father’s blade shakes in Diarmud’s grasp. As fear gives way to bitterness he spits, “Look upon thine kingdom! Look at the carnage though hath wrought! This is what I ‘ave always seen within thee! Thou hast only proven me correct- ah!” 

With another violent snarl, Mor’du swings out and knocks the blade from his brother’s hands. It goes clattering down the steps as Diarmud ducks beneath the swipe and rolls. With several pained yelps and whines, he lands flat on his stomach clutches his side. He’d been cut— deeply. 

Diarmud reaches out with one good hand and drags himself across the wet, reeking floor as his eldest brother slowly turns around, huffing, preparing to lunge—

—but stops when an arrow sinks into his shoulder. 

The great black bear bellows in fury and frustration, whirling around to find Merida standing against him, armed with the very same bow and quiver he’d gifted her.

“Let him go, now. It’s just you and me,” she speaks through the lump in her throat. He sniffs the air and snorts when she knocks another arrow. She aims for his white eye, hands shaking. “Just you and me, darlin’.”

The bear huffs and paces in short strides— a warning sign. It sniffs the air. 

“I’m sorry,” she whimpers, tears clouding her eyes. She prays he understands. “I tried, I… Damn her eyes! The witch was right, I couldn’t change—,”

Embrace your fate. 

Merida lowers her bow, just slightly. 

“What are you doing, lass?!” demands Diarmud, clutching weakly at his missing arm. His skin has turned a light gray. “Kill it! Kill and be done with it!”

There are no wisps to guide her. No magic at all except for a riddle— and one she’s not even sure will work. But it’s all she has and there’s nothing left to lose. Mor’du is now growling, prowling closer. 

Embrace your fate. 

She tosses the bow and quiver aside. They clatter next to a bewildered Diarmud, on the cusp of death. 

“Fool,” he whispers as the last bit of life begins to leave him. 

Maybe she is. It feels like she is, that’s for sure. As she takes careful, light footsteps toward the beast. Her arm is outstretched and her palm flat, like she were greeting a horse. But Mor’du is a good two tons heavier than any pony and a great deal less amicable. The closer she gets, the more agitated and threatened he becomes until, when she’s not but a few feet away, he stands up high on his haunches and roars.

Merida winces, but does not shy away. 

Embrace your fate.

“Come now,” she mumbles, trying to keep her voice light and calm. “Your bluster doesn’t frighten me, you know that. Settle down…,”

Falling back onto four legs, he snarls and swipes at her, narrowly missing her arm. With a yelp, Merida almost backpedals away. But she stays put, hand still out in front of her. Her legs lock up out of fear, refusing to let her go any further. It’s for the best, probably; he’s just a few inches away. 

“You’re a good man,” says the princess, her eyes closed tightly shut. He huffs again in anger, his breath hot on her skin. Opening her eyes just a crack, she gazes into the terrifying, soulless face of the demon bear. Merida swallows and says, “I know you are. Please— show me, Tormud. I need to see it.”

The bear sniffs her hand and snorts. For a moment, she swears she sees the black hollow eye turn brown, speckled with green. A flicker of emotion flashes across the bear’s dark face. It looks as though it… understands her. Merida gasps as it presses its cold, wet nose against her palm. 

Calm at last. Now, all she needed to do was—

Like an oar breaking through the ice out on the loch, something pierces her skin from the back, just beneath her shoulder blade. It is smooth and fast as it glides through her chest, stopping only after the sharp stone tip had passed clean through to the other side. At first, there is no pain. Only confusion as she stares down at the arrow lodged into her torso. Mor’du lets out a surprised chuff, paws stomping in the puddles. Or Tormud, rather— judging by the sounds of distress that can only come from human understanding. 

By the time she turns to find Diarmud propped up on the body of a guard, her bow in hand, he’d already succumbed to his wounds. Empty, glazed over eyes look beyond her at the beast. He’d meant to hit Tormud, but death had gripped him fast and knocked him off his mark. 

Merida’s fingers flutter to the small, un-bleeding wound in her chest. It hurts to touch the arrow; she can feel the damage done on the inside, like icy vines spreading all over. Her breathing comes slow and shallow; it had pierced her lung. An iron taste creeps up her throat and coats her tongue until, with a cough, a spray of blood erupts out and dribbles down her chin. 

She’s dying. This much she knows. 

Tormud roars in fury and charges forward, brushing past her as he goes to pounce upon Diarmud’s lifeless body. Merida looses her footing and falls back, landing in such a way that the arrow snaps off just at the flush of her back. As she lies there, consumed by the sensation of hot blood pooling out of her, she stares wide-eyed at the carnage taking place just a few feet away. In his rage, Tormud has completely mauled his brother’s corpse. Arms and limbs are thrown asunder, his head has been crushed between a steeling set of teeth. 

She looks away. 

So this is what the witch had meant. The legend had come to pass. 

Was  it all only possible with Merida’s meddling? If she had never came here in the first place, what might have happened then…? Was it predestined that she should flee DunBroch tower, seek out a spell, and set the events of the past in motion? How many times had she done this? 

Her vision swims. The sound of teeth ripping apart flesh is distant and muted. 

Don’t listen to any of that nonsense about fate and destiny, me wee darlin’. 

She tries to move her fingers, but finds that her entire body feels weighed down by some invisible, constant gravity. 

You decide.

When at last the destruction is done, he stands over the red pulp that was once his brother, breathing in the scent of the kill. His thoughts are disjointed; as an animal, he seems to only have two emotions— anger and passivity. Part of him is still a man… at least he thinks so. But that part is fading every second. It is as if he’s lying in bed, on the cusp of dreaming. A thought might hold him for a moment or so, then become muddled and strange to him. All he knows for certain is that this body beneath him, his brother, had done him harm. Had done her harm, and—

Mor’du turns, glassy black eye settling upon the almost forgotten kitchen wench. 

He whines at the sight of her. What was her name? It was just on his mind, just a moment ago. It had been the only name he could think when she’d been pierced by… that man’s arrow. What was his name? Who was he?

Every foot fall is heavy, sending ripples along the blood soaked floors. Where is he? 

When he comes to a stop above the girl, white as a sheet and motionless, dead as the rest, he feels… something. Something other than anger or passivity. He knows this word— anguish. The man within him crumples at the sight of the girl, tormented by the far-off look in her ocean eyes. He lifts a hand to pick her up and cradle her, but his paw is huge and uncooperative. Claws cut through the fabric of her dress and knick her skin, leaving behind little red ribbons. The beast whines at having hurt her, but the girl doesn’t so much as flinch.

She’s gone. 

With his snout, he nudges her round cheek. There is still a little bit of color here that has yet to seep out onto the floor. Mor’du huffs and snorts, prodding at her in the hopes of rousing her. Her curls are wet and matted. She smells like iron, like the rest of them. 

Merida. 

The great hall shakes with the roar of despair Mor’du lets out. He can feel himself becoming more of an animal by the second as the sadness starts to fade away. But he can’t let himself forget everything— he can’t forget her—

Her name is Merida. Hair like fire, eyes sharper than stone. His little wisp.

Years come to pass. 

M…da. Fir…wsp.

For centuries he’d been wandering these woods, unable to journey past the Crone’s Tooth and the Fire Falls for fear of forgetting. He returns nightly to the stone cave he calls his den— what was once a castle on top of a hillside, overlooking a loch. His kingdom, though he’ll remember that. Amongst the bones of those he slaughtered, there is one set of bones he sleeps and eats and wakes next to the most. The years have weathered away her features and the sun seeping in through the broken rooftop has bleached her bones. But he recognizes her still and finds comfort in her presence. 

Ma..Fr…wsp.

Hunters come and go. Many have tried to fell him. Many have succeeded. And in those moments between life and death, he is the man instead of the beast. They’re brief; he has only enough time to lament his failings and shun the mindless, shuffling creature he has become. Then he wakes in the same battle-torn, shambling body he had been trapped in for ages. He cannot be killed. He cannot be sated. 

M…f…iw...sp

It is two hundred and eleven years after the events of the slaughter. He is nothing but an animal now and hardly even that. He knows only hunger and anger. He has forgotten his own name. His clan’s name. His purpose. He has even forgotten her. Though her image dances at the corners of his vision from time to time, she never stays long enough for him to focus and recall who she is or was. 

Tis a crisp spring morning that draws him out of his den at last. The smell of bluebells is strong this time of year. They bring him comfort. Prey is hard to come by is in his territory and so he journeys northward in search of easy game. 

He can smell the scent of man upon the air and elects to stay away. Already there were dozens of pikes, swords, and spears stuck into the leathery hide of his back; any more and he’d be unable to sleep comfortably. 

Further North he swings to avoid them. He stumbles upon a glen where several rabbits duck between the underbrush. Easy pickings. It is as he’s devouring his fourth of the morning that he spots something in the distance. A little flickering blue flame staring back at him from atop of fallen tree stump. 

Wisp. 

The recognition in the word itself is enough to jolt him from his normal routine and pique his interest. With a huff, he starts off after it at a slow amble. They appear in a bright blue line heading further up the hillside and closer to the smell of man. He hardly noticed it now, so focused is he upon not losing sight of the wisps. 

But then at once, they disperse and leave the hulking black bear standing in an open clearing. He sniffs the air and waits for a moment… but then his attention gradually begins to drift back to his breakfast. 

It is then that he spots it— another fire off in the distance. Another wisp. With lumbering steps, he trots toward it… only to stop again. 

Tis not a wisp after all, but a child. A child with wild, curly orange hair the color of—

Fire. 

Like a fisherman pulls against a very unwilling trout, the man within him is dragged up toward the surface. He knows this lass, doesn’t he? 

She reaches into the thistle weeds and procures an arrow, holding it triumphantly above her head. It is then that a wisp appears just a few feet away from him, leading closer toward the girl. She sees it too, freezing in her tracks to marvel at the sight. Tis lucky that he is shrouded in shadow or else she’d have spotted him. 

“Merida!” comes a voice. 

Merida.

“Come along, dear! We’re leaving!”

As if startled, the wisps once again disappear and, delighted, the girl runs up the hillside to tell her parents what she’d seen. 

Mor’du follows close behind. He ignores the scent of man in the air, the sound of horses just beyond the ridge side, and the loud guffaws of warriors waiting just over the hill. The animal instinct that had become second nature to him now was all but screaming for him to stop and turn back. But tis not the beast in control now. Tis the man.

Merida. 

Merida.

Merida.

“No!” she sits up straight, gasping for air. The sunlight overhead is blinding and she winces, shielding her eyes. Her fingers shake. 

“Come here, lass.”

Merida goes rigid, her eyes still adjusting. When she blinks, the spots start to fade and she can see a figure standing there across the glen, stringing a bow. 

“Don’t dally now,” says the man. “Or your mother will rope you into another lyre lesson instead.”

She staggers to her feet, still cupping her hands around her eyes. There’s a huge, burly man standing alongside a wooden table. Atop it there is an assortment of fruits and cheeses. The rich green table runners rustle in the wind. Her vision starts to clear and she looks to the man again, going weak all over. 

“…Dad?”

Fergus tests the tightness of the string, finding it adequate. He looks up at her and smiles, wiry orange beard streaked with bits of silver. The statues of him down in the family crypt had failed to capture the shape of his eyes— so much like her own. She remembers now the line of freckles that ran over his bulbous nose. He used to say he earned one freckle for each kiss she gave him. 

Tears well up in her eyes. 

“Aye, my wee darlin’,” he says, the smile faltering a bit. “And I’m awfully sorry to see you.”

The field seems infinitely large and expansive, yet her legs carry her across the way with no difficulty. Like waves crashing into the coast, she runs right into him and throws her arms around his great big chest. Here, she sobs and whimpers just like a little girl again and Fergus, as he used to when she was so small, just chuckles and pets her hair. 

“I’m dead,” she mumbles into his stomach. “Aren’t I?”

“Aye, lass. I’m afraid so. And not for the first time, either.”

Merida leans back. Her face is inexplicably dry of tears. 

“I’ve been here before.”

“Aye.”

“…And I’m just going to do it all over again.” There is no heart to beat within her chest and yet she feels the panic setting in all the same. “Mor’du only attacked you because Tormud was searching for me.” 

“I’m afraid so.”

She shakes her head, refusing to accept this.

“I should have just killed him when I had the chance but I— I loved him. I still do.  Tell me how to stop this!” she grabs a hold of his fur cloak, shaking him slightly back and forth. “How do I fix it?”

Fergus sighs and, in an instant, is ten feet away. Her hands are still curled in the air  where they’d been buried into his cloak. She watches him ready an arrow.

“You place to much importance on the past, my wee darlin’. Tis time you start thinking about the future.”

“But—,” Merida crosses in front of him until she’s nearly blocking his shot. “If I don’t go back, Tormud’s brothers will frame him. They’ll turn him into Mor’du all the same and—,” He looses the arrow and it flies away into the great white nothing. “I’ll have never have met him in the first place.”

Fergus nods only once, sadly. After a moment, he reaches and procures another arrow out of thin air.

“I was wrong before,” he begins as he knocks it. “…when I said not to listen to fate. There are some things that are out of our hands. And if it’s meant to happen, it’ll happen. You have to believe that.”

She watches him let it fly, solemnly. This one, too, disappears into the aether. 

“His past is his own, Merida. And you are not a part of it. You were never meant to be. Accept this so that you— so that we— can move forward.”

Turning away, Merida bites her her nails as she paces the infinite field. Her feet seem to sink into the dirt with every step. How long would this illusion last before she faded into nothing, just like the arrows? 

This was all her fault from the beginning. Like Tormud, her own nature had been her undoing. Stubborn was she, incapable of letting go— convinced there was anything she could do to change fate. 

But there is something she can do. 

Let go.

For the first time in a lifetime, Merida sighs and says, “I think I understand.”

Fergus goes to loose another arrow, but stops. At once, he looks overwhelmed with pride and relief. How long had his spirit tarried here, waiting for her to come along again so that he might try and impart the same wisdom time and time again? How many times had she ignored or shunned him? 

“Been waiting an eternity for you to say that,” he says, confirming her suspicions. “But I would’ve waited an eternity more. However long it took.”

The bow and arrow turn to dust in his hands as he turns and approaches her. 

“That’s my girl.”

Merida longs to jump into his arms again. But there is still work to be done. More than ever. 

“How do I know I won’t just make the same mistake again?”

He grins, as if he’d been waiting for her to ask such a question. 

“Oh,” he drawls. “I reckon I can help with that.”

With two  rough hands, he cups her round face and places a kiss to her forehead. 

“…S-seventy percent off!”

“What?” Merida blinks, startled by the shrill voice of the witch. 

“Och, you drive a hard bargain. Eighty. And that’s as high as I’ll g… ninety.”

She glances around. Back in the witch’s cottage again. A hand flutters up to her chest where the arrow had pierced through. There is only smooth skin under her touch. She’s alive. And she remembers everything.

The witch looks at her impatiently. 

“D’you not know who I am?” asks Merida, cautiously. “We’ve met before.”

For a brief moment, the witch looks stunned. Then, the expression is gone and replaced by a face splitting, crooked smile. 

“Oh! That’s right! Princess! My goodness, it’s been ages, I hardly recognized you. Been expecting you I have! Just didn’t know when. So sorry for the theatrics.” Here, she claps her hands together. Merida, knowing better, holds her breath as the cottage goes pitch black. Then, at the center of the room comes a faint green glow of a cauldron. It illuminates the entire hut— now free of any carvings and instead littered with glass bear-shaped bottles and old books. “Never conjure where you carve.”

Merida raises an eyebrow. The old woman squirms beneath her scrupulous stare. 

“You’re a witch, are you?” Merida is merely taunting her. 

“No!” She stammers, brow furrowing. “I-I mean, yes! Sorry, lass, you just don’t normally… ah, anyway! What sort of spell can I give you? One that changes your fate, no doubt?”

The princess taps a finger to her chin in contemplation. The longer she hesitates to answer, the more unnerved and uneasy the witch appears. After giving it a long and torturous enough pause, Merida sighs and retorts, “Hmm. No, thank you. “

“N… no?”

“Aye, no. See, I think you can try all you like to change fate. But…,” Merida smirks down at the witch. “Whatever will be will be.”

The cauldron flickers dim. The witch appears to twitch with agitation. 

“Wh… no, that’s not— that’s not how this goes! How are you…? You’re supposed to ask for a spell!” she roars. Her voice is starting to distort, sounding like a thousand tones layered atop one another. Merida takes a step toward the door. “You get back here you ungrateful little wretch! You can’t leave! I have you— you can’t—!”

She howls in anger as Merida, eyes closed tightly, bursts through the cabin door, stumbling out into the open clearing. The suffocating atmosphere is gone now, allowing her to take a deep, soothing breath as the witch’s haunting screech fades away. 

The sun is warm on her skin. As the sounds of the forest overpower the cacophony of the damned, a calm washes over her. 

“Well? What was it?”

Merida yelps at the voice, spinning around. Angus stares at her with his loving, deep eyes. She squints back at him. 

“Angus?”

From behind the shire horse, perched atop his back, peeks the round, freckled face of a boy no older than nineteen. He regards her with apprehension. 

“What’s gotten into you?” he asks. 

Then, from her left, another voice mocks, “She’s trying to poke fun at us, that’s what it is. Come on, then, Merry. What did you see? I ghoul? A banshee?”

This other boy sits atop his own pony, grinning from freckled ear to freckled ear. His crop of orange, curly hair sits atop his crown like the dense wool of a sheep, glowing in the morning sunlight. The two are identical to one another and it throws her for a a complete loop at first. Only when she starts to understand what she’s seeing, another identical boy emerges from the brush, leading another horse behind him. 

“Sorry,” he says. “Had to take a wee. What did I miss? Anything good?”

“Merry’s having a laugh,” remarks the second boy, wiggling his eyes. 

“Is she?”

“Oh, aye,” the first lad nods, leaning forward and resting his crossed arms along Angus’s thick neck. “Came runnin’ out of that old shack looking white as a sheet.”

“T’was pretty convincing. Her best work yet.”

“Ah, I see,” says the third, mounting up on his pony. “Go on then, give us a go. What did you see?”

Merida squints, completely baffled. She doesn’t recognize these lads… and yet she does. They have her same blue eyes and her mother’s small round nose. Ever their wild orange hair resembles her own, which itself resembles her father’s.

“Boys?” she whispers, glancing between them. “You’re the… the wee bairns mum was supposed to have.”

The triplets make matching disgruntled faces.

“Eugh, what was that?” asks one. 

“Haven’t a clue,” says another with a shrug. 

“Merry’s finally got batty, eh? ‘Bout time, honestly. I was starting to think we’d lost our touch.”

“Oh, aye. Nineteen years of my life dedicated to driving her up a wall, it damn well better have paid off.”

“Say, lads, uh—,” says the third, slow and wary. “She’s crying.”

Tis true. While they throw quips back and forth as easily as breathing, their older sister has broken into joyful tears. A hand is clasped tightly over her mouth; she’s in disbelief. It had worked. Something had changed. 

Without a word, the first lad hops off of Angus, face grim, and draws his short sword. He strides swiftly toward the cottage. Meanwhile the second lad tells her, “You alright?”

The first boy kicks open the door to the cabin and steps inside the vacant, empty hovel. They can see him looking around, guarding himself with his sword, before he turns back to them and shrugs. 

“Not a thing,” he calls back. 

“Then what was it, Merry?”

“Let’s haste her back to the castle,” suggests the third, bringing his pony up at a trot. “Let mum have a look at her.”

Merida hastily swipes at her tears, rubbing her cheeks raw with the thick cotton of her sleeve. She’s not wearing Maudie’s uniform anymore, but a deep blue dress, simple dress. Her hair is braided down her back, unlike her. 

“You boys go on without me,” she tells them. “There’s still something I have to do.”

“What’s she saying?” balks the third boy, looking ashen. 

The second lad rebuffs, “Are you off your heid? Dad’ll have the skin from my back if you’re not with us when we return!”

“Dad?” Merida echoes, unable to stop the smile spreading across her face. It only further worries them, so she quickly tries to calm herself. “That’s— it’s fine. Tell him it was my idea.”

“Och, let us go with you at least,” says the first boy. “It’s getting to be dark.”

“No. I… I’ll be fine. But I’ll be needing Angus back.”

The first boy raises an eyebrow at her. “Huh? What for? He’s been my horse since you gave him to me ages ago.”

“Gave him to you?” Merida gawks, incredulous. 

“Eighth birthday,” says the third. “After genius over there didn’t properly tie his own pony up the night before a storm.”

“Och, that’s lovely that is, Hubert. Anyway, you’ve got your own horse, Merry. Over there,” he gestures with the flick of his chin. Merida follows his gaze to find a lovely white black and brown shire horse tied up under the canopy dabble. The pony grazes peacefully on the brush, flicking her tail to banish dragonflies. Merida nearly gasps; she looks a great deal like Quinn. “Innes, remember?”

Merida shakes her head. It is all too much. But if there’s anything she’s good at, it’s a quick lie. And so retorts, “Ah, fine then. It’s just that Angus is faster.”

Hubert snorts. “Maybe ten years ago, aye.”

Without wasting a moment more, Merida unties the lovely shire horse from her hitch and prepares to mount. She pauses when she spots the beautifully carved bow latched to the saddle. The prettiest she’d ever seen. For a moment, she just stands there and runs her fingers over it— then she feels their wary stares on her back and quickly mounts up, adjusting to the seat. 

“Merry…” begins one of the lads. He sounds unsure. 

“Go on, then,” she tells him. For her part, she does sound fairly reassuring. “I’ll only be a bit. No need to call a search party or anything, I know these woods well.”

“I know, but…”

“Tell mum…,” Merida takes a breath and holds it, drawing the pony toward the Westward trail. She stares up over the ridge and at the rocky mountains just beyond. “Tell mum to keep supper warm. And tell Dad to keep Mum busy. I’ll be back by midnight, no later.”

“Merry—!” they shout in unison as Merida squeezes Innes’s sides and the shire horse neighs, dashing off down the trail. Through brambles and leaves she rides, ducking where she knows there are low-hanging branches and clicking her tongue to tell Innes when to jump over rocks and dips. She’s fast, this horse. Fast and light and on her hoofs and easy to guide. 

For miles they ride at this speed, heading up the mountainside as the sun dips low and the land turns cool and blue. The road ahead grows dark— too dark to see. And Merida, having only traveled through hear during the day, is forced to pull her horse to a slow stop. 

“Dammit all,” she whispers, pulling the reins left and right. Which way was it? 

Then Innes neighs, flicking her mane, and Merida spots the pale wisp waiting for her in the middle of the trail. 

“Haven’t given up on me yet, have you?” she whispers with a small smile. “Go on then, I’m with you.”

Further up hill the wisps lead them. She realizes very soon that she recognizes where they are. She’d ridden this same trail with Tormud years ago. Back then, it had been a lush green haven that stretched as far as the eye could see. Now, the land is  scorched and razed. The trees are dead and without any yield. The very dirt under Innes’s hoofs smells of rot and decay. 

He had been right. The kingdom of MacTyre, once weakened, had fallen to the neighboring clans. 

At last they arrive at the stone steps leading up to the castle. Merida can see it clearly under the bright harvest moon. The archway bearing the family crest is broken and the castle itself is in shambles. When Merida urges Innes to trot up the trail, she huffs and refuses, nearly bucking her rider off. 

And so Merida is forced to dismount, trying desperately to ignore the goose bumps running down her spine. 

“You wait here,” she tells her, petting her shining mane. “I’ll be right back.”

And hopefully, I won’t be alone. 

Just before she turns to head up the trail, she spots the bow and quiver again and hesitates. She really ought to bring it, just in case things go south. Now that things had changed, would she even get a second chance if she were to die? Merida swallows to rid herself of the lump in her throat and hurries away, leaving the bow behind. 

The courtyard is a mass grave of skeletons and rusted armor. It is quiet— so very quiet that her ears twitch at ever small sound. To Merida, she’d walked through this same courtyard just yesterday. But that had been years and years ago… no, wait. It hadn’t happened at all, had it? Tis strange to think about. Unnerving, even, and so she pushes it from her mind. 

Into the castle she walks, stepping carefully over rubble and ruin. The ceilings are caved in here and there, leaving streaks of blue light that illuminate her way. She holds her breath here and there to keep as quiet as possible. But even her footsteps, muted by her slippers, seem to bounce off the walls and reverberate up into the night sky. 

Much of the building is completely blocked off to her. The kitchens, the upstairs bedrooms, and the dungeons. But she needn’t stray from her current path— Merida knows exactly where he is. 

And sure enough, when she peeks around the corner into the throne room, she almost instantly retracts and hides again behind the door. There, before the stone steps, curled into a large black mass, is Mor’du. 

Merida risks another peek and discovers he’s sleeping. Hibernating, no doubt. This is very good news for her, for in his slumbering state, he is practically dead to the world— and oblivious to her careful, slow approach. 

Even from several feet away, she can smell the stench of blood and death upon him. He’s positively filthy, poked full of holes and sporting at least a dozen or so broken spears and pikes jammed into the scarred skin of his back. His fur has been burnt off in some areas and his claws are chipped and brittle. His heavy, deep breathing is so loud that it rattles some of the skeletons on the floor— of which there are many. The lords, no doubt. And his brothers. She looks away, focusing on the task at hand. 

Embrace your fate.

Standing now only a couple of feet away, Merida trembles all over with fear. He’s huge! Taller lying down than she is standing up! One paw is the size of her entire head. If this doesn’t work… if he wakes and finds her here— he doesn’t even know her—!

No, it won’t do to have second thoughts. 

Embrace your fate. 

She kneels. Each move must be done carefully so as not to accidentally kick a stray helmet or bone. From here, she could reach out and run her fingers through the coarse looking fur. His head lay on the floor beside her, hot breath coming out in large humid puffs against her thigh. It smells of fish and decay. Her stomach turns. 

Embrace. 

She thinks of that night they spent together— her and the prince. She’ll never get that back… it won’t ever happen and he’ll never remember it. Even if this works… they’ll be perfect strangers. The man she knew, the man she changed for the better, is gone. 

Merida squeezes her hands together, jaw tight, and leans forward to wrap her arms around the bear’s large torso. 

The beast tenses beneath her, startling from his sleep, and Merida closes her eyes and holds her breath as he starts to groan and wake from his sleep. 

It doesn’t matter if he doesn’t remember her. She’d made him fall for her a thousand times already, hadn’t she? What’s one more?

His deep growl shakes her to her core and she threads her fingers into his fur, clinging as tightly as she can. Mor’du tries to rise to his feet, muscles bending and shifting beneath her. Merida braces herself for whatever might come— though it is most certainly death in the form of a giant claw cutting her in twain. But when a large, human hand touches her shoulder, she goes perfectly still. There is a clattering sound that can only be the half dozen spears and swords falling to the ground. 

In her hands, she now holds handfuls of matted, tangled hair. Beneath her cheek is the scarred, burnt flesh of a man. And when she leans back to stare up into the face of the demon bear Mor’du, she instead finds the familiar sharp, angular features of the eldest son staring back at her. 

He looks different. Haggard and dirty. His hair is a mess— and there’s more of it than ever. It hangs so low that it almost brushes against the floor and his chest is practically a forest of its own. His beard and mustache are as wiry as his fur was. Naked as the day he was born, his wounds he’d collected over the years shine in the overhead moonlight. Deep, jagged scars and marbled flesh from burns litter him all over. His hands are calloused. He’s missing three fingers. When he looks at her, it’s clear he hardly realizes that he isn’t an animal anymore… but he’s getting there. It’s coming back to him slowly. He holds his open palms up in front of himself and Merida can see in his eyes that he recognizes himself again… but not her. 

“There you are, my darlin’,” she whispers with a soft smile. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting for so long.”

He eyes her warily. When she tries to reach out and touch him, he leans away from her. Merida sighs, desperate to wrap him up in her arms. But it isn’t so simple. It would take time. 

The princess, content just to see him again, takes a deep breath and pushes back her own needs and wants. There was work to do. She stands to her feet and offers him her hand to pull him to his own. For a moment, it looks as though he wants to sniff it. But ultimately he decides against it, ignoring it and trying to stand on his own. His knees wobble precariously beneath him and he trips almost right away, grunting. Merida rushes forward to catch him, wrapping her arms around his waste and keeping him from hitting the floor.

Here, under the weight of his trembling body, she gets to hold him again. His hands rest at the small of her back. It lasts only for a moment, but she savors it. 

His face is buried in her neck, he rumbles, “…Sor..ry.”

Merida could have cried right then and there. But she’s done plenty of that as of late. 

“Come now,” she murmurs, helping him to regain his footing. Guiding his arm over her shoulder, she places a hand at his waist and starts leading him toward the exit. “I have you. Can you walk?”

He just grunts this time. He’s still side-eying her warily as she guides him out of the ruins of his home and toward DunBroch. What would she tell mother? Or father, at that? It wouldn’t be easy to explain… She glances at him— at his dirty face and animalistic twitches. It’ll be harder still to return him to the man he once was. 

It would take time. 

“Wen..ch,” he growls. It sounds more like a cough. Merida looks up into his face and sees his expression soften. Here, the brown green coloring of his eye catches the light and appears soft and tender. “I… thank th..ee.”

She stares. Gently, she reaches up and takes his cheek in her hand, guiding his face down to her own where she places a chaste kiss to his lips. When they part, he looks surprised. Alarmed, perhaps, but not completely repulsed. He almost makes her laugh. 

Aye, it would take time.  

But she has plenty of it.