My work requires far too little brain power. It leaves me time to come up with things like this.
I don't own either Brave or HTTYD
000
"We're to expect a delegation from the Hairy Hooligan tribe," Merida's mother spoke from the end of the table, examining the small square of parchment in her hand. "It seems they have a proposal they wish to make…" she trailed off, continuing to read, and Merida returned her attention to her food. The Hairy Hooligans. She felt a small smile creep onto her face.
She remembered meeting Stoick the Vast, the Hooligan chief, once, when she was very small. A giant of a man- as tall and broad as her father, with a voice that boomed and echoed off the stone walls of their home. She hadn't realized that he wasn't her father at first. All she'd paid attention to as she flung herself across the room at him was his size, and the redness of his hair. It was only when she'd heard her mother's sharp intake of breath that she'd realized the leg beneath the leather and fur she clung to was made of flesh and bone and not of polished wood.
"I'm so sorry, m'lord," her mother had said as Merida let go and stepped back, staring up at the man who wasn't her father for all his similarities. The big Viking had laughed, assuring her mother that he wasn't bothered by the mistake, and then he'd knelt down, putting his head on as close a level to Merida's as his big frame allowed.
"Well now," he'd said, "You've got some fire in you, haven't you little one?" then he'd laughed and reached out to tousel her mountain of red curls. "Would that my son had a little of your spirit." then he'd risen and finished taking his leave of her mother.
Looking back, Merida realized that his tone as he'd spoken the last sentence was one she had often heard her mother use. It was a tone of wistful resignation; the voice of a parent whose child has turned out nothing like they expected and who has no idea how to reconcile the fact. The voice of a parent who wasn't sure they were doing it right, no matter how hard they tried.
His similarities to her parents, both obvious and subtle, combined with his gentleness towards herself, had left Merida with a quiet kind of affection for the Viking chief despite that being the only time she'd ever seen him. Nearly thirteen years later, hearing that a delegation from the Hairy Hooligans tribe of Vikings was expected at her father's castle made that little part of her heart that Stoick had claimed warm.
At the other end of the table, her father grunted around a hunk of venison.
"It's been a long time." he rumbled. "Wonder what they can want."
Her mother didn't answer.
000
Three days later, Merida sat in her small throne to her father's left, awaiting the arrival of the Viking delegation. As heir to the throne, it had become both Merida's honor and privilege to sit in on matters of state and political meetings so that she could learn not only how to be a proper princess, but how to be a proper ruler. That included meeting foreign delegations which, more likely than not, had nothing to do with the Princess of DunBroch and everything to do with the fact that the Scotts and the Vikings had been in an uneasy peace for years.
Footsteps sounded outside the great doors, and Merida sat up straighter, fingers unconsciously gripping the cuffs of her deep blue-green formal gown.
The doors flew open.
Merida deflated.
The man who lead the delegation into the room, though not short, was a far cry from the giant she'd been expecting. Instead of a hulking frame that bulged with muscle, his build was narrow and lithe, and the windblown tangle of hair on his head was dark rather than red. Instead of fur, he was covered neck to toe in a close-fitted suit of armor comprised of leather and some kind of shimmering black scales, and under his arm was a full-face slit-eyed helm instead of the horned cap she remembered.
The stranger paused in the center of the room, his entourage- an auburn-haired woman, two large blond men and a hulking dark haired man, all dressed in similar leather-and-scale ensembles- fanning out to either side of him. He inclined his head slightly to her father, one leader to another, and then slightly more deeply to both Merida and her mother.
Merida could barely return the salute. Who was he? Where was Stoick?
She almost missed the introductions in her confusion- the young man's name was Hiccup? Really? And then her father's voice softened, and he said.
"I was sorry to hear about your father, lad; Stoick was a good man."
Merida stared at her father.
Stoick...was dead? But… what could kill a man like him? Surely if Mor'du couldn't kill her father, there was no creature roaming the earth which could kill a man even half as much like him as Stoick the Vast had been. She glanced back at the young Viking leader, observing him with new eyes. He was Stoick's son? He looked...so much less.
As she thought it, Hiccup, having finished whatever he was saying to her parents, took a woolen bundle from one of the blond men and moved towards Merida, his steps slow but even. He went down on one knee before her little throne and slowly unwrapped the wool, holding the item he revealed out for her to take.
It was a sword. Beautifully crafted, it appeared both delicate and dangerous, with some strange runes engraved into the handle.
Wishing she'd paid more attention, she glanced sideways at her parents. Why was he offering her this sword? What meaning did the gesture hold?
Her mother saved her.
"I'm sure the princess will be happy to accept your gift," she said mildly, gesturing for Merida to take the sword, "But you'll understand that we'll have to discuss your proposal amongst ourselves before making a decision."
"Of course." the young man rose, rather stiffly for one who hadn't been kneeling for more than a few moments, and stepped back amongst his people, who seemed to gravitate closer to him, as though they were trying to protect him from something no one else could see. "I'll look forward to receiving your reply. I'm afraid I can't stay to wait; I have to return to Berk."
"We'll send you our decision the moment it is made." Queen Eleanor assured him, and he nodded. Then, with another slight bow of his head, Hiccup Horrendous Haddock the Third turned and strode from the room, his people following silently behind him.
Merida waited, weighing the sword in her hands, until the door was closed before turning to her parents.
"...What did he want?"
Her mother made an exasperated sound that wasn't quite lost under her father's bark of laughter.
"He was asking permission to court ye, lass."
Merida stared back down at the weapon in her hands.
"Oh…"
000
The evening fire crackled in the hearth as Merida sat beside her mother at the loom, carefully picking out a new pattern on the carefully woven cloth.
"Do you think I should marry him?" she asked quietly, focusing on her stitches, and she felt her mother pause for a moment before continuing her own work.
"It would be a good match," the queen said neutrally, then added, "He's not asking for your hand yet lass; just fer a chance to win it."
Merida considered that. Her parents would never again try to push her into an engagement, no matter how advantageous it might be. That was a lesson they'd learned well. But she'd learned a lesson too, hadn't she?
"I cannae promise to accept him if he asks." she said quietly, and her mother hummed a note of assent from beside her. "But...I could give him a chance…" she trailed off, unsure of her own words, but she heard the approval in her mother's voice as she replied.
"That's all we would ever ask of ye, lass." the queen rose with a swish of her skirts. "I'd best go tell your father; he can send the word out tonight."
As the door closed behind her mother, Merida plucked thoughtfully at a few stitches, pulling them free of the cloth and doing them over again. She would keep her word. She would give him a chance. But in her heart of hearts, she remembered the quiet way he'd addressed her father, the somber manner in which he'd offered her the sword, and his father's long ago voice lamenting his son's lack of a Viking's brashness, and she doubted that she could ever love any man whose spirit did not in every way measure up to her own.