We needed about four days to process 5.08 before we could comprehend this tiny shipping gift we'd been given in 5.09. Brave Highlander away!
To bloody hell with her council and may a pox rot their eyes, the lot of them. She's the queen, these are her people, and she's expected to sit on her arse and wait while others fight her battles.
"Your Majesty, t'would surely leave the land split into civil war were you to die in battle with no heir."
"D'ye suppose I've three brothers for nothing then?!"
"My queen, three brothers born on the same day. Each clan would ally themselves with one brother they deem fit to rule and t'would be bloodshed until none are left or we're overtaken by another kingdom. We canna afford the weakness. Stay and govern."
Merida stalks down the halls, both bitter and glad she's months past possessing teeth and claws as long and sharp as knives. Anyone who tries to calm their raging queen into returning to her chambers to rest will only have her sharp tongue to contend with. She'd not been able to sleep since the high council dismissed itself late - long past the midnight watch call - tossing and turning, fury mounting and worry whispering nonsense fears in her ears like a wisp. She'd given up one, perhaps two hours ago, wrapping herself in a dressing gown and going for a walk.
The weather of Dunbroch seems to agree with its queen. Rain lashes against the shuttered windows, thunder rolling in the distance. Gusts of air slipping through cracks in the shutters cause the torchlight to flicker. A fine day to send those lads to war, Merida thinks sourly as she rounds another corner.
Her heart isn't beating any faster than it normally would as she makes long strides towards her destination. There's no reason for the blood to pound through her veins or for her breathing to sound so gods-be-damned loud during the pre-dawn storm. And it's only the chill of the air that causes her hand to shake before she balls it into a fist and pounds on the heavy oak door.
She's taken the long way 'round, not because she's a coward, nay. She'd just needed to decide how to word what she's come to say.
She's ready to knock again when the door opens. He's shadowed by the fire in the grate behind him, but she can tell she didn't rouse him from slumber. "Good, yer awake," Merida says, her tone brisk as she pushes past him into the room.
"A fine thing for a lady to do, burstin' into a lad's chambers as they were her own," Macintosh grouses, his voice husky from lack of recent use.
"As it were I do own them. It's my castle, ye lout," she retorts, turning on her heel and facing him.
He closes the door enough to leave a crack. "And to what pleasure do I owe my queen's presence at such a time?" Macintosh asks, his gallancy tinged with sarcasm. He doesn't bother to bow or scrape, just goes about gathering things from the room and setting them on a worn table next to a pack.
She swallows hard. His war pack.
From this angle, the fire throws him into sharp relief. He's only half-dressed, just his kilt and boots with no else - not even his ridiculous blue stripes to draw the eye to his toned shooting arm. His hair is damp, shining in the firelight, probably dunked his head in the washbin like the fool man he is.
Not that she's noticing him, or the way the light flickers across his skin and turns it her favorite shade of golden sunset, or the strands of hair that stick to his stubbled jaw.
"Yer to be leadin' a war party, Macintosh," she says, propping her hands on her hips. "I'm here remindin' ye of the lads in yer charge, their mams and sweethearts at home waitin'."
He glances up at her, working at rolling spare clothes in a tight bundle to save on space. The firelight makes his eyes darker, the shadows making it almost difficult to make out the wry quirk of his lips. "Aye, milady, of that I know. Still, no need to come bustlin' down in yer dressin' gown on my account."
Merida bristles. "It's not on yer account, it's theirs! Ye forget yourself, man, I've seen ye in war before. Ye -"
"-have a cool head and have quite a few successful battles under me kilt. Beggin' my queen's pardon," Macintosh says, inclining his head at the cheek.
She's glad of the fire's light now - she feels heat in her cheeks, knows she likely resembles a beet with bushy hair. She's a dreadful blusher when it comes to shame. "Still," she says, dropping her arms as he continues to pack. "I donna like it anymore than them. T'were it my choice, I'd be leadin' the raids myself." He looks at her sharply, but says nothing as she fiddles with the ties that keep her gown closed. "I donna like sittin' on my arse, useless as a bag of flour. It's my kingdom bein' threatened and they treat me like, like -"
"Like a queen," Macintosh murmurs, setting his pack down. "Merida, yer queen now, ye've more than wars to fight."
"Don't call me Merida," she snaps.
"Milady," he says, his eye catching hers and her insides feel funny when he grins. "Ye canna be everywhere at once. Think of us as yer council. They know their trades, we know ours. We have our duties, we report to ye. The kingdom survives."
Merida moves, needing something to do with her hands. Her eyes flit around the room, landing on the ceramic pot and brush she knows he uses for his silly war stripes. "Sit," she orders in her best queen voice, picking up the pot and brush. "I won't be havin' lectures from the likes of ye, I know my duty."
He sits, an amused look on his face. "Sure and yer a rare hand with a bow, but a brush?"
The bristles drop with paint and she threatens the tip of his nose with it. He has the cheek to grin. "Be still, ye doaty lad, lest ye want yer wee silly squiggles a bloody mess."
Her heart leaps into her throat as she considers the alternative of that bloody mess and she has to breathe deeply to steady her hand.
Macintosh sits still as stone as she draws lines over his shoulder, his chest. The thunder in the distance startles him not a whit, nor when she leans in closer to ensure her lines are straight. She's careful in the sweeps of the brush down his bicep, watching the paint dip and curve around the defined muscle: he's one of her best warriors - aside from herself - with strong arms to heft his broadsword and draw his longbow. "Lift," she commands quietly, tapping his arm with the wooden end of the brush. She circles her way down his forearm, then hesitates when she reaches his wrists - he wears bracers, does the paint continue? Her clan isn't one for paints, she doesn't know the custom.
"Down t' the wrist, milady," Macintosh murmurs, looking up at her from beneath his ridiculously long eyelashes.
He bends his arm, bringing his hand at eye level with her. Merida's breath catches in her throat, the firelight playing tricks on his skin and making her feel ridiculous things. She squares her shoulders and finishes the job with hardly a flourish. "There. Wait for it to dry before ye put on the other male nonsense or I'll have to redo the lot."
Macintosh has the gall to chuckle at his queen and she purses her lips. "And I would hate to discomfit my queen."
She glances away, frowning. "Aye. Well. As ye should."
A log pops in the fireplace. The rain pounds away at the shutters. Merida busies herself with putting away the pot and cleaning the brush in the washbasin - truly, were she to dump the lot out the window, she could have it refilled clean in two shakes of a bear's rump. She's heard waterfalls with less force than this storm the gods have set upon them.
She can feel his eyes on her the entire time she bustles about, cleaning up after herself and then taking it upon herself to check the edges of his blades. He says not a word but she knows he's watching, from drawing one of her hairs over his sword to pricking her finger on every one of his arrowheads. She bothers not with the sgain-dubh - everyone keeps a sgain-dubh sharp, even the dunderheads. She knows he's not so much a fool as she pretends him to be, but their enemies are clever. Crafty.
She wants to be sure of him.
Once everything is in order again, she wrings her hands, still with her back to him and feeling him watching her intently.
She should leave.
She should st - nay, she should leave. He has preparations to complete, lads to rally, a storm to weather.
"I'll leave ye to it," she says, turning and heading for the door, sparing him not one glance.
"Merida."
His tone makes her stop, his careless use of her given name makes her temper spark up again, feeling him step up behind her makes her knees feel so much like the jelly on the breakfast table. He doesn't touch her and she's glad of it - some wee part of her wants it, but the rest of her knows she'll not leave if he does.
She whirls, glaring up at him with as much ferocity as she can muster. "Ye'll come back," she says tersely. He's looking at her all gentle, his eyes soft in the dimness, his mouth in a smile that's half smug and half - half something she doesn't care to name. Merida swallows hard. "Ye'll come back with all those lads in hand, or I swear to all the gods I'll hunt ye down and kill ye myself. Am I clear, Macintosh?"
He touches her hand and she wants to jerk it away, the spark and the heat too much, but he's gripping her fingers and stepping back, kneeling before her with his head bowed over her hand. Her heart shouldn't be thrumming this loudly - he hears it for certain - but she forces herself to be still as he says, "As my queen wishes it, so it shall be done."
She all but snatches her hand from his too-warm grasp. "Aye. So it shall."
She whirls on the spot again, leaving his fool self there on the floor, wrenching the door open. She's halfway out the door, closing it behind her, when she hesitates. She doesn't dare look back, her words hardly above a whisper. "Gods be with ye."
She closes the door behind her before he can even think to respond.