It was finally over.
Merida sat at one of the long tables toward the back of the hall, watching.
Her dad had been released from that awful cell and was now shouting at the top of his lungs about the strength of dragons and men. He was emaciated, a strange echo of what he had been only months before, and it near broke her heart. He was smiling, though, and holding her beaming mum close under his arm. Stoick and Gobber were close to him, laughing and shouting right along with him.
The battle-weary men were continuing to stagger into the hall. Some faces shone triumphantly, and they added their voices to the growing commotion. Many others seemed as if all they wanted for the rest of their lives was peace, food, and rest. Some just looked hollow—this hadn't been a bloodless fight, and many friends and brothers would never rise from where they had been struck down.
Merida blinked away tears.
Elinor had finally gotten her dad to sit down. The triplets had made two separate appearances now, and she smiled a bit at the Vikings who had no idea what they were in for at Castle DunBroch now that the battle was over.
A tap on her shoulder, and she turned to see Hiccup. What was left of the young group of riders had already collapsed at a table a bit closer to the door. Everyone was muddy and a bit charred.
"Can I sit with you?" Hiccup croaked. Wind and ash and blistering heat and screaming at the top of your lungs didn't exactly do wonders for your voice. Merida couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry.
She did neither. "That's fine."
He sort of fell over onto the bench. His helmet was gone, there were cuts and burns everywhere, and his face was . . . older. Aged. His eyes opened slowly, and they were bloodshot. He looked down at her wrapped ankle and asked, "You think you'll be okay?"
She looked down as well. "Ay. It's broken. But it should heal just fine. I'll be up and around in no time." More than could be said for others . . .
Hiccup's hands were brushing over her face. Had she said that aloud? Apparently, because Hiccup was scooting closer and wrapping his arms around her, shushing her softly. Was she crying? Why were his arms so shaky? . . . Oh. That was her. She leaned into him and the tears didn't stop.
"W-why did they all have t-to die?" she whimpered, her face squished into the leather. "Th-they didn't . . . it's so . . . " Hiccup buried his face in her hair, and she realized he was crying, too.
"I don't know," he choked out. "I don't know, I don't know . . . " He sounded as lost and useless and small as she felt.
It may have been her imagination, but she thought she could hear the crying of others in the hall, that wretched crying of loss and grief, more clearly than the cheers of victory.
Broken bones seemed an easy burden compared to broken hearts.