Yay for post-movie-seeing inspiration for drabbles! After seeing Brave (wonderful movie, if at times a tad rushed) I originally thought Merida would have gotten married later and that she just wasn't ready then, but my friend insisted that she would never be married, which I think would mean she also wasn't ever going to be queen (you know, history and all that). I did a little research, and found that the only female monarch before Mary of Scots was one queen (for four years) named Margaret, and even she didn't live until the 1200s, long after I think Brave took place. The title is the Gaelic word for "dearer, more beloved".
Thanks to Alexis and littleredpony for the Noble Maiden Fair lyrics.
"Auntie Merida, why were you never married?"
Merida abandons the mountainous sunset—as splendidly golden-red as the richest of garnet and shining brighter than that mere stone could ever hope to—for a quick glance down at the blinking, large-eyed child below her. She chuckles slightly, gripping her dress so she could kneel down to his level and reach forward to ruffle his hair. With a frown and a blush, he smoothes it sloppily with his hands, sending silky black tendrils into his eyes. It came from his mother's side, Merida thinks, as none of her clan would have such soft hair—no, that could only come from being the son of the youngest daughter of the Macintosh clan. His ocean blue eyes, on the other hand, were all her brother Hamish. He's their littlest, as far from the throne as she is.
"It was never for me, Neilan." she simply states, almost rising to her feet again before he tugs at her skirt with his muddy hands. She relents, lowering to face him again. Merida feels her skirts dampen from the wet ground, but she doesn't mind, and they are both fairly thoroughly spattered with a thin layer of mud from climbing the mountain in the first place. His ever-eager-to-learn face was, as usual, holding a look far too determined to be found on such a young lad, like he had stolen it from a world-weary adult in a mischievous prank.
"But why?"
She chuckles again and, feeling a not-so-sudden burst of affection for her young nephew, pulls his bony body into a tight hug. He half-heartily struggles to escape her arms, mumbling about his aunt being so very embarrassing until she finally releases him with a grin.
"It's not for everyone, my dear."
"But now you'll never be queen."
"I was never to be queen anyway. Had I been married I'd have been sent off to live with the clan I was married off to. It is the way for a Lady."
Neilan gasps in near wide-eyed panic, grasping her skirt even tighter to the point that his weak little knuckles were turning white, "So if you'd been married, you wouldn't be living with us anymore?"
"I'm 'fraid not, my wee love."
The boy is struck catatonic with shock for a few moments before diving into her arms, burying his face into her wild orange curls. "Then I'm glad you never married, auntie."
Merida smiles sofly, wrapping her own arms around his tiny frame, "I'm glad too. I wouldn't trade being your auntie for anyone in the world." She places a single warm palm on his smooth cheek, his face as fresh and innocent as a dewy morning. There was a time when she was the same way, sharing the same sweet naivety; long ago, when the will-o-the-wisps had nothing to show her but a fallen arrow. Then again, she wasn't like this child at all. Neilan has no tolerance for his father's jokes and pranks, preferring a quieter life of books and learning. Any attempt of hers to introduce archery was met with indifference at best, frustration and utter distaste at most. Most likely, he is soaked with traits inherited from her mother that skipped a generation. It amuses Merida, slightly, to think that perhaps Elinor's dream had finally been realized: she had a descendant as humorless and serious as her, even if the boy somehow had taken a liking to his untamable old auntie.
There were times when her mother would look at her expectantly, particularly on passing birthdays, her eyes alone asking the question: "is it time? Is this going to be the year?" But alas, poor Elinor was ever disappointed (no matter how she tried to hide it) till the day she finally gave Merida her last approving smile, and died with the words of Noble Maiden Fair on her lips.
Though she had never admitted it to her beloved mother, even Merida considered marriage from time to time. She would look at herself in the mirror and earnestly asking if this year was the year…if she was ready.
Every time, the answer was a resounding "no." She couldn't help it. It was the truth.
In the end, though, there were some things in life that could not be changed. As her father's death grew closer and his body weaker and weaker, it came to be clear that there was simply no way a woman could inherit his throne without backlash. Balance would be thrown out of whack. Power would be put to question. Clans would turn against each other. Revolt was a guarantee. It was a development that the country was simply not ready for. It was then that Merida faced her greatest responsibility, and the lessons her mother taught her finally took their true hold. It was time to put her own ambitions aside for the sake of her country. The love she felt for it was more important than her. Despite the strength and ability she possessed, or perhaps because of it, it was she that ignored her heavy heart and ultimately approached the clans, officially relinquishing any chance of her being their monarch. Hubert was chosen as king, and peace was kept.
She'd be lying if she said that she didn't sometimes regret her choice. She had to remind herself each time, however, that traditions still have their grip and their place. She bent them enough by not getting married. Anymore bending in such a short time may just leave them in shatters on the ground. Was it fair that she couldn't be queen? No. But it was necessary, so she was left where she is now: a resident and adviser to the king, highly esteemed, respected, and left to live her life as she chose, which is all she could ever ask for. And just her luck that any passing desire for a child is instantly quelled by the love of her nieces and nephews, in particular the yawning lad before her eyes.
"My my, are we getting sleepy, my wee love?" Merida lifts him into her arms as the sun makes its final dip below the horizon, leaving a lush blue and faintly glowing moon in its place. His weakly-shaken head falls limply against her bosom, breathing gently and evenly in sleep in just a few moments. She kisses his forehead, hugging him closer. He shifts, but doesn't waken.
"You may not be an archer, but you're still my greatest little joy," she whispers, and quietly, she begins to sing.
Mise ri d' thaobh, O mhaighdean bhan
Ar righinn oig, fas as faic
Do thir, dileas fhein
A ghrian a's a ghealaich, stuir sinn...