Chapter One ~ Raidho/Journey

Disclaimer: Brave(2012) belongs to Disney and How to Train Your Dragon to Cressida Cowell and Dreamworks, respectively. These characters are only getting borrowed for a time.

Author's Notes at the end of the fic.

XxXxX

She wakes in a half-darkened room, slowly rocking back and forth to consciousness. Everything hurts, and she leans over the side of the bunk with a sudden moan, dry heaving over the planks of the floor.

"You're awake." Her older brother (by virtue of only five minutes) sits on the edge of her bunk, and with a shock, she realizes his eyes are wet. Has he been crying? "Thank Odin, you're awake."

He rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, grinning weakly at her. "Don't ever scare me like that again." Clasping her by the shoulders, Tuffnut pulls her into a gentle embrace.

(Why? Is she going to break?)

(Maybe. Freyja, she hurts in places she didn't even know could hurt.)

She puts a hand up on her head, and then has to lay back down right away. "What happened?" She wets her lips with her tongue and tastes copper. The room smells of blood, and when she turns her head she can see that the floor is littered with stained bandages. Her stomach churns.

"You don't remember?" Tuffnut isn't wearing his helmet. Without it, he looks like a little boy again, but his pale eyes are the eyes of a man who has seen battle, who has gone a-Viking and lived to tell the tale. "Do you remember anything?"

She closes her eyes. There is a throbbing behind her eyes that makes her want to sleep and sleep, but all she can smell is blood and death, and in her head she hears the call of Odin's ravens.

(Thought... and Memory.)

"Skotland."

(That cursed place.)

She bolts upwards, clutching at Tuffnut's hands. "Barf and Belch? Astrid? Hiccup? Snotlout and Fishlegs?"

Tuffnut snorts, brushing her hair from her face, a tender gesture that unnerves her more than she cares to admit. "It's good to know you have your priorities in order, sister."

"Shut up," she growls, batting his hands away. "I don't need you to treat me like a girl. I'm one of Freyja's own, a proper Valkyrie."

There is that look again. The only way to describe it is... haunted. She does not know why she shudders all over, why she is suddenly cold.

A knock on the door reverberates through the small space, causing the knife behind her eyes to stab her temples. Ruffnut bites her lip. Shield maidens aren't supposed to cry. But Freyja would understand, she thinks.

(It sounds like spears beating on shields, like the beat of war drums, like the úlfheðnar's howl.)

(Wolfskin, they call them. Like the Bearskin, the berserker.)

(Or should it be Dragonskin now?)

The knock comes again, sending a spear of light between her eyes, and with a cry of terror she watches as Tuffnut and the room begin to fade, the last vision of her brother replaced by the pulsating, dancing lights that flicker across the dark sky.

XxX

Everything hurts. Her mouth feels like dry cotton wool, and when she tries to lift her head she finds she has been collared like a dog, a thick rope around her neck, tying her to a post. She licks her bottom lip, wincing; there is a film across her left eye, dark and red.

(Something terrible has happened. But what?)

Ruffnut cannot think clearly for the pounding between her ears. When she closes her eyes, she repeats Tuffnut's name over and over in litany, trying to draw him back to her, so that he will find her.

Aren't they twins? Shouldn't they have special instincts to save one another when they find themselves in trouble?

(She wishes she could believe that.)

Her mother often told the story of her own twin's penchant for trouble as she plaited Ruffnut's hair. She wishes more than anything that she had never stopped listening to her mother's advice, had never thought she knew better. It has been a long time since she has thought of her dead mother, long gone through Helheim's gates, beyond the realms of mortal knowing.

If she had listened when she became a woman, if she had accepted her mother's distaff along with taking up a sword, if, if, if. The regret curdles in her gut. If she had taken up the spindle and the distaff, would she now remember how to bring on the dreams? When she grasps at the memories, they slither away from her, like water on a dragon's underbelly. Something about a spindle and a distaff and a magic bindrune that opens the doors between worlds.

"{Wake up.}"

A shaft of weak light pours down from above and a man clomps down the ladder, a cup of water in his hand. He throws it on her, and laughs, showing brown stumps where his teeth ought to be. No wonder she thought she was dreaming — she is in a hole under somebody's house, amongst the drying herbs and jugs of ale.

He jumps down from the last rung, aiming a boot at her side, and she flinches away from it, but it not fast enough. She tastes blood, thick and coppery in her mouth where she's bitten her cheek.

She could take him. He is a big man, running to fat, with greasy red hair and a leer on his face. "{The chief wants to talk tae ye, but not until I've had ma fun, lassie.}" Even if she cannot understand his language, she can read the dark intent in his eyes.

He licks his lips, drawing out his dirk, and gestures for her to open her legs. When she does not respond, he falls on her, his knife at her throat, forcing her knees apart, and she fights him with everything in her.

(It doesn't matter how hard she fights, in the end.)

But Ruffnut Thorston is nothing if not clever. She bites his earlobe, tearing it from the side of his head, and as he roars in pain she takes advantage of his distraction to slam the palm of her hand into his nostrils, driving the bone of his nose upwards and into his brain. He slumps atop of her with a gout of blood from his nose and ears, his eyes still wide and surprised.

She shoves him off of her, head buzzing. She has killed a man. Just like that, she has killed him, and he is lying on the floor, staring up at nothing, his lifeblood all over the dirty rushes. She finds that she is shaking, and fumbles for the dirk. It is just a shade too far for her fingers to reach, and the rope cuts into her neck, the rough strands catching at the tender, open skin. She screams, clawing at it with her fingers, sticky with hot blood. Her nails are rough and torn, and they find no purchase on the rough strands.

Instinctively, she reaches for her dragon tooth necklace, and to feel it between her breasts fills her with a rush of overwhelming relief. With a sob, she begins scraping the sharp point on the rope at her neck. The dead man stares up at her in reproach, his eyes bulging.

When she finally stands, the room spins, and she leans against the wall, breathing heavily. When she is gone from here, she will bathe every day for a week, she will apologize to everyone she's ever harmed, she will put down her sword and spear and take up seidr instead. Freyja must be displeased with her, she must be angry for something Ruffnut has done. She racks her brain for the reason, and comes back empty-handed.

When her dizzy spell has passed, she scrubs his stink from her thighs with a handful of straw. How many times has he had her, in her unconscious state?

(It does not bear thinking of.)

Instead of thinking, she busies herself with her hair. It is greasy and lank, but she is able to pin it up, out of her eyes. Her helmet is gone, but she still has her furs and her boots. At least there is that — it was July when she left Berk, and now she can see her breath.

How long has she lain here, in this stinking outbuilding? Tuffnut and the others must be looking for her, they must be stricken with grief. Tuffnut must know she isn't dead, why else would she have had that strange dream?

(Unless this is the dream, and that is reality.)

She pinches herself ferociously, drawing blood with her nails. Nothing happens. So she screams and screams, and spits on the dead man's body for good measure. When at last she has screamed out every bit of disbelief and rage, she climbs up the ladder.

XxX

With the strength of ten Berserkers, Ruffnut yanks open the front door and falls to her knees in the wet gray light. If she had been able to see anything besides the water spring in that moment, she would have noticed a tall man, not more than twenty, dark of hair and hard of mouth; his hand on his sword pommel as he emerged on his horse from the swirling fog.

As it is, she hears nothing but the sweet trickle of water from the spring, sees nothing but the iron cauldron, tastes and feels nothing but the glacial water as she dunks her head in, drinking and drinking as though she is an animal. Little beast, her brother calls her, when no one else is close enough to hear the affection in his voice.

The man is joined by several other men on horseback, all wearing the same plaid as he. Although he is the younger, when he holds up a hand, they rein in their horses. He jumps from his horse, and strides softly towards Ruffnut, hide boots silent on the damp grass.

Ruffnut cups her hands, sipping the water in her hands, slowly — the welt on her throat burns, and the adrenaline is slowly ebbing away from her body, leaving her weak. She feels sordid and scared, she longs for her brother's presence at her side. A shadow ripples across the water, and she springs to her haunches, brandishing the dragon tooth in her hand, her eyes wild.

His eyebrows go up, though he does not leap back. She has startled him — good. He is tall, with wild dark hair that brushes his shoulders, and eyes as blue as the paint that spirals all down his right shoulder and arm. He stares at her, as though she is a jötunn out of an old tale.

"Not sae fast, Northman. Where is Duncan?" The sword sings as he pulls the blade from his scabbard, circling her.

He is a fool, Ruffnut thinks. She only has a tooth to defend herself, but isn't she the daughter of a völva? Isn't she a shield maiden of Berk? She bares her teeth.

"By Macha's fire, yer a woman!" He sounds so impressed that she almost forgives him for the way he's been butchering her language. Comprehension dawns over his features as he takes in the gore splattered all over her. "Ye've killed Duncan!"

The men behind him begin to circle in, but he puts his hand up again, to stay them. Their anger crackles in the air, sharp and dangerous. If she is not careful it will strike her like Thor's hammer, and she will never see Tuffnut or her friends again.

(She has never known how to be careful. Careless, maybe.)

Ruffnut spits on the ground, just missing his boot. When she raises her eyes to meet his, his face is hard, with nary a kindness. "No one rapes Ruffnut Thorston and gets away with it, Painted Man."

His face softens, and he holds out his hand, his eyes locked on hers. "Give me the tooth, Northwoman. I swear my men won't hurt ye, as long as ye come along quietly."

"Are you the chief?" She will kneel to no painted men, chief or not. She conjures up Stoick the Vast inside her head. He would cleave this weakling in twain.

"Nae, but I am his son." He steps closer, his sword at the ready. "Ma name is Drustan MacIntosh, an' I swear ye will have safe passage tae ma father's broch if ye give me that tooth. Come now, lass."

Ruffnut looks up to the sky, willing Tuffnut to swoop down on Barf and Belch at the last minute and save her. At this point, she'd be happy to see Astrid or Hiccup, or even Snotlout. But the sky remains gray and grim, and beyond Drustan, there is only the fog and the angry men who would as soon throw her to the ground and hurt her than help her.

"You have ma word that Clan MacIntosh will no' harm ye, Ruffnut Thorston. On pain of death." Drustan sheathes his sword, hanging her dragon tooth necklace around his own neck. He whistles to the horse, and then he puts her on it, climbing up to sit in front her. "Hold on tae me so ye don't fall off," Drustan MacIntosh instructs her, whirling the horse and spurring it into a gallop.

She doesn't have to be told twice.

XxX

Ruffnut waits for Drustan to return. He has been with his father for what feels like ages, although she knows it cannot have been more than half an hour. She needs a bath, her clothes are stuck to her skin and she reeks of her captor's blood. Her head is throbbing, which isn't helped by all the shouting inside the room.

When Drustan finally emerges, his face is like thunder. "Ruffnut." He bows to her, helping her up. His eyes search her face. "Ye'd better come in. Do ye want me tae stay wi' ye?"

She lifts her chin, for she is as proud a Thorston girl as ever there was. "I can handle it."

Once she's inside the room, however, she wants to take back her words. Drustan bows to his father, a wiry man with wild black hair and a full beard. Both of them are angry, and the air between the two of them is heavy, charged. The lord is eating dinner. There is a girl in his lap, with dark hair and a yellow dress. His hand is around her waist, and he is feeding her choice pieces of meat with his fingers. The girl is sharp nosed and has greedy eyes, her breasts pushed up so high that if she stood she'd probably fall over. Ruffnut thinks that the girl probably does a lot of purposeful falling over, landing with her legs spread.

Drustan nods to her, then stalks from the room.

"{Is this the Northern bitch?}" The girl says in a high, nasally tone. Ruffnut only catches a snatch or two of her words. Northern. Bitch. The tone is plain enough. The girl is jealous of her, and why shouldn't she be? Ruffnut knows she is not the beauty of Berk, or even the archipelago, but she has never cared much about her looks. She prefers to be known by her reputation as Berk's best trickster (better even than her brother).

"So you're the savage Northwoman who killed Duncan." Lord MacIntosh stabs the haunch of venison with his knife viciously, pink blood running all over the serving platter. "A wee lass like you?"

"When a man rapes a free woman, he deserves what he gets."

Lord MacIntosh pushes the girl from his lap, and she protests with a wet, open-mouthed kiss that involves entirely too much moaning for Ruffnut's tastes. He pats her bottom and she giggles, waving goodbye. "Am I to believe yer people treat their enemy captives any better?" With a scoff, he advances towards her, backing her up until she is pressed against the wall. "Ma son tells me ye are a shield maiden." His breath is hot on her face, and she glares up at him. "Ye were part of the raid along the coast two weeks ago. Why should I gi'e quarter to some bitch who slew some of ma best men? No answer?"

Grimly, she presses her lips together and does not reply. He will not have her secrets. If she had but a spindle, she would snip his life thread like a Norn. But she has nothing.

"Aye, that's what I thought." He grabs his cup from the table and takes a long pull of ale, studying her. She does not like the calculating gleam in his eyes, but there is little she can do — so far. "Weel enough fer a voyage, lassie?"

A voyage? But she needs to find the dragon. How else will she get back to Berk? "My name is Ruffnut," she says with her chin in the air. "And I am not your 'lassie'."

"Ye'll be whatever I say ye are," he says, slamming his cup down and causing her to jump. He pins her wrist to the wall with a grip like iron, tracing a pattern across it with the tip of his dirk. His breath is hot and sour on her face. "I'm nae fool, ye clarty hoor. I've seen how ma son makes sheep eyes at ye. I'll not hae a Norse bitch wi' a bastard in her belly like a dirk at ma throat. Nae, it's tae Dun Broch fer ye. Let the High King decide what tae do wi' ye, an' I'll wash ma hands o' it."

XxXxX

Author's Notes:

This story is finally back! Are you as excited as I am? I hope so :) The reason it took so long is because I was stuck, also because my Hunger Games fic took over my brain, and I underestimated the amount of research I'd want to do for this.

This fic is an AU fusion(not a crossover), meaning it fuses both universes together – as if HTTYD and Brave are in the same world. Although both canon universes are historical fantasy I took some liberties with setting a time period since the fic is an AU anyway. Historical notes will be below. ~ Also, I haven't seen Once Upon a Time so any similarities to Merida's OUaT plot line, if they occur, are unintentional.

What else... oh. Originally this fic had an OC (Original Character) that played a pretty big supporting role, but it felt like the fic wasn't going anywhere with her in it so I scrapped her and brought Ruffnut in instead. I'm keeping quiet about the main pairings for now - characters will have various romantic entanglements throughout the fic.

For more notes, see my profile, I included some information about the series.

Updates will be periodical until I finish my other fics. Stay tuned for the next chapter, Untie the Wind (Merida POV).

Historical notes:

Thrall – Viking slaves. Thralls were the lowest class of workers in Scandinavian society. They were Northern Europeans brought into slavery due to debt, the losers of wars, captives, and the children of thralls. Thralls in Scandinavia had no rights and their living conditions were variable depending on the master. The thrall trade as the prize of plunder was a key part of the Viking economy.

Jötunn (pron. "YO-tun") the jötunn are the giants of Norse mythology, as proud and fierce and as mighty as the Aesir and Vanir. Jötunn comes from the Proto-Germanic *etunaz and means "devourer."

Huginn and Munnin—Odin's ravens, called Thought & Memory.

Valkyries and Freyja—Freyja is not a Valkyrie, but a Goddess of those who have been slain in battle. It is thought that the valkyries were corpse goddesses.

Seidr—(pron. "SAY-der) pre-Christian Norse sorcery and shamanism, involving changing the threads of fate. "To do this, the practitioner, with ritual distaff in hand,[3] enters a trance (which could be accomplished through numerous means and travels in spirit throughout the Nine Worlds accomplishing his or her intended task."

/concepts/seidr/

Norn—Like the Greek Morai, which means "Fates", the Norns spin a thread for the life of every living being—including the gods. Sometimes they are depicted as weaving the threads of life, but more often they simply spin. They are the ones who handle both time and fate, and thus hold the destiny of the universe in their hands.

Berserkers – called "Bearskin" or "Wolfskin", these warriors became bears or wolves during trance and were terrifying on the field of battle. They were reported to wear the furs of bears and wolves, to bite their shields, and to go into such murderous rages that they could not tell friend from foe. It was said they had the strength of ten men, and that neither iron nor fire could touch them. We'll revisit them later.