Of course she would wake up in the middle of the night.
It felt like he'd just fallen asleep moments before, head pillowed against one arm on the table, when he heard a gasp. It was followed by a soft scrabbling noise. Hiccup pushed himself up, rubbing his eyes with the back of one hand, squinting toward the hearth. At first he thought a spark had flown out and started a fire, but then he remembered the red-haired girl. She was awake and sitting up, clutching one of the blankets around her body, her eyes wide as she whipped her head around, taking in the darkened room. "Hey," Hiccup said, with the eloquence and intelligence of the newly-conscious, "you're awake."
The head turned toward him and she shrank back into the couch as he approached. "It's okay," he soothed. "Are you thirsty?" When he bent to pick up the water she clambered backward, off the edge of the couch.
Hiccup watched in confusion as she moved, crouched low, muttering something he couldn't catch. With her attention trained on him she made her way around the back of the couch and toward the door. It was a path not clear of obstacles, and in particular not clear of the bulk of a sleeping Night Fury, well-disguised in the dim light. "Some guardian you are," Hiccup muttered, then raised his voice to address the girl. "You might want to watch out," he said, just before she grunted and fell.
From the darkness he heard the rustling of dragon hide and a shriek that cut off abruptly. He dropped the tankard of water and hurtled over the couch, not entirely sure who he would have to protect from who. He landed just in front of Toothless' head; the dragon nudged him in the back, curious about what was happening. Hiccup had thought the girl's eyes were wide before, but now they were huge as she backed away, one hand covering her mouth and the other on her hip—where a knife would be, Hiccup realized. "It's okay," he said again, slowly spreading his arms. "No one's gonna hurt you." She shook her head, eyes blinking closed for a moment; when she opened them she shook her head again. With a slightly trembling hand she pointed at them and spoke.
When she'd muttered before, he'd thought he just hadn't heard her. This time her voice was clear enough across the room; it was the words themselves that didn't make any sense. He frowned. "Did you hit your head?"
She frowned right back at him and said more words, or at least what Hiccup assumed were words. He spared a glance at Toothless, whose head was cocked curiously, but who made no sign of understanding her, either. Hiccup looked back at the girl and shrugged. Her response, throwing her hands into the air and rolling her eyes in exasperation, took him by surprise, and he laughed. Immediately he turned red and the chuckle trailed off as he rubbed the back of his neck; but when he looked up again her expression was more curious than anything else.
Encouraged, Hiccup took a step forward. He pointed at his face, smiling hopefully, and said, "Hiccup." Then, feeling a nose pushing into his back, he stepped aside, laid his hand on the nose, and said, "Toothless." He couldn't help adding, "He's really harmless—well, not harmless at all, I mean he is a dragon, but he won't hurt you. Probably."
She had the usual response to his rambling: a frown of confusion tinged with annoyance creased her face. He muttered an apology. She pointed at him and then Toothless, repeating their names slowly and carefully in an accent that sounded unlike any he'd ever heard. Then she put a hand on her chest and said, "Merida."
It wasn't exactly like trying to gain Toothless' trust, but it didn't feel that much different. It was somehow more frustrating: he'd never expected Toothless to be able to speak, but Merida was a human, and therefore they should have been able to communicate.
He started by walking away. Hiccup patted Toothless' head and returned to sit on the couch; the dragon followed him, curling up on the floor at one end. He was counting on that curiosity he'd seen in her eyes, and hoping that she viewed him as nonthreatening, the way the rest of Berk did. He remembered what Stoick had said about her waking up at the forge and shuddered at the idea of Gobber's being the first face she saw. He gestured for her to come over and then watched as the gears in her head turned.
Would she judge him trustworthy? It must have been obvious that she was being cared for here; she'd woken fed and cleaned (a bit) and bundled up warm. And while Hiccup would acknowledge that their home was clearly that of bachelors, it was tidy and smelled better than some others he could name. Merida bit her lip, thinking. Did she even know where she was? Would it be better to risk whatever was outside, or what was sitting patiently in front of the hearth?
So he wouldn't stare Hiccup looked away, smoothing the furs on the seat and leaning down to retrieve the fallen tankard. When he straightened up again she stood at the far end of the couch, and as he watched she sat down, delicately and deliberately and as far from him as she could be. For a moment they looked at each other. Her eyes were blue, the color of glacier ice in the winter, and he found himself hoping for a cloudless day so he could see what colors her hair was in the sunlight. Then he realized that he was probably staring, again, and dropped his gaze to the mug in his hands. It gave him an idea, and something to do.
Her eyes went wide again as he stood and went to refill the cup, returning with one for himself, too. He offered one to her and she hesitated, licking her lips as she looked from his face to the mug held out to her and back. Surely she didn't think he'd put something gross in it, but in case that was what she was worried about, he took a gulp from the mug and swallowed it. This time she accepted the cup and drank, obviously thirsty. After a moment she lowered the cup slowly and smiled, embarrassed.
He wished he could babble at her—his awkwardness would definitely make her feel better about herself, if she could understand it. Otherwise it'd probably just frustrate her. He sipped from the cup. Might as well start small, Hiccup thought, and said, "Water." At her uncomprehending expression he dipped a finger in his mug and shook the droplets off, saying the word again. She repeated it a few times; then Merida said another word that he supposed meant water in her language (what was her language? where was she from?). As he repeated it, she wet her fingers and flicked them at him. She giggled at the face he made, water dripping from his nose, and drained the rest of her drink.
"Water?" she asked, holding out the cup, looking hopeful and shy. He smiled and took the cup to refill it, even if she was planning to empty the whole thing on his head.
The next time he opened his eyes sunlight was creeping under the shutters. He yawned and stretched; next to him Toothless whuffled. At the other end of the couch the girl—Merida—lay curled up, clutching a blanket in her arms. Hiccup hoped that his father would be able to shed some light on the situation, because having all these questions and no answers was killing him. Now wasn't the time to worry about his ignorance, though; there were chores to do. So he set to work shooing Toothless outside, gathering an armful of wood for the fires, preparing breakfast, and then hurrying to fetch water from the well, all the while hoping that Merida was still sleeping soundly. As he returned, full buckets yoked over his shoulders, a shout from inside crushed his dreams. It was hardly a surprise.
When he pushed into the kitchen Stoick was looming over the table, burly arms akimbo, glaring down at their guest. Merida was frozen, spoon halfway to her mouth; a lump of porridge plopped back into the bowl as she stared up at the man. "Is she eatin' my breakfast?" Stoick demanded. He was not a morning person by any means, and especially not before he'd had something to eat.
"Looks like it," Hiccup said. "I'll get you another bowl, all right?"
Stoick squinted after him as he moved into the kitchen. "She hasn't said anythin'. I yelled, and she's just lookin' at me." And it was true: though she wasn't moving, the girl looked as unafraid of the chieftain as he'd ever seen anyone look. Her expression held more curiosity and—was that a hint of amusement?
"She doesn't understand our language." When Stoick cocked his head questioningly, he shrugged. "We, uh, met last night." Hiccup set a bowl and spoon on the table in front of his father, who sat, grumbling about the fact that she'd taken his seat, too. "Dad, this is Merida. Merida—" She'd looked at him when he said her name, and he gave her an encouraging smile as he pointed at his dad. "Stoick."
"Merida," Stoick grunted, reaching across the table and offering his hand. She put the spoon down and grasped the far larger hand firmly. With a nod she locked eyes with him and said, "Stoick." The exchange seemed to satisfy both of them; they tucked into their porridge without another thought.
Stoick paused to tell Hiccup, "After breakfast we'll go to the elder. She might know something." Merida's spoon clattered against the bottom of the empty bowl and he added, "She might not sound like one, but she eats like a Viking, at least."
From near the top of the staircase Hiccup watched Merida, who stood brushing dirt from her dress conscientiously. He'd been able to change clothes, but she would have to go out in the same thing he'd found her in. He thought that there were still some of his mother's clothes stored in a chest somewhere, but even if he could bring himself to ask Stoick about them, he didn't believe any of the clothes would fit Merida. His own clothes would probably be better—except for the fact that they would definitely not fit in certain places, places where she curved that he did not, places he noticed as she twisted and caught up the hem at the back of her skirt. He pushed that particular thought from his mind and continued to watch her. Though small clouds of dust rose where she brushed, she didn't seem particularly bothered about the state of her dress. The same could not be said about when she dropped the skirt and touched her hair; that expression was nothing less than despair. Hiccup was glad he'd at least found something that she could use.
As if she didn't want to be caught in a moment of vanity, her hands dropped as he clattered down the stairs. He held out the carved wooden comb, its teeth spaced wide. A faint blush colored Merida's cheeks, and he immediately felt bad.
To cover her embarrassment, he'd embarrass himself, so he started to babble. "It belonged to my mother," Hiccup began, and got no further. Her eyes snapped up and she gasped.
"Màthair?" It sounded odd when she said it, the vowels shaped differently in her mouth, but not like when she'd repeated his words earlier.
"Màthair?" she asked again, looking around the hall. Hiccup shook his head. He remembered more of life without her than with her; he felt less sadness and more vague longing when he thought of his mother, wishing they'd had more time together, occasionally wondering if his life would be different if she'd lived. But the look on Merida's face, so full of pity and loss, made him wish his mother was there harder than he'd ever wished it before.
"No mother," he said quietly, hand tightening around the comb. "Not anymore."
She touched his arm, light and gentle, and he couldn't meet her eyes. Hiccup took a deep breath and opened his hand. The teeth of the comb left imprints in his palm. This time when he offered it she took it without hesitation, and set to work.
Combing it took longer than he'd expected, and even then he suspected she hadn't done a very thorough job of it. Once she'd finished she handed the comb back reverently, and they headed out together.
When they emerged Toothless was lounging outside, evidently enjoying the sunshine. Merida stiffened as he rolled over, and Hiccup remembered that she couldn't have gotten a good look last night. Here his hide shone subtly, and his claws glinted when they caught the light; he looked sleek and dangerous and Hiccup felt a surge of pride. Was it possible that Merida had never seen a dragon before? The idea was hard for him to imagine, since everyone who lived in Berk had grown up surrounded by the creatures. It would explain her surprise, though. Another question without an answer, he sighed to himself.
"We're going to the great hall," he told Toothless. "It's up to you if you want to come or not." The dragon rose, stretched, and padded down the hill in front of them. Hiccup followed, but after a few steps stopped and turned.
She was still just outside the door, hugging the cloak around her as she stared. There was Berk before her: the slope that led down to the village and the wide sea slate grey beyond it. Long wooden halls with carved decorations, trees climbing the hill off to the left, gulls wheeling around a fishing boat by the docks, and dragons perched on rooftops or flapping lazily overhead: he smiled at the picture he saw. "Merida," he called, and waved her forward, and she took a deep breath, set her shoulders, and joined him.