A/N: Uploading right before school. Mwahaha!

This basically covers the entire first war for independence (1296-1328).

Sorry bout the shortness!

Warning: Genderbending Ahead


One stormy night, a week after Frøya's third visit to Scotland, Alistair arrived bloodied and angry.

"What's wrong?" Frøya shouted, rushing forward as the Scott collapsed on her shore.

"That bastard!" Alistair spat as he struggled to his feet, "That bastard England invaded me, not so much as a warning!"

"He…invaded you?" Frøya asked in astonishment. What would she do if Lise invaded her?

The Scot nodded, before pausing to cough.

Blood stained the hand that had covered his mouth.

Frøya looped her arms under the larger man's armpits, dragging him away from the crashing waves, "What happened?"

Alistair sighed.

"I was getting a little too friendly with France and he got paranoid," the Scotsman said remorsefully, "Attacked full force. My stupid king sent men to counter attack but he knows it's a loosing battle."

Alistair ran a hand through his red locks, "It'll take a miracle to get me out of this."

Frøya held her brother, praying everything would be all right.

He turned to her, and there was so much pain in his green eyes that Frøya thought she would drown.

"Freya," Alistair said slowly, running his fingers through her hair, he smiled, "I like your hair long."

The Icelander didn't know what to say to that, but Alistair continued for her, "I won't be able to see you now that I'm at war with my brother, but I dun wanna leave you alone without tellin' ya first."

Frøya sniffed appreciatively.

They stayed like that for a few more minutes, enjoying each other's company as much as possible, before Alistair coughed up more blood and said he had to leave.

As his red hair disappeared over the horizon, the silver haired girl on the beach let herself cry.


Thirty two years.

That's how long Alistair was at war with his brother.

Thirty two years.

During that time, Grizel died.

Frøya didn't even get to go to her funeral.

Thirty two years.

The Icelander reached Alistair's shoulder.

Of course, she didn't know this until she saw him again.

Thirty two years.

Alistair looked rougher than ever, and there was a little more pain and a little less light in his eyes.

Thirty two years.

Mathias and Lise grew closer and Frøya suspected they would make a kingdom of some sort in the near century.

Thirty two years.

Frøya cried more than her share of tears.

Alistair bled more than his share of lives.

Thirty two years.


"Alistair! Alistair!"

The Scotsman turned sharply to find a mass of silver and purple hurtling towards him.

"Whoa there, lass," he smiled, turning.

Frøya was taller now, her hair longer.

"Look at ye," the red head smiled, "More like a woman every time I see ye."

The Icelander refused to let go of his midsection, so Alistair laughed and hugged her back.

"It's okay, lass. It's over," Alistiar reassured her.

For now.