Anonymous wanted a continuation after Macintosh came home.

She knows.

She's known for days, as fast as messenger birds can fly from the battlefields. Humans and horses are a mite slower, so she's had time to prepare.

They're safe after several weeks of skirmishes and clashing war parties, the enemy beaten off with their tails between their legs for a time. Dunbroch breathes on, its lifeblood made up of the mundane everyday life: women at their weaving, farmers in their fields, witches in their woods.

They're safe, but they're hurting.

The crown on her head has never felt heavier than in this moment. Macintosh kneels before her, head bowed. The rains haven't let up in weeks; his hair is matted to his face and neck, his wee silly stripes bleed blue down his chest and arm. The paint has probably stained his cloak and it's a shame. It's a good cloak, warm and practical. But in the end, she supposes it doesn't matter. All good things must come to an end.

The pommel of her clan's broadsword is warm under her hands. Her arms don't shake, she's had days to come to this on her own terms. She's steady, far steadier than she was the night she sent him off with a plea masked as a warning. The night he made her a promise.

"Lord Macintosh." Merida's voice rings clear through the hardly occupied throne room. He's her last audience of the afternoon. She'd ordered everyone and their dams out, leaving her to deal with her vassal alone. "Ye were given orders afore leavin' Dunbroch, true or nay?"

"True, milady." Macintosh's voice is quiet.

"Pray, repeat these orders."

His head lifts slightly. He's looking at her from under those lashes again, that way that makes heat course through her, but there's no gentleness there today. There's only remorse. She can see the man's lump in his throat bob as he swallows. "Ye told me, great lady, 'Ye'll come back with all those lads in hand, or I swear to all the gods I'll hunt ye down and kill ye myself.' Ye asked if ye were clear or no."

"And ye said?" she asks, lifting her chin as a challenge.

His head bows down again, his hair a curtain hiding him from her again. "Aye. I said aye, for my queen wished it so."

"And what happened? When ye go' to the battleground?"

Merida can hear Macintosh's unsteady breath before he speaks. "I failed ye."

She can see the way his body shifts, his shoulders losing their proud stance and rounding out. She can see his weight falling on the fist pressed into the ground.

This is a defeated man. A proud man who failed to keep his word.

And even though she's had days to prepare herself for this moment, her heart breaks.

She stands, the pommel of the ancient sword digging into her hand. In two strides the sword clatters to the stone floor and she's falling to her knees before him, her arms going 'round his neck. "Ye didna fail me, Macintosh, ye great bloody bastard of a badger," she whispers fiercely into his damp and matted hair, and gods help her the smell of rain and his own musk makes her dizzy. "I know."

He's stiff as stone; she can't even feel his breath and she worries she may have stunned the poor lad into an early grave, but then he's pulling back and looking at her with the most incredulous look of shock she's ever seen. "Merida, th' lad died because –"

"Because there were nigh thirty berserkers betwixt and between ye and he, an' if the other lads hadna pulled ye out o' the way o' a wayward axe we wouldna be havin' this conversation," Merida says softly. She can't help herself, reaching up to finger some of his wayward hair from his face. His eyes widen ever so slightly and the lump in his throat bobs again. "Ye tried, boyo. Ye got every last one o' them lads home, save one. An' even then, ye brought his body home. His soul wonna be lookin' for trouble now."

Macintosh looks down. "Milady, ye said –"

"What I said was between ye and me, as is now. It's a fool queen who makes an order she knows canna be followed through. But ye came back." Merida covers his hand with hers; it's her turn to swallow hard as she looks down at their hands. Feelings were never her strongest suit, aside from her infamous temper. Her mouth works for a moment, trying to find words to explain herself and failing miserably.

"Merida."

The last time he said her name like that, she was filled with fire and desire. This time, she's filled with butterflies and soft, silly things. "A fine thing, to disrespect your queen," she whispers, unable to look up at him.

"Queen Merida. Silly lass, would ye look at me for a mo'?"

She ought to punch him right in the nose for that, hang him by his wrists outside the castle gate, and she looks up to tell him so – but then his mouth is on hers and all the noise she can make is an extremely undignified squeak. He breathes a laugh against her and she's desperate to punch him in the face.

So she does.

With her mouth.

He grunts in surprise at the force with which she kisses him back and he loses balance – they go toppling backwards and she cares not a whit. Clearly he doesn't mind it either because his hands are at her sides and in her hair and he's doing something wonderous with his teeth on her lower lip.

They end up on their sides when the ferocity dies down, facing one another, his hand practically engulfing her hip, breathing hard. Merida rests her forehead against his. "Ye came back to me," she whispers.

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