Pally_the_Second wanted to see Macintosh go to Storybrooke to find his queen.
This almost 5,000 word madness spawned.
The steady hand with which he led his horse lay at complete odds with his fuming temper. The lass might be queen of every tree and toadstool for miles around, but she were the most infuriating, stubborn, loud-mouthed hen he's ever had the displeasure of crossing a blade with.
Macintosh fumed, guiding his horse down the rocky trail. Her Royal Pain-in-the-Arse insisted on this spying nonsense - pay no mind to the truths that she had watchers for that sort of thing. Dunbroch's borders with Camelot were well-secured. Nay, Queen High-and-Mighty wanted the job done herself. She hardly said the word afore she marched her royal arse down to the stables, a bow in her hand and a quiver slung across her back. And Macintosh, he'd seen enough of the madness spewed by the King of Camelot to know he'd best accompany her - much to the queen's annoyance.
Oh, aye, he knew the queen had little fondness of him. But he, being the most accomplished of her vassals, made the most sense to watch her back, bring her home. He'd already accepted her as his Queen, he was damn sure he'd fulfill his duties to her. And that meant he wasna about to let her die from her own stubborn foolishness.
They'd split up after another argument - at this point he couldna remember what it had been about. They'd bickered about his presence on the ride to the border. Then there'd been a nasty bit about his lack of proper protection. Then some quibble o'er her skirts in a saddle. After that, it got muddled - travel at night, mayhaps? He'd had enough, declared his desire to make the work of checking the border come to completion faster, and took a different fork in the trail.
No too far, though. He had to be within hearing of a distress call.
He couldna imagine Queen Merida calling out in distress.
Thunder rumbled in the distance and Macintosh sighed. While they were downslope from the worst of it, storms moved fast in the highlands. "Merida!" he called, wheeling his horse around, back the way he came. Nothing would fetch her faster than thinking she were being disrespected. "Lass, best we no be in th' open, lest we want to add a chill t' yer royal consequence."
She must have been further from him than expected. His horse carefully picked through the path as Macintosh reached for his horn. He blew the call for status, if she was well or hurt, and no a sound came back but the thunder rolling ever closer. "Bloody hells, woman," he muttered, kicking his horse to a trot.
Cresting the ridge, he paused midway in lifting the horn to his lips once more.
The mass of purple smoke flooding the forest was decidedly no a highland storm.
Macintosh blew the warning call, praying to the gods that Merida had spotted this - this witchcraft rolling ever closer and fled to safety. For surely this were magic of the darkest kind, roiling and broiling with rage and hatred, damning all it touched. Panic threatened to grip his heart, as t'would all men with sense, but he prided himself on his uncommon sense when it came to battle. He quelled the panic with a warrior's mindset, looking to the terrain for an advantage, sizing up his enemy.
A woman's shrieking cry pierced the air, urging her horse faster.
Panic won.
"MERIDA!" Macintosh bellowed, kicking his horse into motion. Were there devils in the cursed smoke or plain death? "TO ME, LASS, TO ME!"
"Macintosh!"
She sounded close; he could barely hear the crash of her horse through leaves and sticks o'er the magic's thunder. He scanned the rise, cursing the night for blinding him further, searching for sommat to shelter them should he find her - there. A rock outcropping, the dark pit beneath signaling a cave of sorts. They could block up the entrance, possibly with one of the horses - it were a sacrifice he was willing to make to ensure her safety. He urged his horse on, heading for the trees and the sound of her voice, when the queerest thing happened:
The magic stopped.
It was as if an invisible wall stopped up its path, the smoke curling up on itself at the tree line. The back of his neck prickled, gooseflesh rippling down his skin. What wicked one had crafted this magic?
Macintosh dismounted, taking cautious steps towards the tree line. His hands itched for his sword or a bow, some sort of defense, but even he knew when he had a snowflake's chance in all seven hells of beating sommat. Magic could only be countered with magic.
"Merida!" he shouted, trying to peer through the smoke.
"Macintosh!" There - a flash of red, her great mass of curling hair bouncing through the endless purple. "Ye great bloody git, save yer own skin ye doty -"
There was a great crack of thunder, drowning out the rest of her words. He winced against the sound, waiting for his hearing to return. "Merida!"
Nothing.
He didna dare touch the invisible wall. The smoke built higher and higher behind it, shielding the trees from view. Fear pricked the back of his neck once more, his pulse hammering in his throat as he scanned the sight in front of him, and any hope of seeing another flash of his queen's infamous hair died as the purple smoke slowly turned black.
Was it poison? Some sort of cursed death enacted by the Mad King of Camelot?
"Seven bloody hells," he muttered, drawing his blade. Poison, death, or magic it may be, but his duty came first. His Queen was in there and he'd sworn to bring her home.
And walls - even invisible ones - could be broken down.
Though he's had more foolish thoughts, he canna remember a one when he opened his eyes again. The sun had risen. The world came into focus slowly, his head an aching mess, his sword hand numb. As he sat up, it came to him that he'd tried to cleave a path into the smoke. It must have been magic that blasted him several feet back, knocked him out, and shocked his hand enough that it had no feeling hours later. After a moment, he looked up, guessing it not to be quite noon yet.
Before him, the cursed smoke churned still, though it were quiet now. He fumed, picking up his blade with his free hand and resheathing it clumsily. His horse grazed nearby, thank the gods. T'would be a bit of a trek, but he knew of a witch in a nearby wood. If anyone would know a way to free the queen from this curse, a witch would.
It took several minutes of pounding on the weather-worn door of the witch's hut, but eventually he heard her grumbling inside. He stepped back and waited. "A mite late t' be payin' social calls, lad," the witch grumbled as she opened the door.
Macintosh bowed stiffly. Dusk had come and gone while he'd ventured to the witch's wood, the moon rising higher in the east. "Apologies, grand lady, but I wouldna be here without good reason."
She eyed him suspiciously for a long moment, then nodded. "Aye, ye wouldna be. Ye donna do anythin' withou' reason. Come in, lad, we'll see if Baba Senga can help ye."
He followed her in, closing the door behind him; he felt very much at her mercy, but he supposed it were necessary. She gestured for him to sit at a roughly worked table and chairs. "Now, yer searchin' for sommat," Baba Senga said, sitting with a stiffness that spoke of an ache in her joints.
"Someone, grand lady. The queen has been taken in by magic I ne'er saw afore," Macintosh explained. "I swore to protect her an' it's useless against magic I am."
The witch narrowed her eyes. "Explain the magic to me," she commanded.
He watched her face as he did; she wasna one to hide her emotions, Baba Senga. She listened with rapt attention, leaning forward more and more as he described the smoke and the effects at the tree line. Her eyebrows would come together and raise at turns as if she were watching a particularly difficult puzzle solved before her eyes. When he finished, she sat back. "A Dark Curse," the witch muttered. "Seems to be many o' them these days…"
Macintosh waited for her to reach her point. If witches were anything like scholars, they could talk for days afore reaching their point. She muttered to herself for a while; he caught words like Misthaven, snow white and evil queen, but they held no special meaning to him save for the kingdom that were several weeks journey from Dunbroch. Finally, Baba Senga looked at him. "The queen ye seek is no longer in this world," she informed him.
Once, when he was but a lad, he'd gone outside after an early-season snowstorm. He'd been determined to learn how to brave all the elements, become the finest warrior in his clan. It seemed like a good idea to learn how to build snow shelters and track animals for a hunt.
Only the snow had covered everything, including the nearby loch. He'd been but a wee thing, but the ice wasna thick enough yet to support him. He'd fallen right through, the frigid waters piercing his skin like thousands of knives.
Macintosh felt that same sensation now.
"That's no possible," he said, the words falling from numb lips.
Baba Senga frowned. "The Dark Curse is wha' makes it possible, lad. It brings everyone it touches to a land withou' magic, alters the victims' minds, destroys and freezes the kingdom it curses in time. Yer queen isna here, lad. She's gone."
"Where?"
She sighed in exasperation. "I jus' said, ye doaty lad, listen when a grandmother speaks. The land withou' magic. Tis a terrible curse indeed."
His nails bit into his palms. Unacceptable. It were unacceptable, she wasna gone, she couldna - Nay. No one and nothing took Merida the Obstinate anywhere she didna want to be. It weren't possible. Baba Senga eyed him again. "Lad, there's no anything ye can do. Truth, I'm glad ye came to me, I can pack me carpetbags and find ano'er wood. The land will run red with blood withou' her proper queen. It's too old to bother with war, I am."
Macintosh's jaw ached; he realized with a start that he'd been grinding his teeth. Nay, this were what Merida had been fighting against, protecting her people from civil war and defending her crown.
He'd sworn to bring her home safe. He'd sworn his loyalty to her and her crown.
"How?" Macintosh asked.
"Mm?" The witch had gotten up while he made his decision, puttering around the one-room shack in search of sommat. "How wha', lad?"
"How do I find her?"
"Find her? Ye canna find her, she's gone. Cursed, disappeared, clean vanished. Men, I wonder the lot of ye haven' knocked all the brains from yer skulls with all the sword bashin' and shield-throwin'," Baba Senga muttered the last bit almost to herself. "Unless ye get through the barrier betwixt kingdoms, ye canna get to her."
"Nay." Macintosh knocked over his chair as he stood. "Nay, yer a witch, ye've magic, ye know how I can get to the queen, yer just a stubborn old nag who canna be bothered to -"
The air suddenly felt very tight; the room darkened, even with the fire burning in its put. The air crackled as the witch loomed in his vision, hair wild and eyes almost glowing with power unseen. "Ye forget yerself, Lord Macintosh," she said, her voice backed with a distant echo. "Step careful, boy, lest ye wan' t' spend yer days as a toadstool."
The fear was back, this one an icy grip on his nape. He managed a quick nod and the room brightened again; it got easier to breathe. The witch went back to puttering. "If ye so desire to find the queen, ye have a test to complete."
He said nothing as she pulled an old scroll from a shelf. A test he could handle - a physical one, at least. Baba Senga handed him the scroll. "There is a river, a ha' day's journey from here. My birdies say a shellycoat is up to mischief. Ye take care o' the shellycoat, bring a shell from its coat to me, an' we'll see about yer queen."
Macintosh frowned, unrolling the paper and reading the missive. "Shellycoats are harmless."
"Aye, but this one isna up to any good. See what burr got stuck under its tail, come back."
He didna like the idea of attacking a creature that spent its time in harmless amusement. But if it got him back to the queen, he'd do whatever it took. "Aye. Consider it done."
Half a day's journey took longer when he stopped to rest for several hours. Shellycoats were no considered particularly dangerous - annoying, more like - but if it were cursed or deranged, he needed some semblance of wits about him. No telling what nonsense a mad creature could get up to.
He came upon the river sometime in the afternoon. It took some trekking - back and forth along the riverbank for an hour or more, listening for the cry of a poor drowning soul -
A giggle.
Macintosh crept through the reeds, sword drawn and at the ready. There were other giggles, enough that he wondered if he were being led astray already from his prey, when he came upon a clearing with two shadowed figures, dim light blooming from a circle of flowers. "Oh, and a fine specimen this un is."
Macintosh blinked as the clearing brightened. A sidhe, wings buzzing as she flit around his head, giggled in his ear. A small thing she was, hair as pale as moonlight and twice as bright, violet eyes hardly visible through the glow she emitted. "Eunan, looka here, this un's here f'r his true love," the sidhe practically sang, her voice as light as a summer eve's breeze; she circled him once more before buzzing back to the shellycoat standing dumbly in the clearing.
"The witch sent ye." The shellycoat's - Eunan's? - voice was slow and deep, calling to mind a river that's lost its wild youth and flows serenely to the sea. "Aye, she's never had a fondness f'r me an' Miore."
The sidhe - Miore, he presumed - huffed. "Prejudiced she is. Who says we canna have love? Sent ye to split us up, I presume."
Macintosh blinked, dumbfounded. A shellycoat and a sidhe in love? But sidhe took shines to lovely creatures, everyone were taught this from cradle to grave. And a shellycoat… This one had green skin and scales like a fish; he could smell the water-weed net woven into Eunan's coat and clanking with shells upon shells from where he stood. Macintosh couldna imagine a more different pair.
And what's this nonsense about true love?
"Baba Senga sent me," Macintosh said. "She spun a tale of a shellycoat causin' all sorts of mischief."
Eunan sighed. "Baba Senga holds an old bitterness agains' me."
Miore huffed again. "Twas nearly a century ago, I chose ye f'r yer heart, love."
There was a story here, one Macintosh had no time to listen to. He could put the pieces together, though. "So the witch sent me to murder out of heartbreak?"
"Simply put, yes," Miore said, fluttering in front of the shellycoat and taking a shell. She buzzed back to Macintosh, the shell almost as large as she. "Here. She'll be satisfied wiv a trophy, no questions asked, no until her birds send word of Eunan's survival. She's never learned, poor lass. Yer no the first nor las' I expect. Eunan is me own truest love. Senga the Righteous has ne'er gotten past her own feelings f'r me, e'ery decade or so she sends a poor lad along to off my man. Go, take this and find your own love."
She pressed the shell into his hand. Macintosh shook his head as he tucked it into his sporran. The night was warm to make his skin feel so flush. "I thank ye, great lady, but I quest for my queen, no my love."
Miore tilted her head. He couldna read her expression through the glow, but she folded her hands in front of her as she considered him. "Aye, ye havena got that far yet. But ye will. Old Miore's ne'er been wrong yet."
Macintosh tried not to scoff, he did. Merida, his true love? Madness, the sidhe must be moon-touched to think so. The lass was infuriating, a thorn in his side. A two-minute talk with her could leave a man in a rage for hours, bull-headed…
A flash of memory, the sight of her whirling in the practice yards with a blade, her curling mass of hair whipping about as she moved deftly, no missing a step as her sword turned to nothing more than a silver blur. The way she could hit the same mark with her bow three times over, blindfolded.
Aye, she was an infuriating woman, but she were poetry with a weapon in her hand. He was man enough to admit that.
Macintosh bowed shortly. "Thank ye, both o' ye."
"Gods bless yer journey, young lordling," Miore said as he turned to go. "Ye've a hard path t' walk ahead o' ye."
The light dimmed and vanished as he trekked back through the reeds. Macintosh looked behind him and saw naught but reeds and trees and the moon rising in the sky, the sidhe and her shellycoat lover nowhere to be found.
The pace infuriated him, but he and his horse needed food and rest. He would be useless indeed if he arrived in the land without magic a half-dead man, starving and sleep-deprived. It took a full day and a half to reach Baba Senga's hut once more.
Miore had been right, the witch asked no questions as she took the shell from him. She instructed him to make camp in the clearing outside and wait for her to fetch him.
He didna know what she did for the next several days. He spent his time hunting, caring for his horse, practicing his weapons. He didna think about Miore's words, about Merida being his true love. It was nonsense, truly. In all the tales, those whose love was true knew in an instant, the moment they met. The only thing he'd known when he first met Merida was that he'd rather be anywhere except the foolish contest set by the clans' lords. He remembered she'd been just as bored, possibly more because of her seat on the dias.
His lips curled into a smile, remembering the defiant curl she'd pulled from under her wimple, the way she'd glared at her mother as if daring her to scold her in public, the way her dress had perfectly matched the color of her eyes.
On the seventh day, just as he was about to lose his mind with boredom and worry, Baba Senga emerged from her hut with a potion and a parcel. "Use this t' get t' the land withou' magic," she said, pressing the bottled potion in his hand. "Go t' the border, splash it on the ground. Th' rest will come as it may. And when yer ready t' return home, use this." She tucked the parcel into his sporran. "Donna tell anyone where ye got this, else I'll have all manner of beasts and menfolk swarming me hut. I canna have that."
"Thank ye," Macintosh said, his heart hammering in his chest. Finally. Nearly a fortnight had passed, surely sommat bad must be brewing at the castle. He had to get to her. Today.
The witch flapped her hand. "Nonsense. Should be I thankin' ye. Now go, fetch your lady home."
He wanted to protest, she's no his lady, but then he thought better of it. Why else call her "my lady" or "my queen"? She wasna his, she were everyone's in Dunbroch.
The ride to the border took almost no time at all, as if his horse were Pegasus itself. The smoke were still there, curling and bubbling behind the invisible wall. He doesna know if that's a good or bad sign. He dismounted, gathering the tools he'd decided to bring with him. He set them aside, doing the quick work of unsaddling his horse and stowing the leftovers in a cache. He didna know how long he'd be gone, no sense leaving his poor horse with a burden and a bit in his mouth for days on end.
Macintosh settled his tools of choice in their sheathes and in a pack on his back, then uncorked the potion. He tipped its contents towards the ground, thought of Merida, and the world went dark.
He woke in a forest.
The trees were different, no anything he recognized from home. He heard birds, their songs unfamiliar, and animals moving in the plant litter. The trees thinned ahead, showing what he presumed to be a ridge. That would give him a vantage point, decide where to start his search for his queen.
At the top of the ridge, a valley spread below him: mostly trees, but a settlement in the distance caught his attention. He shaded his eyes against the sun; the buildings were much different than those at home, more… structured? Smooth roofs, no thatch, rigid walls that didna tilt.
If it were truly a settlement, perhaps Merida were held hostage there.
The trek to the settlement took an hour at most, but it were the queerest thing. The forest trails gave way to black rock paths lined in paints. He supposed they were for carriages, for he'd found naught else than deer trails during his trek, but it seemed a waste of magic to transport the black stones and smooth them out for a carriage's wheels.
The stone paths did make for a quicker walk into the town.
The town itself was eerie, not a soul to be found. His earlier assessment had been correct, the town seemingly much more advanced than their villages. Strange metal contraptions lined the stone paths, which increased in numbers and crossed one another at regular intervals. But no an animal to be found, nothing.
Perhaps he'd gotten it wrong.
Night started to fall as he scoured the town, from the center out into what he suspected were homes for the residents. Grand things, these houses, like small castles in their own right… Macintosh walked until he wearied, kipping under a tree until the sun rose. He feasted on dried fruits and strips of jerky, his body used to such conditions but disliking them all the same. Nothing in this town seemed dangerous, but he had to find Merida soon if he was to be in any shape to face her kidnapper.
He wished he had one of her gods-be-damned wisps, have it guide his way to her. He wished she'd find him, tell him off for taking so long.
Gods, he could already hear the list of complaints against him. He smirked. Aye, she'd be plenty pissed at him and she could ream him out all she liked so long as she were alive to do so.
He walked all day and still no signs of life, no signs of anyone at all. He came again upon the woods at the edge of the town, sitting hard on a felled tree and raking his fingers through his hair. Save for entering every gods-cursed dwelling in the town, he'd scoured the place and no sign of her. He was prepared to do it, burst into every home and tear it apart to find his queen, but the thought wearied him. He needed rest, he needed -
"Move, and yer eyes become planters for an arrow's bloom."
His heart almost stopped.
"Milady, y'would be a poor repayment f'r all I've done f'r ye," he said softly.
Leaves rustled and suddenly she was before him, arrow nocked and bowstring taut. She stared hard, her eyes darting over him, her face tense. There was a long moment - his eyes never leaving hers, her arrow pointed at his skull - and then finally her arms dropped, her bow and its arrow hitting the dirt. "Macintosh?"
Merida's voice was a whisper, disbelief etched across her face. He stood and in another moment he couldna help himself, clutching her and hugging her tight to his chest. "Gods be praised, yer safe," he whispered.
She struggled for a moment. "Seven hells, man, I'm yer queen, stop manhandling me!" Her face was flushed as he released her, her pink skin clashing horribly with her hair; she wasna a pretty blusher, Merida. "How in… anything's name did ye get here?" she asked, avoiding his gaze.
"Lass, ye wouldna believe me if I said," he told her.
She snorted. "Aye, well the week I've had - Dark Ones and havin' me heart ripped from me chest and memories being stolen - I can believe jus' about' anythin' these days."
Macintosh faltered. Her heart had been taken? But here she stood, hearty and hale, ready to sink an arrow into his eye. "Lass, what -"
She waved him off. "I'll explain later. Ye, on the other hand, how in the world did ye get here? Ye weren't cursed? And in the gods' names why?"
He gestured for her to sit. Truth, he were tired and seeing her alive had sapped all the energy from his bones. "I swore to protect ye," Macintosh said.
Merida eyed him incredulously. "And what's tha' t' do with the price o' pinecones in Perth?" she demanded.
"Merida -"
"Queen Merida."
"Milady," he said, inclining his head. Her temper was sparking up now; it made him grin to hear it. "It's why I'm here, lass. I swore to bring ye home safe. Twas no curse that brought me here, jus' an old witch's brew."
She was looking at him oddly. "Ye went to a witch."
"Aye."
"And told her t' brew you sommat that would tear ye from our world into this strange one." He nodded. Her brows came together. "With no idea how to find me."
He nodded again. She promptly boxed his ear. "Yer madder than a hatter, Macintosh," she said, fuming. "Ye've no idea the danger that jus' passed, how many times ye could have been killed had ye come a day sooner -"
It were a lovely thing, hearing her rant at him, seeing the way her temper made her eyes shine. It were simply relief, the gladness that he'd found her and she could scold him all she pleased, that made him lean forward and kiss her.
She squeaked, her body stiffening at the new sensation. When his lips moved against hers, she responded hesitantly, as if she were unsure how to go about such a thing. But after another moment she pushed back, a growl in her throat, her breath coming faster as she pressed them together.
Naturally, Her Royal Feiriness would see kissing as another battle to be won.
Not that he was complaining.
When they parted, both of them winded and resting their foreheads together, she muttered, "I'll have yer head on a spike above me gate f'r that."
"Nay, then ye couldna kiss me again," he teased and she backhanded his chest.
"Yer not that good a kisser, boyo," she taunted.
Well, he wasna one to back down from a challenge. And truth told, he much preferred this new kind of arguing.