To the guest reviewer: The story is already complete, and I won't be making any significant changes to it. I hope you keep reading nonetheless.

Thank y'all for continuing to read! I enjoy this chapter, and I hope you will, too.

For once Ewan had understated something. The horse was beautifully fast, legs flying beneath him. Angus hadn't a chance of beating him as they raced toward the edge of the forest. From this angle he looked solid, but it was barely past dawn and the light none too strong yet; she'd have to get a better look at him to see if he had any flaws.

"Told you," Ewan said, grinning, when she caught up.

"Aye, you did." She knew she was smiling back, but it was out of admiration for his horse.

They walked just outside the canopy of trees toward the loch. "We've one of his sisters as well," Ewan told her, and Merida's eyes widened as she imagined the offspring Angus might sire out of a horse like this, how strong and well-proportioned and fast it could be.

"Is she—" She didn't get a chance to finish the question before he started answering.

"Full-blooded sister, two years younger, and just as fast. Lighter coat so far, but she might darken a bit yet."

She nearly sighed dreamily at the thought. Then reality crashed down upon her when he added, "She'll be a wedding present for my bride."

"Lucky girl." She wondered what other things she'd be promised by the suitors: lands, gowns, houses, jewels? She could think of nothing, not even the sister of the fastest horse she'd ever seen, she'd be willing to trade her hand for.

Then again, she thought, as she swung into the saddle and sped back toward the castle, Ewan and Angus struggling to catch up, he was awfully fast.

"Anything?" Stoick asked.

From their current vantage point they could see most of the activities spread out over a wide grassy lawn, dotted with tents and crisscrossed with ropes marking off competition areas. Unsurprisingly, there didn't seem to be any dragon-related games. He certainly wouldn't be able to lift one of those logs, let alone toss it—come to think of it, lots of the activities seemed to involve throwing heavy things. That was really more his dad's territory. Maybe he'd have some luck with the archery, but he wasn't counting on it. "Nope."

He heard his dad stifle a huff. "Come on, maybe we'll find something." They made their way into the crowds, observing the various competitions, the dancing and the piping, sampling treats as they walked. A few of the Scots stared at them curiously, but there was little hostility toward the foreigners.

As soon as he heard the clash of sword on sword, Hiccup knew his dad would find the source of the noise. It was inevitable. He followed Stoick as he made his way to a roped-off square where two men were fighting, swinging broadswords viciously as a small crowd cheered them on. A rack of unsharpened swords stood waiting to be used, and Stoick stopped next to it and smiled.

Hiccup shook his head. "No."

"Yes."

"Dad, no!"

"Hiccup, you have to do something," his dad insisted. "Show you're willing. It's this or the stone throw."

Much as Hiccup hated to admit it, Stoick was right; it was his best chance not to embarrass himself. Astrid's warning that he not make the Hooligans look bad rang in his head and he hoped that all that sparring with the others back home had taught him a thing or two. Hiccup ran a hand over the pommel of one of the swords before he hefted it. It was a little heavier than he was used to, but not insurmountably so. He swung the blade a few times, hoping the slightly different balance wouldn't pose a problem. Given enough time he could work out how to adjust his thrust and center of gravity to account for the discrepancy, but he didn't really have that time right now.

"Or you could just take mine," Stoick suggested mildly. It was perhaps a bit too long for Hiccup, but it felt right—the leather wrapped around the grip smelling faintly of salt air and smoke and molded to his dad's hand. He could work with that.

The pair in the ring ended their match and slapped each other on the back amicably. No one took their place immediately; Hiccup started to look around for some kind of schedule or sign-up sheet or official in charge.

"Looking for a fight, Viking?" a voice demanded behind him. The young Macintosh stood at his ease, arms crossed over his bare chest and a large sword sheathed at his hip. Some paces behind him a group of girls were gathered, watching keenly and whispering to each other.

"More for a little friendly competition." Hiccup didn't mean to say things that could and did get him in trouble; sometimes they just slipped out. Like when he raised an eyebrow at the smirking Highlander and remarked, "I think that leaves you out."

To his credit, Macintosh didn't stab him then and there. His smirk turned feral, and with exaggerated slowness he drew his sword. "Let's see how you fight without your dragon to protect you."

Stoick patted him on the shoulder as Hiccup entered the ring. More people arrived to watch as Macintosh spun his sword ostentatiously, shaking his hair back as he fell into a fighting stance; for all his posturing, he knew what he was doing. That only made him cockier, like he thought there was no way a one-legged barbarian could possibly beat him. The look of condescension on his face was maddening. Hiccup couldn't help it—he wanted to beat this guy.

Their swords met and Hiccup felt the ringing all the way through his arm. He dodged a slash and caught the follow-through on his blade. Macintosh was good, that much was clear; he was quick and light, attacked easily. There wasn't much hope that Hiccup could tire him out, but there had to be some way to beat him.

It came to Hiccup quickly. Macintosh's full attention wasn't on the fight; his peripheral vision scanned the crowd around them, looking, Hiccup assumed, for Merida. He wanted her to see him fight. Hiccup had to be able to take advantage of that somehow. When he saw a flash of red hair behind his opponent he struck on one side, steering Macintosh into a turn, watching his eyes. They lit up as he caught sight of her, and he turned his head just enough to give Hiccup the opportunity he needed. He brought his sword down hard against the other's on his unguarded side, and then, as he stumbled, drove a shoulder into his chest. Macintosh lurched backwards and Hiccup swung up against his sword, landing a strike close to the hilt that broke his grip on the weapon. The wrench of being unarmed threw him off-balance and he wheeled his arms, catching Hiccup a solid blow to the face. Through the blur of pain he saw Macintosh sit down hard, a disgusted expression on his face.

Hiccup stopped abruptly, letting his sword point drop, and blew out a breath. Something warm was trickling from his nose; he wiped his fist under it gingerly and saw a smear of blood on his hand. Then he offered his clean hand to Macintosh. It was a relief when he took it and hauled himself up.

Hiccup shook the hand. "Nice job," he said sincerely. For more than a minute it had looked like Hiccup was going to lose, and badly; he wasn't afraid to admit that when it came to technique, Macintosh was the better swordsman. "You gotta show me that two-handed overhead—"

Macintosh jerked his hand away and snatched up his sword. "Clean yourself up," he said shortly before stalking off, stiff-legged. The crowd parted to let him pass and then started to disperse, some of them clearly disappointed that the fight wasn't continuing. More than a few of these Highlanders were as belligerent as the Vikings. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Stoick hold his palm out, grinning as a man next to him dropped a coin into it; he caught his son's eye and flipped the coin with a wink. Then he turned and grabbed the man, slinging an arm around his shoulders and almost certainly inviting him to share a drink. That was one way to make alliances, Hiccup guessed with a brief smile. He wasn't doing so good on that front at the moment. He didn't blame Macintosh for being angry—Hiccup wasn't sure if the body check was considered fair here, though anyone on Berk would have seen it coming a mile away. He ran a hand through his hair, pushing sweaty strands back from his forehead, leaning on his dad's sword as he caught his breath.

"Alright?" Merida asked from beyond the barriers. He straightened and nodded. "Come on, then. I'll get you something for your face."

He turned to follow the princess. "I think my face is beyond help," he said, resigned but cheerful, swinging the sword up. A group of lasses meandered by, making eyes at the Viking warrior, whispering and giggling as he passed; Merida shot a glance sideways at him, but he seemed oblivious to the attention, unaware of how he looked, wearing that contented expression, in spite of—or maybe because of—the blood and dirt streaking his face, hair stuck up at the front, sword resting easily on his shoulder… The weird double-vision struck again and she remembered a boy with a purple tongue and red scratches crisscrossing his face after a run-in with a bramble bush. She knew they were the same person, but if anyone had told her years ago that that boy would grow up to use a sword the way this man did, she wouldn't have believed it. And though the boy then had had a nice smile, she certainly wouldn't have believed that his looks would one day turn girls' heads. She swallowed and stared resolutely forward.

"Ewan is very good," she said. "It's not often someone manages to beat him."

"I'm surprised I did," he admitted.

"How did you?" She chanced a look up at him then.

"If he'd had all his attention on the fight I'd have lost. But he was looking at you instead." Left at that it made it sound like he was so smitten that her presence distracted him. Hiccup should say something else, talk himself up. He wasn't supposed to be making the other suitors sound good.

But Merida didn't simper and sigh at the revelation; she shook her head. "Ewan Macintosh thought he couldn't be beaten, and he wanted to make sure I saw him win. Now I've seen him lose instead and he'll be off sulking somewhere. He's not a gracious loser."

"I thought maybe it was just me." A trickle of sweat had escaped his earlier ministrations and made it to the corner of his upper lip; he stuck out his tongue to lick it away. Her throat felt dry and tight, and she cleared it gently.

"It's not just you," she said, but the words rang false in her head, for reasons she didn't want to think about.

Without saying anything further she led him into the tent that had been set up to attend to medical necessities. It was rarely used—there were few serious injuries during the games, and fewer competitors who wanted to admit to needing help. Even now it was empty, the attendant off doing something more interesting. Merida gestured for him to sit on the table, and as he hopped up she gathered a cloth and a basin of clean water. There was no real reason for her to be attending to him personally; there was no reason for him to need anything but a bucket of water over his head and a quick scrub. She hadn't thought twice about helping him, though, and she knew that she wouldn't have done a thing if it had been Ewan with the bloody nose, even if he hadn't done something to deserve it.

When she turned back Hiccup was swinging his legs, curiously studying the tent poles. He stilled his feet as Merida stood to one side, setting the bowl of water on the table beside him and wringing out the cloth. When she moved to dab it against his face Hiccup suddenly held up his hand between them, stopping her short. "I can do that," he said, feeling strangely panicky.

"So can I."

"Here, give me that. You don't want to get blood on you."

She raised an eyebrow, hand and cloth hovering in the air. A drop of water slid down the side of her hand. "You think I'm worried about that?"

"Of course not, but—" Her hand darted forward and connected with his nose and he hissed in pain. "Ow."

"Sorry!" Hiccup squinted up at her contrite expression. With deliberate slowness she moved again, guiding the cloth to wipe away the blood and dirt streaked under his nose. She was concentrating, being careful not to hurt him any further, and it was just too odd for him to let it go on.

"Nah, don't apologize. Vikings love pain. You should probably punch me in the face again."

She frowned for a moment until she saw the curve of his lips, so close to her hand, and realized he was joking. Her frown faded. "Maybe I should. The worse you look, the better Ewan will feel."

Hiccup grinned. "You're right. So come on." He squared his shoulders, cracked his neck, and pointed at his face. "Hit me."

She dropped the rag into the basin and shook her head, a smile playing at her lips. "I don't think you want me to do that. My dad taught me to punch," she warned him. "I'll probably break your nose."

"That's alright. I think I'm the only guy my age who's never had one." Somehow both Astrid and Ruffnut had escaped that particular injury. How Ruff avoided it was a mystery; she'd broken Tuff's enough times, but apparently he was kind enough, or cruel enough, knowing them, not to return the favor. "They'd be so impressed if I came home with a broken nose."

She laughed then, shaking her head. "You Vikings. Always more brawn than common sense."

"We really should have followed through on that plan to switch places."

At eight years old, their plan had been simple: she would hide aboard one of the ships, while he would hole up in the castle. Neither would reveal themselves until it was too late, though they'd argued about when exactly that would be. Merida had been confident that both sets of parents would accept their replacement child with resignation at the worst and joy at the best. "Just think how much you could have learned from my mum."

"I know. And Stoick would have been thrilled to have you as a daughter."

She waited for him to suggest ever-so-subtly that Stoick could still have her as a daughter-in-law and her stomach clenched in anticipation of it. After a pause, all he said was, "I don't know if I could deal with the kilts, though."

Relief coursed through her like cool water and she laughed helplessly. He looked pleased and went on, "Yeah, you can laugh. You would've gotten off way easier. You wouldn't even have to wear a dress until you got married, practically, and you never would if you were a shieldmaiden. You would have made a much better Hooligan than I ever was."

He's here to court you, she reminded herself, he'll flatter you so you think well of him. She couldn't entirely believe it, though, not about him. Nothing he'd said or done so far felt false. She'd pay closer attention in the future; for now she let herself enjoy the warmth in her chest at the appraisal. "I wouldn't have done what you did, though. Saving the dragon instead of killing it and all."

"Why not?" He cocked his head at her, eyes glittering. "You went against tradition here, so what makes you think you wouldn't have there too?"

Hiccup and his questions, she remembered, dropping her eyes. She suspected that now he'd be even more likely to go searching for answers than he'd been before. Well, she knew a thing or two about stubbornness herself. She peeked up. "Hiccup? Do you think we could—"

Her request was interrupted by a woman calling her name in the near distance. Merida cursed quietly but fervently; she colored a little when she caught Hiccup's eyebrows raised at her words. "Sorry. It seems I have to go."

"No problem." She paused at the entrance to the tent, and he said, "If you change your mind about wanting to punch me, I'll be around." He gave her half a smile before she left. When she'd gone Hiccup sighed, wiped the blood and dirt from his hands, rinsed and wrung out the cloth, and then went to find his dad.

Notes:
Fun (but not particularly consequential) fact: Both Hiccup and Young Macintosh are left-handed.

I saw this picture and I knew I had to make Hiccup bleed a little. Take that as you will. julialost dot tumblr dot com /post/ 56641477825/ i-i-just-like-colors-ok