Thank you to those of you still reading and reviewing!

Credit where it is due: This chapter contains a scene directly inspired by (some might say ripped off from) one in "The Matchmaker," though I'd be willing to bet that the idea wasn't original to whomever wrote that one, either. Now if I can just work in the Relationships Pie somewhere…

The previous afternoon he'd found Stoick learning from his new friend how to toss the caber. He'd taken to it with an ease that didn't surprise Hiccup in the slightest, though his accuracy needed a little work. Both men and the group gathered around them had laughed together like they'd known each other all their lives; one had even slung an arm around Hiccup when he joined them. Their jollity had continued into the evening around a cask of ale.

This morning he found the great hall empty. He wasn't hiding; it just seemed like a good place to get away from all the enthusiastic physicality going on outside. He'd go back out in a few minutes, after his head had had a chance to clear. Until then Hiccup sat at one of the long tables, roughing out the design carved into the stone above the thrones in his sketchbook.

"Hiccup?"

"Yeah?" he replied, finishing a stroke. That done he looked up, saw who'd addressed him, and dropped his charcoal. "I mean yes? Sorry, Your Majesty." He scrambled to his feet, wondering what she wanted of him.

The queen nodded to accept his apology. "I'd like to see the dragons, please," she said briskly, hands folded in front of her.

"Of course. Uh, right now?"

"If you're not otherwise occupied." She looked at the sketchbook on the table, open to where he'd been drawing the intertwined bears. "That's very well done."

"Thanks." He picked up the charcoal and twisted it in his fingers as he talked. "A lot of your designs aren't that different from ones we have in Berk, but they're more symmetrical and balanced here. Ours are looser, less structured." Queen Elinor was watching him thoughtfully, with a quiet intensity that made him stop fidgeting and stand up straight. He tucked the book and charcoal away. "Sorry."

"No need to apologize. Perhaps later you can show me what you mean."

"Sure. You bet. Um, shall we?"

Hiccup didn't know what he was supposed to talk about with Elinor. It wasn't just that she was the queen; she was also the mother of the girl he was trying to woo, and that was awkward enough, but more than anyone else here, she was just so foreign. There was no one, woman or man, like her on Berk, no one so self-possessed and intelligent and elegant and clean. What did they even have in common, the young Viking dragon trainer and the Bear Queen? Apart from being able to boast of fairly unique experiences with the animal kingdom, he mused, though that probably wasn't the best subject to bring up. The only other thing that came to mind was…

"How's Merida?" he blurted and then immediately cringed, his voice loud in his own ears.

The tiniest of frowns creased her forehead. "What exactly do you mean?"

"Is she okay? With all—just in general? Since we've been here she seems a little…off."

"Off how?" He felt the brunt of her hawklike gaze on him. Should've known she'd want him to be more precise. He had to come up with the right words now.

After a moment's thought he began again. "I know it's been a while since the last time we met, and trust me, I know how much can change in a few years—even just a few minutes." He wiggled his prosthetic on his next step. "But Merida was never like this. Even when she—we got in trouble and you sent her off to bed without supper—"

"Knowing full well that someone, you or her father or the boys, would smuggle something to her." Elinor's countenance was calm, but he was pretty sure it wasn't the reflection of the lake making her eyes sparkle.

He ventured a small smile before he went on, serious again. "Even then, even when she was in a terrible mood, she was never this reserved. It's weird."

"Life is not always kind," she said. It was true, but now it was also a test.

The look that crossed his face verged on frustrated. "If that's your explanation, I'm sorry, Your Majesty, but it's not good enough." He shook his head. "Yeah, bad things happen. The king lost a leg, you got turned into a bear. Maybe you're a little different now, but you're both still you. That—" He stopped and flung his hand back up the path. "—isn't Merida. I don't think life being unkind explains what happened to her, her spirit. And I want to know."

Elinor hadn't anticipated being harangued by one of her guests this morning, and certainly not this one. To be honest, it was refreshing. She pushed back. "She has matured," she informed him, leaving no ambiguity about the fact that she thought maybe other parties present had yet to do the same. "She is trying to do what's right for her people."

"Great! Good for her. But there's maturity and then there's giving up, and we both know that what's going on with her is not just maturity." He clutched at his hair, staring into the air over her head; then he looked at her and demanded, "Aren't you worried?"

"Of course I'm worried, I'm her mother! I'm not made of stone."

His hands dropped to his sides as she continued. "We tried to talk her out of this gathering, her father and I. She was supposed to be able to find a husband in her own time. The last thing we wanted to do after the last time was push her; but it seems the damage was already done. Once you know a thing, it's hard to unknow it." She resumed walking down the path, raising her skirts over a patch of mud. "And now she knows how much depends upon her choices, and that her childhood is truly over and she must become a woman and a wife and eventually a queen. I suppose in a way she's mourning."

Beside her Hiccup considered this. It made a lot of sense, really. Both of them had grown up with expectations placed on them, knowing that there were things in their futures that they wouldn't be able to avoid forever. Maybe Merida had been indulged more than he had, allowed to avoid her responsibilities for longer; or maybe in the wake of losing his leg the idea of becoming an adult had gone from something to dread to something to celebrate, since it meant he was still alive. Whatever the case, he understood having to adjust to the idea of a new life, one that you hadn't planned to live.

"What can I do?" he asked, more to himself than to the queen. She answered anyway.

"What makes you think you can do something?"

He looked at her almost curiously. "I have to try," he said, as if there was no other option.

Perhaps the stubborn set of his jaw had come around the same time as the dragon, or perhaps in the past she hadn't noticed it because next to her daughter Hiccup had seemed like a saint. The light in his eyes, the intelligence and mischief, that had always been there. Fergus was right about him—he appeared to be smart, determined, competent, and more than a little charismatic. He was one to keep an eye on.

"Any advice on what I can do?"

"I'm not certain I should say." She wouldn't admit that she herself had only the faintest idea of how to help Merida. "It would give you an unfair advantage, wouldn't it, getting advice from her mother?"

He shrugged, a ghost of a smirk on his lips. "Hey, it's not my fault nobody thought of it before me."

"Indeed." She studied him and he met her gaze. "All the same, best not to risk it. If you want to help my daughter, I believe you'll find a way."

If he muttered something under his breath about unrealistic expectations of his abilities, she chose not to hear it, instead waiting patiently, hands clasped in front of her.

"Ready, Your Majesty?"

She inclined her head and he called for Toothless, watching her reaction out of the corner of his eye. She at least had some idea of what to expect; Fergus would have told her about Toothless after their meeting. Even so, her calm demeanor as the Night Fury approached, his paws crunching quietly among the rocks, impressed Hiccup. She was completely at ease, like she knew there was nothing to fear. There wasn't, not from Toothless and not with Hiccup there, but most people still freaked out a little the very first time they saw a dragon. Maybe it had to do with the former-bear thing. He had lots of questions about that, actually.

As he introduced them the two regarded each other steadily. Queen Elinor's eyes had a distinctly assessing gleam as she took in claws and wings and Hiccup's handiwork; Toothless was eager to fly, though he sat still and deferential before the queen.

"I don't suppose you want to take a ride."

"Don't be ridiculous," she said briskly, and Toothless' head drooped. "Why do you think we came all the way down here while everyone else is busy?"

"Are you sure? It can be kind of a shock…" Toothless slapped him in the back of the head with an earflap and dropped to his stomach. In turn Hiccup hissed "Bad dragon," eyes narrowed. Elinor laughed at the pair of them and hoisted her skirts.

"I find myself rather difficult to shock in recent years," she said, a definite twinkle in her eyes now. Hiccup wished he could say the same thing.

After flying over the lake, close enough for Toothless' wings to skim the water and then at a great height, the queen requested that they return her to the castle. Their landing startled some geese and a dozing guard, but everyone else was occupied on the fields. "Thank you both," Elinor said. "It was a most enlightening experience."

"No problem. Thank you. And, uh, sorry for earlier, when I kind of spoke out of turn. I just can't keep my mouth shut when…"

"When it's something important."

"Yeah."

They shared a look, and though the queen's expression was inscrutable, he felt sure that she understood him better than he did. After a moment's silence she nodded. "I suppose there are worse traits to possess. If you'll excuse me."

Hiccup waited until she'd gone in to urge Toothless into the sky. From just inside the door she turned to watch them go, feeling an anticipation she hadn't known before bubbling through her. This gathering was shaping up to be quite interesting.

After supper the next night one of the suitors, a sandy-haired lad a few years her junior, approached. He was from the western isles, she remembered. "Your Highness," he said with a bow, "if I might be so bold as to ask a favor."

"You might ask, and I might grant it," Merida answered, sounding more regal than she felt.

"Some of us are going to have a little contest, friendly-like, and we hoped you would judge it."

"What sort of contest?"

She must've sounded more suspicious than she meant to, because he reassured her. "Music, my lady. Singing, or playing an instrument. One song per man, and you choose the winner."

"I know nothing about music. Perhaps the queen would be the judge for you."

"That's hardly the point, princess," he said, the faintest patronizing hint in his tone.

"Right. Of course." She drummed her fingertips on the tabletop in thought. It sounded fairly safe: no one was likely to get hurt, or break anything important; and she could learn something new about the participants, give the ones who weren't suited to athletic pursuits a chance to show off their talents.

"I'll do it," she said.

The lad—someone called him Col and she silently thanked whoever it was—returned to announce the contest; a chair was readied for her as the men prepared themselves. She noticed Ewan arguing fiercely with his dad. Then one by one the men stepped forward to bow and present a song. Most sang, though one produced a whistle and others played the harp or lute. At the nudge of his father's elbow in his ribs Domnall stood and sang an air; his voice was decent, certainly no worse than hers, the Doric words rippling through the hall.

As he sat there was a scuffle where the Macintoshes sat and Ewan stumbled to his feet, his face sour as he bowed and mumbled tonelessly through a song. There was sparse, uncertain applause as he bowed stiffly and returned to his seat, where he downed a mug of ale in one gulp. For the first time that she could remember Merida felt bad for him.

Col, it turned out, had a lovely singing voice. As he serenaded her with "Wild Mountain Thyme" she reckoned that his talent should have come as no surprise; doubtless he'd organized the contest in order to show himself in the best possible light. It was smart maneuvering, to be sure, and though she'd had an idea of what he was doing when he first suggested it, it left a bad taste in her mouth.

When everyone had had a go the winner was obvious. She stood and smiled at the men. "That was lovely. Thank you all so much for entertaining us."

"Who's won?" someone called.

No sense in drawing it out. "The winner is Col." Men hooted and his friends pounded him on the back as he stood, grinning, and joined her. "Erm…I'm afraid I don't know what to give you as a prize." She didn't have any ribbons handy, her purse was in her room, and she'd forgotten a handkerchief, as usual. Col smirked.

"A kiss!" a voice called. There was a chorus of "Aye!" from all assembled.

Irritation boiled in her chest. He'd planned this all out from the beginning, confident that he'd win. She wanted to reward him even less now, but she had to be fair. With narrowed eyes above an insincere smile she contented herself with the fact that he'd won this contest but maneuvered himself right out of the larger competition. Perhaps spite was no way to pick a husband, but it was awfully satisfying.

Merida took a half-step closer as Col turned his cheek. She leaned forward; he twisted his head at the last second and her lips pressed against his. His mouth opened and with a shock of horror she felt his tongue stroke her lips. Without thinking she wrenched her head back, lifting her foot at the same time and stomping down on his foot. He staggered back, muttering a curse.

The cheering quieted as she stared around the room, aware that her face was scarlet with anger. Some of the men had the brains to look guilty; Domnall's expression was black as he stared at Col. She drew herself up and addressed the room coldly. "The winner of your contest," she said, enunciation to make her mother proud, gesturing at Col. There were no cheers as he slunk back to his seat.

Conversations began again as she sat, head swirling with suppressed anger, foot tapping against the flagstones. He was lucky her dad wasn't there to see what he'd tried—he was lucky she didn't have her bow handy. She was so engrossed in imagining him as a pincushion that she didn't notice anyone approaching.

"Are y'alright, Princess?" Domnall asked. He stood a short distance away, careful not to infringe on her space; whether it was out of fear for his own personal safety or respect for her she wasn't sure, but she appreciated it.

"Fine, thank you." She tried to smile, but her hands were still shaking.

"I've a mind to sort him out," he said darkly.

As much as she'd love to see Col get a good walloping, if she didn't get to do it, no one else would, either. "No! No. He's been sorted out already."

"Lost his chance, eh?"

"You'll never have to bow to him," she said with grim satisfaction. This time when she looked at Domnall she really saw him. The anger was fading from his face; for the first time she thought she could make out the angles of his jaw, the set of his chin bristling with a short golden beard. A pink tinge crept into his cheeks as she studied him, but he didn't look away. That was new. "I liked your song."

The flush grew more noticeable, but he still didn't drop his gaze. Merida wondered how many compliments it would take before he had to look away. "Thank you. It's my mum's favorite. She used to sing it to us. Much better than I did, o' course."

"You sang it well."

That did it. Still, she was amazed at how much bolder he seemed. Maybe he'd changed more than she thought.

"My mum would sing me 'A Mhaighdean Bhan Uasal' when I was frightened."

He pulled a stool near and sat. "What were you frightened of?" he asked, and they talked about childhood fears until she felt the anger drained away, only a hollow left in her stomach.

She yawned and Domnall excused himself, wishing her pleasant dreams. As she stood a familiar mop of dark hair caught her eye. She couldn't blame anyone for leaving him there alone, but it wouldn't do to let him drink himself insensible in the middle of the great hall. Who knew what kind of mischief he would wreak—or have wreaked upon him, she added, considering what her brothers might do if they found him helpless.

"Ewan." It took a few repetitions, with growing insistence, before he looked up. His face was slack and his hair rumpled; he looked distinctly unattractive and fairly miserable. For the second time that night she found herself feeling sorry for him. By the number of empty mugs around him, in the morning he'd be adding a pounding hangover to his mental anguish. "Haven't you had enough?"

"No. I can still remember my father makin' me get up there and humiliate myself." He reached for the mug, but she slid it away. "Gi' me that. Please."

His self-pitying whine was quickly extinguishing the meager flame of her sympathy. "You'll not find any comfort there."

"I'll no' find comfort anywhere. I'm cursed, princess." He clutched his head melodramatically.

"Cursed?" she asked skeptically, sitting across from him, though it was a definite possibility. He was the type of lad who was always getting cursed in fairy stories. Maybe he'd learn a lesson from it.

"Aye, to my everlastin' lamentation." He would make it everlasting, she thought.

"How are you cursed?"

"Abou' a week before we came last time I kicked over a fairy ring. That's why I lost at the archery, and swordfightin' that Viking scoundrel, an' why I'll lose your hand now." He grabbed said hand in both of his, kissing it wetly before pressing it to his cheek. By a sober man on a soppy girl the gesture might have achieved its intended effect. As none of those conditions were met, Merida was unmoved; she shook her hand free and wiped it on her skirt as discreetly as possible.

Most people would not ascribe to the malice of fairies what could just as easily be explained by vanity and arrogance. That was what had really lost all of it, but especially her.

He sighed hopelessly. "I don' even want t'marry you," he said.

It was one thing for her to reject him, but it was another altogether for him to reject her. Her glare was lost on him. "Then why are you here?"

"My da thinks I ought to be the king. But we'd fight all the time, you an' me. You're a harridan—"

"Oi!"

"And I'm a wastrel. 'T would be no good for us, nor the kingdom. I'd be a rubbish king, no matter what Dad says."

Merida leaned back. The truth of it was no shock, but his admission of it all was. Anger against the elder Macintosh spiked within her, followed by shame that she was the cause of Ewan's distress—alright, the cause of some of his distress. Then she hoped that he'd remember all this in the morning, feeling only a little mean at the wish.

"You're right," she said soothingly. He peered at her through blurry eyes. "How selfless of you to think of the good of the kingdom before your own."

Ewan's expression brightened somewhat, though his confusion was still evident. "Aye. I am that. What you said."

"Yes, you are." She stood and waved to some men nearby. "I'll be sure to keep this conversation in mind in the coming days."

He beamed as two men helped him to his feet. "You won't be rubbish, Merida. You'll be a grand wee queen."

That remained to be seen; but now she knew for sure that she would never be a Macintosh.

Additional note:

I'm well aware that "Wild Mountain Thyme" (also known as "Will Ye Go, Lassie, Go" or "Blooming/Purple Heather") did not actually exist in the time period in question. I recommend the Corries' version, or Kate Rusby's, which is replete with melancholy beauty.