Merida shuffled down the corridor, combing fingers through her hair. She missed the days when she could wander the castle without having to make herself presentable first; it was another reason to look forward to the end of all this.

Her parents' room was empty, as she'd expected, but she heard Elinor's voice somewhere nearby. "Mum?" she called.

"In here." She found her in the library, seated next to Hiccup; their heads were bent over a book open on the table, and with a finger he traced an arc over something there. Elinor nodded before she noticed her daughter.

"Good morning, Merida. Did you sleep well?"

"Yes, thank you." But with Hiccup's eyes on her she suddenly wished she'd fixed her hair before she'd left her room. He doesn't care, she told herself, but she smoothed her hair down one last time before dropping her hands. "Good morning, Hiccup."

"Morning, Merida." He looked loads more awake than she felt.

"What are you two doing?" She took a few steps into the room.

"Hiccup was showing me the similarities between our art and Viking art. It's really very interesting."

He pushed the book around so that she could see it. It wasn't a real book, as she'd first assumed, but a sketchbook; he tapped a familiar symbol, the three bears. "That's your style, obviously," he said, and then flipped pages backward to an undulating, stylized dragon's head. "And that's ours."

As Merida bent to study them her mum rose gracefully. "I'll go see to your breakfast," she said. "Don't be too long."

"Thanks, Mum," she said absently. She flipped between the two pictures, chewing the side of her lip.

Hiccup leaned across the table to point. "See, they've both got the same kind of flowing lines. There's a lot of movement in both. But we would never have animals connected the way you do."

"How would you do it?"

He smiled and pulled the book back in front of him, turning to a blank page and picking up a charcoal stick. "Our bears—if we had them; any bears on Berk are usually pretty lost—would either be grabbing each other with their claws, maybe getting a bite in there for good measure, or they'd have their legs intertwined." She watched him sketch out the two possibilities, charcoal moving fluidly over the page, expression intent. And she was barely awake.

"I don't see how you can do all this first thing in the morning."

"Ah, you know," he said, drawing something only just recognizable as a bear, "I'm used to early starts. Toothless doesn't really believe in sleeping in." He glanced up, hair falling in his eyes and a wry smile on his face, and her heart skipped.

Her cheeks were warm. To keep him from noticing she blurted, "I remember this. You drawing."

"Really?"

"We were here. Our dads had been looking at a map."

He nodded slowly. "The atlas was taller than you."

"And you." Back then he hadn't been so much taller than she was.

"I have no recollection of that." One corner of his mouth curled up, belying his words. Merida huffed, going to a bookshelf to hide her smile.

"They left it out," she said over her shoulder before dragging down what she hoped was the right book. "And you wanted to see how far away Berk was from here." He let her heave the book onto the table and open it, lifting thick parchment pages. "There," she said, pointing, and he stood to look.

DunBroch was just visible at the bottom, with the Highlands stretching out above, Orkneys and Shetlands trailing off into the sea. There was a cluster of islands further out, the archipelago that Berk was a part of. All of it, mainland and islands alike, was labeled with the names of the tribes or clans that lived in each area; but someone had also drawn two figures on the map, a curly-haired and crowned girl and a boy wearing a horned helmet. The boy's body was smudged slightly, with half of a fingerprint in ink next to his head.

He smiled down at the people. "I was worried that your mom was going to yell at me for that. I was always more scared of her than of your dad."

"She wouldn't have yelled at you, she'd have yelled at me. You were safe, since you were a guest."

"Now you tell me," he said, and she chuckled. He knocked his shoulder gently against hers. "If it makes you feel better, I always felt bad whenever you got in trouble for anything. Well, almost always."

"That does make me feel better."

"Yeah?"

"No." She grinned and he rolled his eyes.

Before she could close the book he grabbed a nearby pot of ink with a pen stuck in it and quickly sketched a Night Fury by the young Hiccup, then added a brief runic inscription. "Here there be dragons," he said with no small measure of satisfaction.

Merida straightened and put her hands on her hips. "Going to get that tattooed over your heart, are you?"

"Who says I don't have it already?" he challenged coolly. It was convincing enough to make her wonder.

"You don't!"

Hiccup raised an eyebrow. "Don't I?"

"You can't."

He shrugged. "If you're sure." She narrowed her eyes and stared at him for a long moment; then, in a move he never would have predicted, she lunged.

Though he hadn't had much experience there, he wouldn't have expected a woman tugging at his shirt to be quite so terrifying. "What are you doing?" he squeaked, trying not to overturn the chairs as he backed away.

"Show me," she demanded, stalking after him. "If you've got a tattoo—which you haven't—then prove it."

"Or you could just trust me?"

"Now where would be the fun in that?"

He maneuvered the table between them, and she leaned against it, palms flat on the wood. For a moment the obstacle kept her at bay, though she probably wouldn't hesitate to climb over it if it meant getting what she wanted. Merida had a feral grin on her face, one that was plenty familiar—years ago that look had almost always preceded something fun or forbidden or both. Now, as they stared at each other, he saw her expression change: her eyes widen as if with some sudden realization, the grin slip away. He started to ask what was wrong when her tongue darted out to wet her lips. Oh. The air seemed to thicken.

Something was making her dizzy. One minute they were remembering their childhood together, laughing over some foolish thing like they were children still; the next he was catching her staring at him, his expression first concerned and then aware, like he'd figured something out that she hadn't yet. Her blood was fizzing inside her veins; she felt short of breath and almost achy. She straightened slowly, hands dropping to her sides as she tried to control the nonsensical trembling that threatened to overcome her.

"Merida," he said, quietly, and she did tremble.

Damn the table between them. If it weren't there… She didn't know what would happen, but she wouldn't mind finding out.

Into the charged stillness of the library Harris popped his head. "Mum says come have your breakfast, Merida." She didn't move, staring at Hiccup until Harris shouted impatiently, "Merida!"

She tore her gaze away from Hiccup and walked to the door, her legs moving automatically, Harris already scampering back down the hall. Don't stop, she told herself; if she paused even a moment, if she looked back over her shoulder and saw him watching, the way she desperately wanted to, the way she hoped he was, she'd never break free.

As she mechanically spooned porridge into her mouth, she didn't know if she'd want to.

"I think I have a problem."

Stoick had a good idea what his son's imagined problem was. He wasn't sure he'd be able to help—he'd been clueless about this sort of thing himself, even with Viking women; foreign ones were a whole different kettle of fish altogether. But at the very least he could listen, and maybe, with the help of the gods above, he'd be able to say something that wouldn't scar the boy for life. "What problem's that?"

"I think I like Merida."

Got it in one. Stoick mentally patted himself on the back. "I see. Why do you only think you like her?"

"I don't know. At first she wasn't acting like herself, or not like I remembered her, and I just wanted to figure out what was different. Now she seems back to normal, I guess, but it's still weird."

"Why?"

Hiccup hoped he wasn't blushing as he admitted, "She doesn't…look at me the same." Not the same as she used to, and not the same as she looked at anyone else. "And I don't know if she likes me, and if she does if it's just because of the dragon thing. If I like her and she picks someone else…" It would hurt. His own hurt wasn't the important thing, though, or wasn't supposed to be. He tried to remember his resolution to help her, to support her no matter her decision. It was somewhat more difficult now that he had a more vested interest in that decision. But it would be okay. It wasn't like he loved her or anything.

He was quiet for long enough that Stoick took it as his cue to dispense some fatherly wisdom. If only he knew what that was. He should have talked about this with Gobber before they left; he would know what to say right now. Maybe. "My advice is for you to do what you do best."

Hiccup looked blank. "What, fall over?" he deadpanned. "Make a fool of myself and nearly burn something down in the process?"

"No, you idiot. Find the answer. Once you know for sure how she feels, you'll be able to figure out how to proceed."

"How do I find out how she feels?"

Why did his son insist on overcomplicating things? Stoick threw his hands into the air. "Odin's beard, you're supposed to be the smart one! You might start by asking her."

Merida had to face facts. There were only a few days left; she had, perhaps unconsciously and perhaps not, narrowed her focus to two of the suitors; and she had no idea what it might be like to be married to either of them, or even what they thought of the idea. She hadn't learned the answers to those final questions through anything they'd done thus far—picnics and rides and target practices may have revealed some insights into their characters, but they didn't tell her much about what would happen in the months and years after her wedding. It seemed the time had come for a more direct approach.

She found him in the courtyard with Lord MacGuffin, speaking quickly in Doric. When they saw her they paused and bowed. She nodded back and said, "Domnall, would you care to join me for a walk?"

"Of course, my lady." He nodded to his father and went to Merida's side. She briefly contemplated going into the kitchen garden; it would be a pleasant place to talk, buzzing with bees and scented by the herbs and flowers, and there was a shady spot in one corner where she and her brothers had napped as children. But if she wanted Domnall to talk openly, they'd need significantly more privacy and quiet than a place so close to the house afforded. Together they walked to a spot overlooking the loch.

She took a deep breath of fresh air to steady herself before she began. "I wanted to talk to you about plans." He waited, so she went on, choosing her words carefully. It wouldn't do to lead him to expect more than she was ready to promise. "I was wondering what you were…expecting, once you'd married."

"Expecting?"

"What you thought your life would be like." That was nice and noncommittal.

"Happy, I reckon. And peaceful, with any luck. I've already got a few cattle of my own, and a small house to live in with my family. When my dad's time comes I'll be the laird and we'll move into the big house." She marveled at such a long speech for him.

"Are you looking forward to being the lord?"

"I won't mind doing it, but I don't particularly want to. Too much talking to people, ye ken." He looked at her searchingly. "Suppose a queen has to do a lot of that."

"I suppose she does," Merida replied distantly, thoughts far away in MacGuffin territory.

Peaceful and happy. She should be able to be content with that, and living in Domnall's house and helping tend to his herd of shaggy cows. She was a hopeless cook, but maybe his mother would be able to recommend someone who could help her. Cows and children and a quiet life.

He turned to face her, and she forced herself to meet his earnest gaze. "I'd be a good husband," he said, though she didn't need to be told. "I'd do my duty by y—my wife. Respect her, and provide for her, and protect her. I hope she'd care for me, and give me children, but I'd make no demands of her, or force her to do anything against her will."

It was more than she deserved, to be taken care of and adored by a good man. And no matter how she chose, she felt fairly certain that neither he nor his father would turn his back on the king. That was some comfort, at least.

"You're a very kind man, Domnall," she said, looking away to stare out at the hills. "I've no doubt you'd make a wonderful husband, and a good lord over your clan."

"Thank you," he said, pleased. Try as she might, she couldn't think of anything else to ask, and nothing that would calm the churning in her mind and her stomach. So the silence between them stretched on, feeling like a nettle's sting against her nerves.

The encounter made her want to hide in her room with a plate of cakes for the rest of the day, but time was running short. After some searching she found Hiccup in the forge, talking with the smith. When she entered he was sitting on a stool, his prosthetic leg on a worktop as the smith studied it. "Hi, princess," Hiccup said when he saw her.

The smith looked up and bowed quickly. "Your Highness. How may I be of service?"

"I was wanting to talk to our guest," she said, "but if you're busy, I can wait. I don't want to interrupt."

"Of course you're not interrupting, my lady."

"I'll bring you those plans later, Master Davey," Hiccup said, picking up his leg and hunching over as he reattached it, the intricacies of the process hidden by the counter.

The smith nodded. "At your leisure."

Hiccup stood and bounced slightly on his feet. "Thanks for the oil."

"You're welcome." The two shook hands, and Hiccup followed Merida out of the forge.

"Where to, princess?"

"Don't call me that." She scowled, but he didn't seem bothered.

"I didn't want to seem too familiar." He jerked his head toward the door of the forge. "You don't want a big, strong guy who knows how to use heavy objects thinking you're disrespecting someone important."

It made sense when he put it that way. Things often made sense when he was around.

Trusting that he would follow, she hurried through the courtyard and out the gate, no real destination in mind. He loped along a step or two behind, doubtless out of the deference he thought it proper to show. Sure enough, once they'd crossed the bridge he caught up and walked by her side to the edge of the wood. She slowed as they stepped over the familiar invisible demarcation that meant they could no longer be seen by the guards atop the wall.

Without looking at him she broke the quiet, asking quickly, "What do you think would happen? If we got married?" Her face felt hot; she was sure it was getting unattractively splotchy.

He smirked and looked sideways at her. "Are you asking?"

"You to marry me? No!" Now she knew her face was splotchy. "I was just…wondering."

"I don't know," he said, thwacking at a branch. "There'd be a lot of stuff we had to figure out, I guess. Like where I'd—we'd live. And I'd have to go back to Berk and get the academy worked out. But other than that, what every day would be like, I don't know." He thought it could be nice, though, living here, soaring above the lake on Toothless' back, visiting with the king and queen, spending time with Merida. Building a life with her, exploring and adventuring and studying together, making her laugh, sharing her bed to get those heirs; warmth pooled in his stomach at the idea of having all that with her.

He coughed a little to clear his throat. "What do you think it'd be like?"

It would be strange. Wouldn't it? They were friends; you didn't marry your friend. A little voice in the back of her mind told her that it would probably be much less strange than she expected. "Like it is now, maybe," she mused. "I'll still have my lessons and duties—not even being married could get me out of those for long. But someone else will be with me for much of the time." If marriage meant at the very least having to spend a lot of time with one other person, it would only make sense to marry someone you didn't mind having around.

When she stole a glance at him, his expression was serious and thoughtful, his eyebrows drawn together. She dropped her gaze when he looked down at her. "This doesn't seem fair," he said. "How can they give you two weeks and expect you to choose?"

"They've given me more than enough time to find love on my own. Now I need to make a choice."

"I'm pretty sure that's not how love works."

"Have you ever been in love?"

He answered slowly, slowly enough for dread to creep down her spine. "I was in love with the idea of someone for a long time."

"What happened?"

She hated the far-off look on his face as he answered. "Nothing. And everything. We've known each other our whole lives, and she was never actually mean to me, not like some of the others. Then this happened—" He gestured down at his leg. "—and I think she thought I deserved her. Like, as a reward. Not that she still didn't make me work for it," he added in a mutter.

"I was okay with it—more than okay, believe me—for a long time. But after a while…" He shrugged. "I kind of felt like the village had sacrificed her to me. Here, you saved us all, take this girl you've always wanted. Don't get me wrong, I love her. She's amazing, and we get along great. But she's never been in love with me, and I'm not in love with her."

There was absolutely no reason for Merida to feel so relieved.

"It makes me hate this so much more. I don't want you to give up your chance to be happy. Especially not because of me." He shook his head.

A few days ago she'd thought he was like all the rest of them, only interested in her for glory and riches, for the power and privilege that being married to a princess would bring. What a fool she was. Yes, he was easily one of the most accomplished of the suitors, if his father's story was to be believed; and unlike the others, he had evidence of its truth, in his new leg and in the dragons. And yes, he was bonny, all lithe and wiry, with that smile and the prettiest eyes she'd ever seen. But his eyes saw things that others missed, things about her that she'd hoped to keep hidden behind a veneer of proper posture and pretty speech, and when he grinned there was still the gap between his front teeth that she'd wished she had when she was eight, to spit raspberry pips through. Talking with him was as easy as it had ever been. And he wanted her to be happy, even if it meant she married someone else.

Merida bit her lip. Then she reached out, more hesitantly than she had to touch a dragon for the first time, and caught his arm.

"You don't—"

"I want to." Before she could second-guess herself, she rose onto her toes, screwed her eyes shut, and kissed him.

For a second he stood stock still and her heart sank. Then he tilted his head just so and pressed his lips to hers more firmly.

Nice didn't even come close.

Note:

Norse art, particularly the Oseberg style, had a motif called the "gripping beast." The Lingsberg runestones are also a good example of the general style that Hiccup and I were trying to describe.