Thank you guys for the reviews, favorites, follows, and recommendations. I'm so glad you're enjoying the story, and I hope you like this chapter!
Be forewarned: this chapter takes a brief detour into T+/M- territory. It's nothing too scandalous, but it's there.
Stoick left at first light, heading back to Berk for some things Hiccup might need in the following days, clothes and a barrel of mead among them; he'd return in time for the ceremony. If Hiccup thought that the hard part was done once Merida picked him, or that he'd actually get to spend time with his fiancée before the wedding, he'd been wrong.
So, so wrong.
He spent his mornings with the queen, cramming years of royal etiquette into his brain: when to stand up and sit down, which nobles were which and what to call them, how to bow and dance. He tried to argue that his leg would keep him from dancing, but Elinor merely fixed him with a look that communicated how much nonsense she knew his excuse was. Hiccup dutifully danced with a parade of female servants, though despite his own doubts it didn't take long before he could get through a song without having to wince and apologize.
The afternoons he passed with the king and the princes, supposedly talking about history and military tactics but really doing a lot of swordfighting and flying. Fergus wasn't entirely happy with the idea of his daughter getting married, but it seemed like more of a generalized upset than anything against Hiccup himself. Then again, a few of the bruises he got suggested otherwise. The triplets were madly in love with Toothless; if Hiccup didn't watch out, they would feed him sweets until he was sick.
At any other time he wouldn't have minded all the lessons, but more than anything else he wanted time with Merida. Just to make sure she was still okay with it all, with him. If he found himself with nothing to do, there was no guarantee that she'd be free at the same time; she was as busy as he was, if not busier. And when he saw her at dinner they were surrounded by her family, which didn't really strike him a good time to ask if she regretted her decision.
Whatever other time he had free was spent on making Merida's wedding present—the ring didn't count, since she already had it. Besides, it'd been quick work. Her real present would be smithing that would make Gobber proud. He definitely owed Master Davey a barrel of something strong for letting him invade the forge.
When the boys were born Fergus had been proud, though understandably surprised. It wasn't often that a mother was delivered of triplets without any of them succumbing; Elinor had always been just as healthy and strong as he was, though, and their bairns were born fighters. He'd been able to cradle the three of them cupped in his two hands, their heads already sporting reddish fluff.
But however much he loved his troublesome sons, it was his firstborn who'd stolen his heart. He'd been wonderstruck on first holding Merida, who'd squalled until her daddy whispered hello; then she'd quietened, gazing at him with enormous eyes the color of the loch, and he'd smiled gently through the tears welled up in his eyes. The two were perfectly matched, to Elinor's frequent despair.
And now he had to give her away.
"She's no' my wee lassie anymore, Elinor."
In the morning his girl would marry. Even knowing that she and her new husband would be staying in a suite in the castle, even liking the lad as much as he did, Fergus still wasn't looking forward to the ceremony. He'd known this day would come eventually, but that foreknowledge didn't make the act any easier.
"She'll always be your wee lassie," Elinor assured him. "Just because she's getting married doesn't mean she'll stop loving us as well."
"Aye, but it won't be the same." He sighed gustily. "Do you think she loves him?"
"If she doesn't already, she will. And the same for him, if I'm not mistaken."
"You rarely are." He didn't disbelieve her, but he seemed petulant all the same.
Though Merida hadn't confided in her dad the way she had in her mum, Elinor had told Fergus all the things she'd said about her decision, and all the things she hadn't had to say, the smiles and blushes and far-off looks her mother had seen. "She's chosen for herself, not just for the kingdom."
"I just want her to be happy."
Elinor wrapped her arms around her husband firmly. "I know, love. And I truly believe she is, and will be. But our girl's grown. We must trust in her and believe in her. And him."
Fergus laid his cheek against the top of Elinor's head, his arms encircling her. He let her tranquil strength buoy him, as it had done so many times before; but a tear slid from his eye nonetheless.
The ceremony itself passed in a blur. All he would remember was Merida, gorgeous and glowing, facing him, smiling as he pledged himself to her, sealing the marriage with a kiss just a touch too enthusiastic to be proper. She liked the present, too, a long Viking-style dagger complete with a tooled leather scabbard; just beneath the hilt he'd etched in runes I was made for Merida by her husband Hiccup.
The feast that followed felt as familiar as he could have hoped. There were enormous amounts of food, juicy roasts and fine white bread and tender vegetables; Toothless had even been served a pile of fresh-caught fish, though for the sake of everyone else's appetites he ate outside the walls before joining the other revelers in the great hall. Merida encouraged Hiccup to try the haggis, and chortled at the face he made when he took a big bite. Once he'd choked it down he glared at her, but she just smiled sweetly and patted his hand. As she did, he twisted it and caught hers, clasping it gently, and she turned pink. Then, impulsively, he raised their hands and brushed his lips against her knuckles, looking up into her eyes, noting with satisfaction the way she flushed completely, the way her eyelids fluttered, the way her fingers tightened around his.
After the dinner was cleared away there was dancing and drinking and laughter. Merida danced with anyone who asked, including Stoick; Hiccup nearly spat a mouthful of ale across the table at the sight of his father leaping almost in time with the music. At the end of his dance with his new mother-in-law, she beamed at him as proudly as if he were her own son.
Before she knew it midnight had passed and everyone was standing, drinks held aloft, and her dad was making a toast to their wedding, the alliance, and generations to come. Merida forced herself not to react, even when she caught sight of Ewan Macintosh smirking behind his mug. Her parents embraced her, Stoick smiled beatifically, and even her brothers deigned to kiss her cheeks. Then a pair of chambermaids bearing candelabra preceded her up the stairs; as she climbed a familiar heavily accented voice called, "Three cheers for the Princess Merida!" and the hall rang with huzzahs.
The maids ushered her to a room that seemed miles away from her own. A small fire was lit in the hearth; on a table near it was a basin of water and a towel, while another table held a pitcher, probably full of the honey wine they were supposed to share, and two goblets. As the maids moved around the room she tried to look at anything in the room but the bed; when one of them began to pluck at her dress, the other standing by with a richly-embroidered nightgown, she batted them away and willed her stomach to calm. Eventually they gave up trying to undress her and departed with curtseys. No sooner had the door closed behind them than it opened again and Hiccup—her husband—came in. He looked lost and hesitant and more handsome than ever.
Then from across the room he smiled, the same shy look he'd given her a decade ago as he'd stumbled from a longship onto the dock down at the loch, the smile that held the hope of friendship. All these years and he was still as quick and kind as he'd been as a child, though now he was so much more: taller, stronger, more knowledgeable, more experienced.
The realization of that last change nearly overwhelmed her. It was obvious, so obvious all of a sudden, that the first time he'd kissed her hadn't been the first time he'd kissed anyone, that he'd had far more practice than she had. The question of if he had ever gone further than kissing back in Berk stirred up a venomous churning in her stomach, and she wrapped her arms tightly around her middle to calm the feeling. He noticed, of course, and frowned in concern. To hide her growing apprehension she turned to the table and willed her hands to be steady as she filled a goblet halfway.
Over her shoulder she asked, "Wine, my lord?" The voice sounded controlled, formal, nothing like her own.
She hadn't heard him move but he was suddenly beside her, a hand on her elbow turning her gently to face him. "It's just me, Merida," he said, voice soothing as his eyes searched her face. "I'm still me. I'm not a lord or a prince or whatever they want to call me; I'm still just Hiccup. And I'm pretty sure you—" He squeezed her arm gently, and she felt the warmth of his hand even through the fabric of her sleeve, and wondered distantly how his callused fingertips would feel against the soft skin underneath. "—are still the girl who fought off a castle full of warriors to protect her mom, and who snorts when she laughs too hard, and who once tricked a poor confused Viking boy into trying to milk a pig."
"I forgot about that," she said, feeling lighter.
"I didn't. The pig sat on me."
She'd roared with laughter as he squirmed out from beneath the sow, who had not yet been full-grown and posed little real danger to him. He'd been absolutely covered in muck; when she wouldn't stop laughing he'd flung a handful at her, only managing to splatter the hem of her skirt.
Then she'd reached down and pulled him to his feet, led him by one filthy hand to a trough and scraped the biggest clumps of mud from his face before gleefully ducking his head under the water. That time his retaliation had been much more effective; her dress had been soaked and muddy water ran down his face as the young pig keeper had escorted them back to the castle.
He was as indignant now as if it'd happened yesterday and she laughed, finally looking up at him. His eyes glittered with amusement and a host of other emotions she couldn't work out, at least not yet, in their depths.
She offered him one of the goblets. "Since it's already poured, would you like some wine, Hiccup?"
"Not really, but it's tradition." He studied the goblet for a moment, running a thumb over the knotwork etched in the silver, tilting it to catch the light. "This is nice. Did Master Davey do it?"
Trust Hiccup to be more interested in metalwork than alcohol. Or tradition. "I have no idea. You know him better than I do."
"I've never gotten to do anything this nice." He sounded wistful.
Along with the wine she now sipped and a chest crammed full of some of Hiccup's things, Stoick had brought a fine golden band back from Berk. From her new father-in-law's teary eyes as Hiccup slid the ring onto her finger, she suspected that it must have belonged to Hiccup's mum. It was beautiful, flawless and softly shining against the pale skin of her hand; it was a ring fit for royalty, for someone who never had to work or fight. But her ring was the one on her right hand, the solid circle of iron he'd made for her, the one he'd given her the first time she'd asked him to marry her. "I like what you've done," she said, raising that beringed hand and the cup it held. He noticed, the way he noticed everything, and smiled, and drank too, their eyes not straying from each other's.
Once his glass was empty he stepped toward the table to set it down, eliciting what seemed to his ears a harsh squeak in the quiet. His expression clouded. "Do you mind if I sit down?" he asked.
"Of course not."
He perched on the edge of the bed and blew out a quiet breath. He stared at his feet for a moment, then looked up, not quite meeting her eyes. "I didn't think about this part," he said as if to himself. It took her a few seconds to understand.
In the days between the betrothal and the wedding he had thought a lot about this night: about kissing her without having to stop, about finally getting to touch her, about falling asleep beside her. Not once had he thought about the moment when he'd have to take his leg off in front of her, let her see the unattractively scarred stump—no matter what they said back home about scars being cool, even though Snotlout and Tuff and Ruffnut swore that girls loved guys with them, he didn't really believe it was true about his. Sure, her dad was missing his leg, so it wasn't anything new to her, but he didn't want to deal with it right now. He didn't want her to think back to their wedding night and remember what would certainly be the shock of seeing his stump for the first time.
She sat down on the bed, leaving a swath of counterpane between them. She couldn't remember him ever looking so troubled, and wondered if she should tell him that she didn't think any less of him for missing the leg. Surely he had to know that, though. Her dad had been an amputee for most of her life now; she'd seen him suffer through the worst of it, the aftermath of losing it when infection had threatened to take his life, the times it ached so badly that it took his breath away, and she'd learned what she could do to help. She'd never expected to owe thanks to Mor'du for so much, but the bear had made her a better daughter, and now might make her a better wife.
"Do you want—" she began, at the same time that he said, "Can you—" They glanced at each other, and he smiled weakly.
"Can we talk about it later, maybe?" he asked, trying not to sound too desperate. She nodded, and they lapsed into silence again.
Absently she ran her hand over the fabric beneath her. The curiosity she'd had when he came into the room returned, more insistent than before now that they were on the bed. There'd never been a time when she had been alone in a bedroom with a man who wasn't related to her; now she was very much alone with him, and they had one final part of the wedding ceremony to complete. Earlier that week her mum had sat her down and explained in detail what Merida already knew the general gist of. She would have been positively gleeful at seeing her mum so ill at ease if she hadn't also been mortified by the conversation. Still, she'd paid more attention and asked more questions, albeit with cheeks crimson, than she had at any other lesson she could remember.
Maybe Hiccup was just as inexperienced as she was. What would she do if he wasn't? He said he hadn't been in love with the girl in Berk, but he wasn't in love with her, either. The answer might upset her, she knew, but the words escaped anyway. "Hiccup, did you and your girl ever…" She couldn't bring herself to finish the question. He understood; the heat of her flush and the way she had her eyes firmly trained on her hands in her lap made it obvious.
"No." There'd been more than one night when he'd silently cursed Astrid for making him wait. Even now, even though he was glad that Merida would be the first for him as he would for her, he wished he'd had some practice, knew what to expect and what to do, for her sake. But she seemed relieved, if only a little, and it made him feel better to know that he wasn't the only one who had concerns tonight.
"I'm glad," she admitted, quietly, a small smile on her face.
"We don't have to right away," he offered. It sounded half-hearted and unconvincing to his own ears. It had to happen sooner or later, both of them knew that; he just didn't want his eagerness to put her off.
"We should." That was wrong—well, it was true, but it wasn't what she meant. She didn't want him to think she was agreeing just because a consummation was expected, or because it was her duty as a wife. He had to know that it was more than that. She met his eyes; the concern on his face bolstered her resolve and made her heart swell with affection. She meant it when she said, "I want to."
He pressed his lips to her temple and the words almost bubbled out of her then, drawn by his kindness. Merida turned, held his face in her hands, and kissed him the best she knew how, sweetly at first, gratefully, but then with mounting need as he responded, pulling her closer, hands trailing down her back, over her hips.
From there it all came more or less naturally: lying on the unfamiliar bed, eyes half closing as he kissed her neck; sliding her hands beneath his tunic and helping him pull it over his head, tracing the tattoo-less skin over his heart with a grin on her face; giggling as he struggled, muttering curses, to free her from the layers of dress and corset and untold underthings; gasping at the look of wonder in his eyes when he saw her bare, gasping again as he slipped inside.
It was actually the absence of noise that woke Hiccup. Normally an impatient dragon would have demanded his attention by now, and for a minute he wondered where Toothless was and why his dad hadn't woken him yet. In the dark grey light of the summer sun dawning behind shutters pulled tight he saw that he wasn't on the beach by the lake, or in his bedroom in Berk, but in a room he hadn't set foot into before last night. White linens covered the bed; the wide mattress beneath him was almost too soft and yielding after a lifetime of sleeping on a simple plank bed or occasionally outdoors. He shifted cautiously, rolling onto his side in the cocoon of quiet, and stared at the girl in bed with him.
Merida lay curled on her side, facing him. Her lips were parted and her eyes closed; she looked young and sweet. They were married. He'd been so sure that she wouldn't choose him, and then scared that she wouldn't, and then surprised that she had, and now they were married. They'd made all the vows and oaths and exchanged rings and gifts and done the physical consummation.
That had been…good, yeah. Not that he had any basis for comparison, but it had certainly been pleasant on his end, even if it had been over pretty quickly. Some of the things his dad had pulled him aside to tell him surfaced in his brain. He hadn't been particularly interested in Stoick's advice at the time—it was equal parts skin-crawling and without context—but now that he had some idea what was going on, he'd admit that maybe his dad knew what he was talking about.
He would do better next time.
It was a strange feeling, being married to someone you were in love with but who wasn't in love with you. He couldn't even tell her that he loved her, at least not yet; she'd been through a lot recently, and he didn't want to cause her any more stress. At least she liked him, thank Freya for that. Last night, after, she had pushed the hair away from his forehead and gazed at him, eyes silvery as her fingers traced his features, seeming just about to speak for some long moments. In the end she'd dropped her hand to his shoulder, and he'd settled his in the dip of her waist and fallen asleep.
Now her hands lay on the bed between them, clutched together. He put one of his hands next to hers, reached out a finger to touch her lightly, whispered the words to see how they would sound. Then he closed his eyes and fell asleep once more.