brave in the heart. vikings

𝐶𝐻𝐴𝑃𝑇𝐸𝑅 27

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Merida staggered forward from the boat, and toppled toward the mossy floor, planting herself by a firm tree on the outsides of the makeshift camp.

Her leg burned, slashed trousers now matted a deep red with her own blood. Her hands slid slowly down her thigh and pulled back the withered material, revealing the sword slash that painted her dirty skin. Merida cringed. It looked worse than it was, but the blood hadn't stopped and it needed to be washed.

With a groan, she pulled herself back to her feet, hands digging into the side of the bark as nails dug in, bearing her weight on the uninjured leg. She shuffled slightly first, before grabbing her pack and hobbling back down toward the river where some now bathed.

The water was cool as her feet dipped the edge. Merida lowered herself until she sat against the tough sand, and reached forward, scooping the water up into her hand. She tipped her fingers forward, letting it trickle slowly from her tips and onto the cut, the water both stinging and soothing. Merida hissed as her fingertips brushed the gash.

Perhaps imagining it was the icy water of Devil's peak burning down her throat, would somehow heal her. She'd imagined that many times at home, hoping it was the fairies or some myth that could cure her of the gashes before her mother could ever see. But even still, it wasn't the water that healed her, it was the spirit-

"Here, take this."

Merida didn't look up to Bjorn as she took his undershirt that he held out to her. She ripped it, soaked half and dabbed and cleaned at the cut again.

"I didn't know you were injured," he said. "Not until I saw Floki."

She didn't say anything. Instead, she continued to work at her leg, drying it with the edge of their own shirt and then wrapping it with the remnants of Bjorn's undershirt. The sand ruffled from behind as Bjorn slid down to sit beside her.

"Are you alright?" He said.

No answer. Merida pushed herself to her feet, wobbling only slightly as she limped toward the camp again, leaving Bjorn to sit by the water alone.

Bjorn sighed, rubbing his dirty hands across his already grimy face. Merida had ignored everyone from the moment they'd stepped from the boats. She'd let no one see her injury. Bjorn had thought she'd at least talk to him, but she hadn't. And he knew why.

It was his fault that she'd been injured.

She wasn't embarrassed of her injury. No. If he hadn't been distracted, his father wouldn't have needed to intercept a sword that was aimed for him, wouldn't have needed to screech his name the way he did. Merida wouldn't have searched to help him. She wouldn't have been hurt.

The cut wasn't even bad and Merida wasn't even angry. It wasn't Bjorn's fault, she knew that, and yet she ignored him still. It wasn't what had happened that troubled her so, but more why it had happened. She'd been distracted. Because of Bjorn.

It wasn't even Bjorn's fault that he'd distracted her. No, it was her own feelings. She remembered it too clearly.

The shout of Bjorn's name, the sudden, desperate clanging of swords. She turned toward him without a moment to think. And not a moment later, a sharp blade was slashing toward her leg. She remembered how stricken she'd felt, as if it'd been her own heart that a sword was piercing. How shocked and betrayed- Bjorn had promised that he'd protect her. He couldn't do that from the grave. Everything stopped.

"Who will get me a drink?"

They cheered around her and a drink was shoved into her hands within seconds, her fingers curling tightly around the smooth, wooden horn. Merida laughed. What better was there to do now, than drink? Perhaps it would settle the pain that numbed her leg. Either way, she would fighting again soon. Better intoxicated than sober.

Bjorn shook his head in disbelief. They were rambling too loudly for him to ignore as they drank and shouted, Merida happily in their company. It seemed the men had spotted his distain.

"Do you not believe in fate, Bjorn?" Rollo teased, head pulling backward. "Are you not Bjorn, son of Ragnar?"

Merida smiled to herself.

Then you know how I feel!

She'd once screamed to him, beginning for him to help her gain her freedom.

No matter what we do, or where we go, or who we meet, our lives are bound to this one single purpose, this one destiny. I feel sick thinking about the fact that we don't control our own lives because they all come down to one event no matter what we do. We are destined to choose each step that will lead us there.

He'd agreed, felt the same ropes, seen the metal bars that trapped them to their specific life story.

Bjorn believed in fate.

He just didn't like it.

We can change our fate. Together.

The memory made her grin, but so did the drink. She felt a teasing shove to her side and grimaced as another pain shot through her leg. This was battle. This was a purpose.

They sailed at first light, humbled by the streaks of sun that soaked through the trees, and grateful for the thick mist that drifted upon the slow river. Such a sinister setting, the dimness of the light as it battled through the fog, obscuring the dead ornaments that now hung like a second sail.

Bjorn stood at the front of the boat again, smirking as he watched the army tremble at the sight of his father's fleet. Death on water. That's what the Princess had described their army as.

"Perhaps this could be our new tradition."

Merida stood at his back, bow in hands. He'd planned to ignore her, play her game but better. But he turned with eyebrows raised, chest puffed, and smirked.

"I thought you were ignoring me?" She didn't answer, and instead faced out upon the water, watching as ores stroked through like fish. "Not much of an improvement in tradition."

They'd once stood upon the cliffs of Dunbroch sharing few moments in peace, looking out upon the crashing waves that lay a deathly fall below. It was those minutes, spent with talks of destiny and without thought of the nearing competition and undoubted betrothal, that lead her here, sailing toward an army side by side with him.

She smiled, placing a hand to his forearm. "Forgive me."

He rolled his eyes. "What for?"

Bjorn glanced down to the rugged bandage on her leg.

"You'll fight?"

"Until my last breath."

"Burgred! Beloved brother! Stay yourself." The Princess leaned over the boat, hands pleading with her brother. "Wait and I will see that you come to no harm. Burgred, please, you must trust me! Abandon your false advisors."

He toppled backwards, eyes a blaze with fear as they neared. Burgred ran, following his coward army into the trees until they were little more than dots of vision.

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