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Chapter Text

The kingdom of Dunbroch was a lovely little empire that thrived in the most fertile area of the Northern highlands. These highlands held myths and stories known well to the residents, tales of the past preserved in legends like stone carvings, forever visible to those who dared to look. The forests, the cliffs of black sandstone, the former kingdoms lost to time, all were the keys to the creation of the five clans: Dunbroch, Macintosh, Macguffin, Dingwall, and Clochine.

The wars between the clans caused much strife for the kings and queens of the land, few preferring to settle the matter peacefully until a common enemy forced them to join and defend the land they had once fought over themselves. After the enemy had been destroyed and banished from the highlands, the five kingdoms formed a friendly alliance. That was, until the king of Clochine grew sick and finally died.

He had ordered the kingdom he left to be split among his four sons, so that they each would have a share in title and the land they ruled, acting as the four columns on which the land stood strong. However, the eldest believed his younger brothers deserved none of the land they now possessed, and wouldn’t stand for it. He attempted to usurp the three brothers, but at much cost. The once prosperous kingdom began to fade, it’s hamlets and farms ravaged by the greed of a prince who longed to be king. After much bloodshed, the kingdom fell into war, chaos, and ruin, leaving the other four clans to fight once more over who deserved the desolated lands.

After many more years of fighting, Dunbroch claimed the land of the fallen Clochine, which by this point had regrown, trees and wildlife covering the traces of the misty castle, the bloodshed and pain; its name forgotten, its culture and history lost, and legend retold to the youth to prevent such mistakes from reoccurring.

Some said it was fate, others said it was destiny, and a choice few said it was both. But destiny is something entwined with man, while fate to the land, as much a part of people as they are of it. But when destiny and fate are woven like a cloth, it is often the one thing a person will look for, and fight to change. Most are never lucky to find it, but there are a lucky few; that are led…

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332 Years Later…

Deep in the forest, not far from the road, a small tent stood in the center of a clearing. It was pitched to perfection, made from clean, white hessian and twine ropes, while a green flag flew atop its two gables. The flag showed four intertwining circles of gold, to represent the four clans, and a dagger positioned point down in the center, to illustrate the military might and strength it held in the clans.

There was a table stocked with food, the menu being varied from poultry to lamb, various jugs and vases laid in near perfect order on a yellow band of cloth that stretched across the top. The queen sat in her chair, a thick stack of papers in hand, her red curly hair spilling out in great red wisps all over in a near cloud-like pouf. She wore a turquoise blue riding dress, a silver amulet, and seemed to be pouring over the documents in near exact detail like only a queen would.

The king wore a sly smile, his own brown hair cut short and had a wavy texture that was pinned down by a small crown forged of gold with many emeralds position on three sides like eyes. A thin coat of stubble covered the sides of his cheeks, a thick yet well kept beard circling his mouth like a goatee. He had a thin composure that hid the strong muscles that he did in fact possess. The royal, despite being one, dressed unlike one for today. Choosing a plum purple sweater, black sheepskin trews, and a worn leather holding belt draped around his waist, the scabbard for his sword buckled tight.

“Where are you?” He asked the wind in a light and cheery voice, looking around with a playful grin. “Come on, I know you’re here somewhere…” He feigned a lack of knowledge.

He strolled past the table, his wife setting down the papers with a grateful sigh. “Finally, done.” She ran a hand through her red hair and took a large longbow from the ground by her seat as well as a quiver, the arrows forged of the finest wych elm and the hardest lead tips meant to bring down a fully grown bear in one shot. “Mathuin hiding well, eh?” The queen smiled at her husband's plight.   

“As normal dear, he never gets better hiding spots.” He laughed off his wife’s remarks and continued to look, saying playful threats that inspired fits of laughter from underneath the table. “Where is that little troublemaker? I’m going to gobble him up like a goose when I find him!” He held back his own laughter unlike his hands, which he held in an attack position, wiggling his fingers like claws of a bear, to which his wife gave him a dark stare with her blue eyes.

“Oh, come on now Merida. Yah can’t let some harmless fun get to you that easily.” He rolled his eyes.

“It’s not funny, Conor! I take bears seriously for a reason you know.” She stood up and set her bow on the table, much to the king’s dismay. He raised a concerned brow, and looked from the weapon to the queen. “Merida, no weapons on the table.” He took the bow and handed it back to the queen, who clicked her tongue scornfully.

“You’re a splitting image of my mother; that you are.” She pressed her lip together in a joking fashion.

“That I am,” Conor chuckled and suddenly put a finger to his lips, and mimed that he heard something by holding a hand to his ear. “But I never lose with you.” He winked and got down on his knees, tearing the tablecloth upwards in an effort to surprise his son with a quick “Gotcha!”.

But when Mathuin wasn’t under there, he pursed his lips and released a small sigh, standing tall once again both both hands on his hips.

“Where are you, you little rascal? I’m gonna find you and grind your bones to make my bread!” He smiled mischievously and turned to see Mathuin trying unsuccessfully to sneak around his father. He screamed and started to run, but Conor pounced on him like a wolf, pulling him close and pretending to chew on his neck like he would with a puppy. His fun was momentarily distracted by Merida, who cleared her throat and motioned with her blue eyes to the table.

“Ah,” He breathed and stood up, leaving Mathuin on the ground for a moment and kissed his wife, who still had the carved longbow in her grip. The boys eyes lit up at the weapon and he ran up to Merida, grabbing the bow from her hand and trying to play with it. “Can I shoot one, please, Mommy, please?” He begged as the weight of the bow caught up to him and he fell backwards into the green grass, balancing the bow on his knees with a hopeful smile.

“Hmmm,” The queen mused for a moment. “That bow is a bit… big, eh?” She asked her son, who slowly nodded. “Well,” Merida’s lips curved into a sweet smile. “Why not… use your very own?” She turned around to the table and grabbed his present.

It was a bow carved plainly from the sturdiest ashwood, and curved beautifully. The tips were the drawstring tightened between two silver buttons, decorated with the four circles of the Dunbroch crest. Mathuin’s blue eyes lit up at the sight of it, his smile growing wider and wider at the elegance of the weapon.

“Happy birthday m’wee boy!” Merida handed the little bow to her son, who instantly burst into a fit of joyous squeals trying to draw the bow.

“Hang on, hang on,” The queen crouched to Mathuin’s height, placing a hand around his shoulder. “I’ll teach you how.” She chuckled and picked up her large longbow, which laid forgotten on the grass, outdone in Matuins eyes by the one his mother had given him.

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Ten minutes later, the small boy blew the red curls from his forehead as a light breeze blew past the clearing, offsetting the miniature bow and arrow from its target, a large painted drum positioned about five feet from the struggling prince. His mother leaned close on one knee, trying to give him pointers on how to fire the bow correctly.

“Alright, now breath… that’s good! Very good,” The wind blew her red hair past her face as Conor stood back, worried a fair bit that this wasn’t a good idea for a five year old to be handling a bow and arrow, no matter how dull the tip was.

“Okay, now you’ve drawn it back; look forward with your good eye, and…” She trailed of as the prince began to blink like a firefly's behind. “Loose!” She said quickly as Mathuin let go of the drawstring, the arrow sailing far past into the forest ahead.

“I missed.” The boy frowned at his inability to do as good as his mother, glancing at the numerous arrows that had yet to came within two feet of the brightly painted target, the turkey feather fletchings sticking up from the earth in all sorts of jagged angles.

“Well,” Conor took the bow gently from his son's hands. “Go on and get it, son.” He stood tall as Mathuin nodded and dashed off into the woods after the arrow, leaving the parents alone for a discussion. He waited until their son was out of earshot, his red hair still easily visible behind the dark cover of the alder and wild junipers.

“Really, Merida, a bow? I think he’s a little young for that.” He remarked as the queen crossed her arms with a smile.

“Mock all you want wolf king. The boy needs to learn one day.” She shot back with a playful punch in the arm.

“I hate it when you do that…” The king grumbled silently at his wife's playful jabs.   

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Mathuin scurried through the grass and mud in search of the arrow he had misfired, the shade of the trees feeling cool against his back. His feet came to a rest in a small clearing observing the beauty of the woods around him still under the shade of the ashwood and junipers.

He hopped over a fallen tree branch covered with toadstools that stuck on the outer layer of the peeling bark like stepping stones, light creeping through the green leaves of the forest canopy. Looking around silently, he saw the shaft of the bow had embedded in the mossy trunk of a tree, and stood on his tiptoes in an effort to retrieve it.

He dislodged it from the green moss with no effort, observing the tip to see if it had been damaged. The arrowhead was still clean, as if it had never left the drawstring at all.

Suddenly, a soft crunch came from the area to his right, like ruffling leaves. The prince released a small gulp and forgot the splendor of the woods, realizing with fear that he may not have been alone.

He wasn’t.

A small wispy breathing sound same from behind Mathuin, and he turned to face it, the arrow shaft held tight in his small hand. But as he looked, what he saw made him question his vision for the days to come. Floating only three feet from him, a smoky blue apparition, no bigger than the flame of a candle, seemed to be beckoning to him forth with its glowing blue wisps.

His first thought was shock, next came fear, but finally, came happiness. “A Will O’ the wisp!” He whispered to himself, looking in awe at the strange mythological creature floating right in front of him. The prince could barely contain himself. “They are real…”

Mathuin held his hand forward, trying to touch the aspiration, but it backed away and dissolved into a puff of smoke, a high pitched whine coming from the supernatural creature.

Then, suddenly, a second one appeared farther back than the first, and the prince ran up to it, grasping wildly at it just to see if it was truly there. But again, it disappeared.

Then, he saw what seemed to be an entire trail of Will O’ the wisps leading up a steep hill, cries emanating from their presence. The child kept following them, giggling with glee everytime he ‘caught’ one. He came to the top of the hill to see the tent his family had pitched, the crest of Dunbroch fluttering in the wind.

“Mathuin, come on now! We’re headin on back!” Merida’s motherly voice called him back to the site, where the guards were beginning to pack up the food and tent.

The young prince clutched the arrow in his pale hand, running up to his parents in small strides until he reached them, out of breath. “I-I; I saw a wisp,” He panted bending to balance both hands on his knee, the arrow dropping to the ground.

Merida smiled and got down on one knee. “A wisp, you say? I haven’t seen one of them in a long time.” She sighed picking out the arrow. “You know, my mother used to say that the wisps lead you to your fate.” She looked into her son’s large blue eyes.

Next to her, Conor rolled his eyes, doubting what his son had seen. “Yeah,” The king took the bow from his wife and observed it. “Or an arrow, son.” He chuckled and began to walk off to get the horses. “Now, come on. We’ve had a long day. Best be headin back before we see pixies, or a dancing foxhound…” He trailed off as Merida scooped up her son and tucked him close.

“Your father’s never believed in magic.” She said softly tucking her black cloak over her shoulders as the pair walked back to the horses with the king ahead.

“Well he should;” Mathuin smiled. “Because it’s true.” He leaned his head onto Merida’s chest and blinked his eyelids before he saw something and released a loud scream.

What stood in front of The queen and prince was a bear, but not a normal bear. Its fur was matted and stuck out in black spikes all over it’s enormous body, which stood at least fifteen feet high. His eyes, like a bears, were black. But unlike a normal bear, the eyes melded into the rest of him, leaving only two white spheres that reflected on his furry face the only indication that he even possessed eyes. His mouth opened wide as the head of a hatchet as he roared, flecks of frothy saliva dribbling out of his open mouth as if he had rabies. A scar, barely visible underneath all the black hair, ran its way across his right eye and down to his nose, where the silver head of an arrow remained lodged and embedded like in a pincushion. The rest of his body was shaped oddly enough, like a man’s. A broad chest, muscular arms, and numerous broken off spear and arrowheads, as well as chunks of iron one could only assumed belonged to a sword.

He released a roar that made Merida back up quickly, muttering one word.

“Mor'du.” She breathed as a sharp cry sounded from the guards, who grabbed their weapons and charged at the beast, spears and longbows poised for action as Merida ran with her son snuggled close to Conor, who was charging back to fight as well.

“Take him and go!” She yelled shoving Mathiun into his arms right as he was grabbing a sword.

“No! I-”

“Listen to me! I’ve dealt with him before, just take Mathuin and go!!” She countered and grabbed one of the shields before her husband could stop her.

Merida dashed up to the beast with a sword in hand, the demon bear swiping the heads of the spears off like toothpicks. The numerous arrows shot at it embedded in its skin, but had no effect, as if they were shooting cotton swabs. He cleared three of the fifteen guards in under five seconds, the queen ducking the blow and shooting arrow after arrow at the monster.

Mathuin watched his mother fight the savage bear like he had heard his grandmother do in stories and legends the whole scene eerily reminiscent to how he had imagined it. King Conor rode the bouncing horse away with his son watching behind them from his lap. They turned the bend as the prince was able to cast one final glance at the queen.

“I’m not afraid of you, bear!!” She shouted at the top of her lungs, the bear leaving an echoing roar as the horse turned out of sight, keeping the little prince from witnessing further as the horse rode off into the distance, leaving his imagination to lead to what would happen to his mother...

Chapter Text

                            Twelve Years Later...                          

Mathuin grew older over the years that passed, many changes having occurred in the years after that fateful day in the forest clearing. Like the Will O’ the wisps, leading him forth to a lesson at some time or another, ready to bother him with numerous tasks that were set ahead of him like racing hurdles, each one getting higher and higher.

The queen of Dunbroch, Merida, sustained somewhat serious injuries for facing the demon bear, Mor’du. Huge scars and weary eyes greeted the castle that was nestled between the hills and forest like a stormcloud the evening she had returned. Her riding dress covered in grass and dirt stains, the delicate fabric smothered with streaks of blood from the cuts she had sustained. The worst change to the woman wasn’t the loss of blood, but the loss of the battle.

Mor’du had never been stopped by weapons or might, something Merida had unfortunately forgotten during her fight with the demon bear. She knew the story of the eldest prince well, her mother and Mathuins grandmother facing a final battle with said prince until he became too injured and Elinor decided best to let him die of natural causes and not bring death from her husband, Fergus’ hands; despite his many protests.

This, however, proved to be a mistake in the end. Mor’du somehow managed to heal and survive, the princess never seeing the bear in her days of archery practice in the forests around the kingdom and the Fire Falls; the birthday encounter bothering her for months afterwards. For the few weeks after Mathuins fifth birthday, the queen remained in a state of deep depression, her mind in a near catatonic state. She refused to leave her bedchambers, ate two meals every day, and rarely slept.

Conor managed to get her out of it and within the course of a three hour chat, Merida was better once more. The queen reassumed her duties, and after six more years and one long evening in the master chamber, refused to eat again; this time out of a sharp pain in her stomach like she was journeying the aisle on churning waters and a dirty ships brig. It took only two weeks before she realized she was pregnant.

Nine months passed by quickly, and the crown prince became a brother to triplets; two girls and a boy named Aileen, Ailis, and Alastar, respectively. Triplets were not rare within the family, former queen Elinor having given birth to Merida’s younger brothers. All three uncles had chosen to leave Dunbroch for the other three clans, the daughters of the new clan leaders being rather alluring, and filling the marriage agreement once expected to be filled by Merida.  

Conor had hailed from Dunbroch, being the stable boy in charge of caring for the princess's horse Angus. The job he’d earned having giving him many silent nods and compliments on his work from the crown princess. It took two years of noticing before the princess managed to see Conor as more than simply a servant, and she admitted her crush to him shortly after. The stable boy graciously accepted after the approval of Fergus and Elinor, the both of them being extremely generous and accepting of Merida’s choice.

Neither one of them wished to rush the process, the result being a lengthy courtship that lasted five years until Conor finally proposed at the urging of the queen. By this time, Fergus and Elinor were on their last years, and Harris, Hubert and Hamish having left Dunbroch to follow their own paths with the princesses of Macintosh, Macguffin, and Dingwall, respectively. But the triplets still stayed for the wedding. Mathuin followed shortly afterwards.

Maudie, the faithful nursemaid, stayed once again faithful in helping to care for the new triplets, albeit wary of what they would do later on; remembering the last time she’d let her guard down around the last set of triplets.

Her fears and suspicions were not to be underestimated. By the age of two the girls had devised numerous pranks, Alastar being dragged in reluctantly on most situations. The first succeeded attempt at the poor old nursemaid was the clever trick of stuffing the breast of her dress with wolfsbane, the result being a bright pink rash that made her scratch in that area for a week. Merida didn’t find it hard to believe her story, knowing how mischievous she had once been, but didn’t do anything but offer an apology and the next week off to care for her unsightly rash.

Conor simply laughed, but did so very quietly after Maudie and Merida had left the room. The triplets soon after received a reputation with the nursemaid, outsmarting the middle aged woman every single time; the majority of that time spent trying to obtain the pastries and cakes she made. Their clever tricks came hardly to the surprise of the king and queen, who had expected this would happen.

Mathuin began to mature, but not in the way his father had hoped. The crown prince was rebellious, snarky, and just plain irritating for the king to handle, the feeling being mutual with said crown prince. He wore his hair long, the curly crimson wisps reaching the top half of his back, held in a ponytail that bushed out unless his back was pressed to a wall. He dressed in darker, and somewhat tighter clothes that fashioned to his muscular build, boots replacing the small sandles he used to wore. The prince enjoyed more time in the woods and by the falls, choosing to spend as much time away from the duties and expectations as much as humanly possible. The once close relationship they held became strained with the pressures of maturity and ruling around the corner for him, the teenager choosing to act out and possess a yearning desire to abdicate; even if that wasn’t an option.

Conor simply kept his own head held high, and realized he would have to take the duty of teaching his eldest son how to properly rule, knowing he had to rangle the wayward prince to be prim and proper as he was, no matter how pointless it may have seemed at first.

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On this day, the eldest prince stared ahead bored, his blue eyes completely dark and bothered as if being forced to speak aloud was the most boring thing on the face of the earth. He held his hands clasped together in the exact position his father had held them in for what felt like ten minutes; getting them exactly straight and angled to the accuracy that most Roman temples couldn’t match. “Aye Robin, Jolly Robin, and thou shalt know of mine-”  

“Project!” His father interrupted the pointless speech he would be reciting at his coronation that would probably never happen until that nagging king was dead in the cold ground. Mathuin released a tortured sigh. He had been in the throne room with his father for three hours going over the near four thousand word document recited by his mother on her coronation.

The prince rolled his eyes and puffed his chest out with a low groan and pushed his intertwined fists out with it, projecting in an smarmy tone, his voice dripping with sarcasm from the dais. “And thou shalt know of mine!”

He barely got that out before another criticism was dropped down to him.

“Enunciate! You must be able to be heard from every point of the room,” The king exclaimed in an irritated tone and strolled about the balcony above him like the audience of a gladiator fight. “Otherwise it’s all for naught!” He finished in an exemplary tone as Mathuin prepared to try once again.

“This is all for naught.” He muttered lowering his hands and rolling his eyes.

“I heard that.” Conor said matter of factly from his perch above. Apparently he only heard the worse end of what his son was trying to say. The prince sighed angrily and move his hands back to where they were as the king watched him like a hawk, his eyes closed and ears fine tuned to spot any mistake Mathuin made. “From the top!” He said from above, and Mathuin brought a hand to his forehead, brushing the red bangs from his face. They were right at the end, having used those three hours to get through each line Mathuin had been carefully keeping count. At the last line they had reached line number 3,897.

And now he had to start all over again.     

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After another hour of line practice, it was time for history and language. Learning new English words as well as Gaelic ones was a fair bit challenging, the latter being a second and therefore, harder language to learn. Being taught to spell Latin words that lacked all sense and meaning burned the princes skin like a hot branding iron being pressed deeper and deeper into his brain. Geography and physical land and water terms crowded his mind like the population of those places.

“A good ruler must know his surrounding countries,” Conor droned on, pointing a sharpened stick at the board to a parchment map of the clans and the mountains and bays that surrounded them. Mathuin just stared down at his own parchment, focusing on the crude caricature of his irritating tutor, making the mouth a solid black circle with his goose feather quill before the king sent him a hard glare and pulled the paper out from the desk it rested on.

“He does not doodle.” His father held up the parchment that depicted exactly what he was already doing: reprimanding.

Mathuin focused a pouting glare and the king and sighed, run his large hand through his ponytail, smacking the other palm on the desk in a stressed manner. Conor set the drawing on the desk behind him as a knock sounded at the door. “Ah;” The king smiled. “Right on time.”

He opened the door where Merida stood, a stack of heavy looking books and scripts in both arms. She wore a knowing and snarky smile on her pale face, Mathuin grinning from behind the piles of textbooks. “Your mother will be teaching your history lesson today on the clan of Dunbroch.” Conor gave his wife a curt nod and walked out to the hallway. “Merida,” He kissed her on the cheek and closed the door.

The queen dropped her books and parchment that revealed the scabbard tightened around her waist. She drew her sword and the grin on Mathuin’s face grew far more prominent as he gripped the handle of his own sword. “So,” Her blue eyes darted to the door for a split second. “Shall we begin our history lesson?”

“Yeah!” Mathuin toppled the stacks of books and parchment toppling to the wooden floor and drew his sword, bending his legs in a defense position.

“What do yah know of the clan Dunbroch?” Merida swung her sword and locked eyes with her teenage son, who easily blocked the first swing with his own sword.

“They are fierce,” He swung and Merida ducked. “Tough, protectors of the land!” He shouted over the cling of weapons as Merida swung at the prince's ankle, and he jumped to escape the swishing blade.

“Conor is the king, the diplomat,” He paused with a graceful gesture. “A man of poise and grace.” He bowed to his mother like a gentleman, who chortled and swung, Mathuin still able to block the steel blade.

“Aye, and what of the triplets?” She asked once more as Mathuin pushed the sword forward so that the queen had her back to a cabinet, her thin body slamming into the door, the rattle of objects within echoing lightly through the room. “Aileen, Ailis, and Alastar;” The prince grunted as his mother shoved him off of her, sending him backwards three feet as a decorative viking helmet fell onto Merida’s head. “Wee devils, more like!” He chuckled at the horned helmet, which was tipped at an awkward angle on the queens long, bushy hair.

She shook the hat from her head and swung the sword once more, Mathuin blocking it in a small stalemate. “And what of the prince?” Merida grinned at her son, knowing what the answer would be. Mathuin happily obliged, breaking the stalemate as his own words boosted his confidence and strength.

“Oho,” He laughed deeply. “Mathuin is the greatest hunter in all the land,” He shoved Merida back once more. “And not bad with sword either.” She grinned and pinned his sword down. “Aye, and the queen?” She asked locking eyes with her son, who rolled his with a small grin.

“The queen, ruler and leader is Merida, the finest archer in the world, best known for her bravery, beauty, and good;” Merida pushed her son’s blade as it weakened. “Humor!” He just managed to finish as the queen's sword threw his own into the cabinet; the sound like an axe splitting a log.

She smiled confidently and stuck her sword into the floor like a walking cane, balancing her chin on both hands. “Correct. Now tell me, what is the symbol of the clan Dunbroch?”

Mathuin charged to the side and grabbed the sword from where it protruded, doing a rolling flip before answering: “The mighty sword!” And swung it at the his mothers. But she hadn’t moved in time, and the sword clattered to the ground, along with her.

Both burst into fits of laughter before they heard the door handle jiggling.

“How is the lesson going-” Conor barely got to ask before groaning.

Merida was sitting on the desk, Mathuin in his seat. The only glaring omission a shiny sword protruding from the grooves of the table leg that the queen had tried to cover up with her skirt, but not very well. “Best lesson I’ve had in a while.” The prince nearly chuckled. “Thanks Mom.” He kissed Merida on the cheek.

Conor crossed his arms and tapped his fingers expectantly, a glare surfacing in his hazel eyes.

Chapter Text

After the history lesson taught by Merida, whatever lessons Mathuin had seemed to triple in effort and length. Conor had easily called their bluff, and because of that it didn’t look as if the queen would be teaching his lessons from now on. Every day now seemed to be an endless pool of correction and criticisms. In music lessons, if he strummed the wrong cord on a lute or didn’t blow hard enough into a set of pipes, the king would correct him in a dark stare or a light snap that it was a C, and not an A sharp. During his riding lessons, if Agnes didn’t jump high enough over the hurdles, the prince seemed to be the one to blame. Even at the dinner table, when Mathuin was famished and felt emaciated from all the work he’d been doing, Conor sent him a hard glare that reminded him not to stuff his gob, and to take smaller bites while the triplets got off scot free.

“A good prince…” Became a common beginning to most; if not all sentences. “A good prince rises early!” The king would draw the curtains on a bat-like Mathuin at six AM.

“A good prince knows how to court,” Conor bowed to Maudie as Mathuin rolled his eyes and sent a plain nod the nursemaids way.

“A good prince is compassionate.” He would say as the cooks chopped off the heads of chickens.

“Patient.”

“Cautious!”

“Clean.”

“And above all,” Mathuin mimed along with his father's voice. “A prince strives for, well,” He paused for a moment to think. “Perfection.” He held his free hand in an ‘okay, perfect, simple,’ hand gesture.

Had there really been a reason to care, Mathuin would have. But, seeing as his own freedom was chained down by his princely duties, Merida had arranged for at least one Sunday of every month was a recess for her son. Conor couldn’t have agreed more. Less time feuding could mean more time to avoid feuding. Nevertheless, all three of them deserved a break from their lives every once in a while.

During this day off, the prince would ride off into the woods to the cliffs around the fire falls, his mind free of pressure and expectation for a full twenty hour hours. It was a time where he could do anything he pleased, go anywhere, forget the useless knowledge forced on him without mercy. Mathuin always took his bow and quiver, a small lunch, perhaps a game bag; all carried upon the young black Scottish Shire, her birthright under the steed Angus. Regardless of the irritation he faced in the castle, he could always count on that one day to destress.

Today had been no exception.

Mathuin had awoken long before the sun; accustomed to the daily wakeup regimens set by Conor. But instead of the king, he found his bow and quiver sitting on his desk, along with a cloth sack that contained his lunch. The prince immediately knew what it meant.

His blue eyes lit alive once again as he shrugged into his outfit: a torn brown leather shirt, the hide of the cow stretching to fit the teenagers ripped physique, a plaid toga a shade of moss green, buckled in place by a thin black belt that wound around his waist like a racer snake, the toga stopping mid thigh where a pair of black riding pants hugged his legs to the worn brown boots that were the only thing too big for him; the boots having once belonged to his grandfather, Fergus.

He began a mad dash through the castle, not wanting to waste a minute of this perfect day. The crow of the rooster sounded just as he was going down the entryway stairs, the crowd of servants and delivery men proving to be no obstacle to him.

Bumping into a large man carrying a crate, Mathuin weaved around him. The prince dodged two women by sliding on the railing, taking an apple from one of the many crates passing through. But by the next few steps, the crowd was too thick to dodge. Mathuin jammed the apple into his toga pocket and veered for a standing candelabra. Balancing on the light fixture, it tipped forward, Mathuin balancing well on the falling iron rod. It clattered to the stone floor, the servants looking in awe at the eldest royal child.

But Mathuin hardly noticed the stares, and continued to run out to the stables where Agnes was harnessed and waiting.

He dashed through the grounds to the stables in the courtyard, Agnes taking the stable where her father, Angus once resided. Not caring to waste his time even to run around the fence to the Scottish Shire, he jumped the wooden fence, landing on Agnes’s back and striking the rains with a sharp cry to rouse his horse.

The eldest prince rode through the colossal archway that was the door out the castle, the rugged terrain of the downhill slope caused the Shire to gain speed before bounding off the hill with incredible speed and might at it dashed across the old stone bridge that connected the two pieces of land; separated by a large chasm; the bottom not visible through the fog.     

Riding through the greenery of the forest, the prince removed his bow from his shoulder, and drew the string back with an arrow held on the drawstring. Eyes focused on the misshapen target that hung around fifty feet from him, the horse and the prince rapidly approaching it, Mathuin released a breath and fired, the bow embedding itself through the thin target within the red bullseye circle.  

The moist wind blew through his scarlet hair, his ponytail trailing behind as he focused on another target: a circle of ashwood dangling in the air, suspended by a single thread of twine from a tree branch. He loosed the arrow and removed two more from the quill as the arrow sliced through the air, striking the target right as the prince passed it, Agnes’s bouncing hardly proving an issue as he perched one of the two arrows between his teeth, firing the other at the third target, and loosing the fourth with perfect accuracy.

It struck the target as Mathuin blew a strand of hair from his face, Agnes coming up on a fallen ashwood tree that blocked the path, but offered potential. The prince removed a fifth arrow from his quill and drew it back on the string, the wind whistling past as he approached the final target, his mind truly at peace for the first time in months.

Agnes jumped over the trunk of the ashwood, a whiny escaping the young horse's lips as Mathuin focused at the target: a small knot in the tree overflowing with the fletching tails of arrows he and Merida had once fired. The entire course in the forest had in fact been Merida’s, but she allowed Mathuin to use it whenever he pleased. The prince took a deep breath and held it as his fingers released from the arrow.

It shot high into the air and hit it’s target, quickly lost in the crowd of other arrows.

A cheer escaped Mathuin as elation washed over him, the confidence blooming and coursing through him like a raging river. He threw his arms out to the sides to see the beauty of the forest canopy above him.

This was his paradise.

______________________________________________________________________________            

Going back to the castle at sundown was the most bothersome thing the young prince was forced to do. To give up that day, to go back to work the next day, it annoyed him to no end; especially since there would most likely be some kind of lecture waiting for him for not being punctual.

But on the other hand, he had to eat. Mathuin had been riding, running, firing arrows, carving, and climbing barehanded up the Crones Tooth, a jagged column of black rack that was positioned not three feet away from the legendary Fire Falls. Merida had done the same once, but Mathuin had never climbed anything that high, almost falling from the sixty foot cliff face three times. But when he reached the top; it felt oh so satisfying, especially since the Fire Falls were the reason he had climbed up. It had long been a right of passage in Dunbroch for the heir to the throne to drink water from those falls, only from the tip of the Crones Tooth. The only king not to have done it; at least to his knowledge, had been his grandfather, Fergus. But it was easy to assume one needed both legs in order to achieve the task, something Fergus didn’t possess. And it had been said Merida taught Conor to climb the rocks and drink the water, but as the strong headed and strict king, his son couldn’t see it being true.

The water felt fizzy, jumping around like a mouthful of boiling water. But Mathuin didn’t care. It felt exhilarating to perform the seemingly impossible feat. That would be something to discuss at the dinner table later on. The sun was beginning to set over the kingdom has the prince scaled back down the Crones Tooth, sweat and water clinging to his crimson hair and tunic. “Nothing a little ride can’t fix.” He chuckled lightly and mounted Agnes.

By the time he got back to the castle gates, the sun was disappearing over the hills and trees, the rosy pink sky fading to purple, then blue, then black as he dismounted his steed and got her some oats.

Walking in through the servants entrance, he was greeted with silent nods and small greetings; something he couldn’t care less about. The kitchen was a stone facade, bread ovens and kilns  taking up one side of the room that bustled with around twelve women, sweat pouring down their faces in the hot atmosphere. “Excuse me,” He mumbled and weaved through the group as he had done the same morning, only this time there was a large plate of pastries that he had guessed Maudie made for dessert.

With a quick movement of his hands and a small turn, he snatched up the plate and was walking into the dining hall, the voice of his mother ringing around the warm stone room, the large table holding enough food to feed an army for at least a week. The hall was built of enormous, gray stones that lined the walls, tapestries and artwork covering some of the rough walls. Those included works by former queen Elinor, current queen Merida, and even one or two by Conor, who enjoyed sewing tapestries as an easy stress reliever.

The one that hung on the side wall behind Mathuin’s seat was his personal favorite, one done by Elinor and Merida to commemorate their adventure in which the former queen was transformed into a bear, the woven work of art showcasing a grassy field, a younger Merida holding the paws of a crouched black bear that the prince easily assumed was his grandmother. He thought it was nice, but saw no reason to try it himself.

Art wasn’t really his thing.

As Mathuin walked across the stone floor, he made careful note to slip behind the king, who was pouring over documents as Merida once had, the look in his eyes silent and content looking who knew what, his brown hair combed thick on the sides but waved out in the bangs that spilled over his forehead. Merida herself was sitting at the head of the table, retelling the story of Mordu and her mother like an ancient Greek myth.

“His jet black fur lit up with the broken weapons of fallen warriors,” She said as if she were an old war veteran recounting his days in the army. Aileen, Ailis, and Alastar had their three stools to the right of their mother, each displaying their opinion in their own way. Aileen was pretending to be the queen, her expressions eerily similar as she acted out the story as Merida did, using her leg of lamb as a mock sword. Ailis was face down in her dinner, passed out from boredom from having heard the legend so many times, while Alastar played with his bangs, twisting the short scarlet locks in his fingers as if that was the most boring thing in the world. Merida had in fact retold the same story every night; as her father had. Some traditions never died in the royal family.

“His face scarred, with one dead eye,” Merida repeated as Aileen pointed to her eye, opening it wide just as her mother did, her leg of lamb poised in draw position.        

The queen drew on the climax of the story. “The queen took Mordu by his shoulders, slammed him against the rock, and-”

“SMASH!” Mathuin cut the story off and jumped from behind the triplets, all three now looking up in attention at their older brother. “The standing stone fell to the side, and half of Mordu was crushed underneath the rock. His bones splintered and organs shattered, he escaped!” Mathuin finished the sentence with a low voice as if conveying a mystery.

“Come on,” Merida groaned. “That’s my favorite part!” She complained as the prince rounded behind her seat, continuing the story to the queens chagrin.

“Mordu has been seen once since then, but not a trace persists. Some say he will return to seek his revenge!” He finished the tall tale with a mock bear roar just as Merida would’ve done before moving to his seat and setting the tray of tarts on the table, the prince’s mother continuing to rant about Mordu until Conor broke the silence, not bothering to look up from the parchment. “Mathuin, no weapons on the table.”

The prince rolled his eyes and looked at the king as if he’d made an unbelieveable royal decree. “Dad,” He almost laughed. “It’s just my bow. It won’t hurt you.” He smiled jokingly as Conor looked up, a tired but regal look in his hazel eyes.

“I just don’t think you need it there, son.” He responded with a soft glare that suggested he didn’t have the energy to argue tonight. Mathuin let a small sigh loose as Merida piped up from her end of the dinner table.

“Let it be. Believe it or not, I have a bow. Learning to fight is essential for anyone, wolf king. Even the crown prince.” She looked over at her husband with a soft smile as the prince strung the bow over the back of his chair and preceded to tell his father about what he did, despite the silence that came from that side of the table.

“So dad,” He started inching his arms across the table in a daring motion. “You’ll never guess what I did today,” Mathuin smiled confidently as the king continued to pour over the royal documents and decrees, a small ‘hm’ coming from his lips. “I climbed the Crones Tooth, and drank from the Fire Falls; just like mom.” He finished with a quick glance at Merida and the triplets, who were all in awe.

“Fire Falls eh? They say every king-to-be would drink the fire.” The queen nodded proudly at Mathuin, who accepted the acknowledgement with a nod, and then looked over at his father, who had said: “What did you do?” His eyes still on the documents that meant he either wasn’t listening, or didn’t care.

“Nothing.” Mathuin groaned quietly right as Conor looked up at his son to hear what he did again, only for his eyes to drift scornfully to his dinner.

“Hungry, hm?” He positioned his elbows on the table and balanced his head on his hands, expecting an answer. “Dad,” Mathuin tried to protest before the king cut him off.

“You’ll get dreadful collywobbles.” He pointed out with a grunt from the prince, who narrowed his eyes at the king as Conor turned to Merida, who was cleaning her bow. “Merida. Will you look at your boys plate?” He asked in slight disbelief.

The queen shifted her blue eyes slightly to the plate of tarts, then Mathuin, and absentmindedly reached out, grabbed one of them from the pile, and stuffed it into her mouth with a shrug. “So? I did the same and look at me.” She responded after swallowing.

“Girls, Alastar, stop; don’t just play with your haggis!” Conor turned his attention to the triplets, Ailis waving the sheep’s stomach in Alastar’s face, who gagged and turned away, taking a deep cleansing breath.

“Now come on. How do you know you don’t like it if you don’t try it? It’s delicious.” He tried to reassure the triplets as Maudie walked up with a tray in hand that bared not food, but letters.

“Mail, your majesty.” The nursemaid bent over as Conor tooked the three letters from the tray. “Thank you, Maudie.” He nodded and took the dirk that rested underneath the different colored envelopes as Maudie walked back to the kitchens.

Mathuin saw his father’s attention turned to something else, and looked over at his siblings, motioning the plate of pastries before placing them on his lap and sliding the dish to the floor for the triplets to claim their own. Their hazel eyes lit up with happiness as the three of them slipped underneath the table, and stuffed their faces with the sweet tarts, not bothering to miss the two that had landed on the floor.

“Ah,” The king raised an eyebrow, shifting through the three letters after slicing the wax seal open and setting the letter opener to the side. “The lords; Macintosh, Macguffin, and Dingwall. Their responses no doubt.” He smiled at the three pieces of parchment in his hand and raised his eyes to his wife, who was busy petting one of the two deerhounds that had came into the dining hall.

“Merida?” He said so softly she almost didn’t hear her husband. The queen looked up, the bush of red hair swinging up with her head, waiting to hear what her husband had to say.

“They’ve all accepted!” He whispered holding the responses in both hands as if every question in the universe were to be answered in those letters.

Mathuin turned to his mother, who looked away in a guilty manner, confusion etching onto his young face as he turned his head to the king. “Who’s accepted what, father?” He asked from his seat a good few plates and bowls away.

Conor’s face tightened for a moment before he turned to the triplets, who had now moved back to their seats, all three of their tunics stuffed to the collar with the pastries. The king blinked once, but then continued. “Aileen, Ailis, Alastar, you are excused.” He barely finished before the two girls darted out of their seats like two scarlet haired bandits, Alastar gulped as the bulge in his cheeks disappeared before running off with his sisters.

The two deerhounds ran out as well after Ailis tripped over the stairway and fell flat on her face, the buttons on her tunic popping open as at least ten of the pastries exploded from her chest, the dogs jumping over the table to reach the dessert before the young girl could stuff them all back.   

Mathuin gulped. Whenever the triplets were excused, that only meant one thing. “What… did I do now?” He trailed off hoping he got the answer right. But it wasn’t that.

“Your mother has something to discuss with you.” Conor looked over at the queen, who shifted uncomfortably in her seat, as if wanting to hide under a rock.

“Conor, you tell him. I don’t want any part in this.” Merida riled off quickly, taking a swig of ale from her mug to avoid saying anything more.

The king sighed and turned to Mathuin. “The lords are presenting their daughters as suitors for your betrothal.” He said plain and simple; much to his sons shock.

“What?” Mathuin stared at Conor, his fear and anger easily visible behind the friz of his bangs.

“The clans have accepted!” The king smiled at Mathuin, as if putting it into simpler terms would change his son's position.

“Wait; isn’t it usually done where I compete against other suitors for the hand of the lady?” Mathuin looked around wildly for some form of escape from this plan.

Merida piped up from her end of the table, her voice cold and blunt. “There’s only one prince of age from the four clans. All the rest are princesses.” She was obviously not on board with this idea.

“What?! Dad, how-” He started before Conor interrupted him.

“I don’t see why you’re acting like this. It’s hardly ever the case when the roles are reversed.” He began as Mathuin clawed at his cheeks before slamming his head down on the table; but Conor continued anyway. “This year each of the clans will present a lovely young girl that will compete in tasks to win your hand in marriage. It’s hardly easy to accept the role of king.”

This hit a nerve. The word ‘king’ wasn’t supposed to be discussed until his father and mother were rolling in the cold ground. Now, here it was being tossed around like a boiling potato as if he would be king at the end of dinner. That didn’t sound good to him.

“I suppose a prince just does what he’s told!” He stood up and shouted at his father, who sat straight in his chair, his eyes stern.

“A prince does not raise his voice.” His anger and sternness melted away into a face of confusion. “Mathuin, this is what you’ve been preparing for your whole life!”  

But before he could continue, the prince slammed a fist down on the table, his face red. “No, its what you’ve been preparing me for my whole life.” He growled and collected his bow and quiver. His eyes flashed at the king. “I’m not going through with this, and you can’t make me!” He raised his voice and stormed out of the dining hall, Conor craning his head.

“Mathuin, get back here!” He called after his son and got up to follow, Merida smacking a palm to her forehead. She had guessed this wouldn’t go well. The law to follow their own path had in twelve years caused the relationship between Dunbroch and the other clans to become strained, marriage agreements holding deep tradition within the area. Merida simply counted her lucky stars she and Conor had married before the law trumped the decree, or else she may have been stuck with the name Lady Dingwall for the rest of her life. She had wanted to change it, but had little say in the matter. She had figured it be best to forget about that thought, and hadn’t wanted Mathuin to go through with the pressures of ruling so soon.

But all she could do for now, was hope.

Chapter Text

Conor pushed the door open in Mathuin’s room to find the prince with his sword, striking one of the bedposts with terrible cursing and anger. When he entered the room, Mathuin sent an angry stare the kings way, but Conor simply released a small sigh. This bothered the boy further, as silence meant a storm was coming. “Father, suitors?” He repeated the word in exasperation. “Marriage?” He asked again peeking around the post of his bed. “King?” Mathuin continued in disbelief as his father simply picked up an old stone chessboard, the pieces sculpted in a detailed likeness of actual royalty.

“Once, there was an ancient kingdom-” He began with a strong and wise voice.

“Dad please; ancient kingdom…” He slumped on the bed, having heard the tale of Clochine hundreds of times before.

“It’s name long forgotten, it was ruled by a wise king who was much beloved.” The king took the stone piece that depicted an elderly king that rested on a throne. “And when he grew old, he divided the kingdom among his four sons.” He set the king piece upon the checkered board, before moving four of the pawns, three white and one black, underneath the chessboard. “And decreed that the princes would be the four pillars on which the land stood strong and noble.” He continued as Mathuin looked on with bored eyes, the blues of his irises dark.

“But,” He went on, holding up his index finger in a matter-of-fact manner. “The eldest prince wished to rule the land for himself. His greed went so far to the point of cursing himself;” Conor motioned a hand to a tapestry that hung on the wall, depicting a strong black bear fishing in a stream of salmon.

“He demanded the curse give him the strength of ten men; but it came with an unexpected hitch.” The king removed a bear chess piece from the board that substituted for a night it’s black soapstone sharp and clean. In a swift movement of his hands, he switched the black pawn with the night. The board now uneven, the other pieces beginning to slide from where they rested. “His new appearance granted him a fierce reputation. The scales were beginning to tip to his favour; until the curse overtook the prince; his fate changed forever.” Conor continued with a dark feeling in his voice.

“He lost all control; and because he refused to follow the path; the kingdom fell,” The king snatched the bear piece from its corner, the board instantly falling from the table it rested upon, the three columns not enough to support the kingdom. The pieces scattered across the floor as Conor allowed a small pause. “Into war, and chaos, and ruin.” He finished as Mathuin looked on, his red eyebrow raised in skepticism.

“Really? That’s a nice story.” He said bluntly with a mocking tone at the end of the sentence as the king released a tortured sigh, knowing the prince had not gotten the message.

The eldest prince slid to the ground as Conor tried once again to reason with his son. “It’s more than just a story, Mathuin. Legends are lessons; they ring with truth and wisdom.” He looked down at the teenager with a delicate sense of optimism that Mathuin would understand, but the young man just groaned and muttered something below the range of hearing.

“What was that?” The king raised an eyebrow, his gaze turning threatening.

Mathuin rose to his full height, he was but an inch shorter than his father. He eyes gazed up in a hateful manner, a hint of fear slightly visible behind that fiery determination and rebellion. “I said,” He started as Conor’s eyes softened slowly in an understanding way, as if to say that the prince could tell him anything.

And he did.

“That I don’t want to marry some stupid princess.” Mathuin said in a near pleading voice.

The king’s eyes grew dark once more. “Really? I seem to recall your mother was a princess. Is she stupid?” He questioned his son, knowing Mathuin wouldn’t win.

“What? No I-”

“And what about your sisters? Are they stupid? That seems to be exactly what you’re suggesting.” He finished with a regal stare, to which the prince groaned furiously and turned away, plopping down in front of the fire, his hands drawn to his forehead and clawing furiously at them.

“It’s not fair!” He complained, his voice on the edge of a low growl.

“You know I suggest you make peace with this. The clans are coming tomorrow for the presentation of the suitors.” Conor crossed his arms, the green fabric of his emerald green jacobite shirt rising steadily with his breathing. After a moment of silence from the prince, the king walked out, Mathuin looking out angrily at his father as he slammed the door shut, cutting the ties even farther.

______________________________________________________________________________

The thick stitching of the brow above Mathuin’s deep blue eyes were being slowly, but surely added to the family tapestry. Conor worked with quick timing, pushing the needle through to draw it back out, and repeating the process a near thousand times before he would be finished with one of the scarlet red eyebrows on his son’s face. His crown set to the side, his jacobite shirt unbuttoned slightly as the humid summer night wore on, the fireflies dancing around the window of the master chambre.

Looking at the imagery, the king frowned and wished he had done Mathuin earlier in the creation so that he wouldn’t need to have to stare into his sewn eyes; it felt as if they were burning holes into him. The kings eldest son was always a source of neverending stress and irritation for Conor, but he couldn’t help but wish he had laid the news on a little lighter. After all; the idea must’ve scared him. The thought of taking a wife, then eventually the throne was something he had found stressful; but at least he had some kind of experience going into it. Mathuin seemed far from ready to inherit the throne, and the thought that he was failing his son made him purse his lips, muttering about it.

“You’re muttering, dear.” A sweet voice spoke from the doors, its tone in playful warning.

Conor didn’t turn to face Merida, not wanting to take his eyes from the tapestry. It had long since been a family tradition to create a tapestry of the current royal family, and Conor had convinced Merida to allow him to make it. Albeit, with some help in getting it started. And even for a beginner, the queen was very impressed by her husband’s work. The woven background vaguely reminded on of a patch of brambles and ivy, the rough stitching for that part having been sewn when Conor was first learning the art of weaving. A pale flax circle encased the family from the wild and untamed greenery. The position of the members showed Merida standing over the triplets in her turquoise riding dress, the triplets standing with Aileen on the right, Ailis on the left, and Alastar in the middle, the subtle differences between them easy to spot. Mathuin was beside Merida and Ailis, holding his mothers hand in his best: a soft black shirt and a dark blue kilt, the sash of the clothing tying across his chest. His hair short as it had been when the king had started. He considered adding the hair to his son’s head to update it; but decided against it for the time being. Conor himself was positioned away from the family, his soft brown hair combed around the front of his widow’s peak, a cowlick of slightly gray hair forming a line down the side; just like in real life with the same crown. The king was dressed in his daily wear: a green jacobite shirt, the sleeves hugging his arms until they reaches his hands, one of which was holding Mathuins hand. His trews were black cowhide down to his boots.

It was a near splitting image.

“I don’t mutter.” Was all he said in response.

Merida raised an eyebrow with a confident smile. “Conor; you do mutter. But only when something’s troubling you.” She walked up behind the king and took hold of both his forearms to stop him from weaving, easing them gently to his sides.

“I blame you. Stubbornness; it’s entirely from your side of the family.” He said in a snide tone and pulled his arms free to keep working, but Merida turned him around, forcing him to look into her calm blue eyes.

“Aye. I take it the talk didn’t go well?” She focused on the kings tired and uneasy pupils, a small frown on his five o’clock shadow.

“I don’t know what to do.” He deadpanned and shook his head, his gaze falling to the floor.

Merida bought one hand to lead his face back up, her smile warm and understanding. “Speak to him, Conor.” She said in a kind of way that suggested that it was the only solution.

“I do speak to him. He just won’t listen.” He huffed and ran his free hand through his brown locks, the stress breaking into his system.

“Come on now; it’s easy.” She planted a delicate kiss on her husband’s nose before letting go and moving to a stool but three feet from Conor. “See, pretend I’m Mathuin. Speak to me.” She offered with genuine enthusiasm. The king just looked at her for a moment before a hopeless smile surfaced on his face.

“I can’t do this; you’re just to-”

“Distracting?” Merida asked as she tied her hair into a ponytail, as if to imitate her eldest son further.

The king stared at his wife as she nodded. “There, there! That’s my king.” She smiled at him and took a deep breath, before letting it out in a harsh groan hauntingly similar to the princes, her eyes going darker with anger and defeat; exactly like Mathuin.

Conor looked at her for a moment, his hazel eyes wide with surprise, before taking a deep breath and beginning. “Mathuin;” He paused trying to think of a good way to say what he wanted. “All this time, all this work spent preparing you, teaching you, giving you everything we never had;” Another pause.

“I ask you, what do you expect us to do?”

______________________________________________________________________________

“Call off the gathering!” Mathuin responded to Agnes’s blatant silence. He had been trying for an hour to say what he wanted to say to the king but couldn’t get the words out. At least, not without a partner. So now he was cleaning the shires stable, allowing a swift pause as if his father had said something to contradict him.

“Would that kill them? No, you’re the king of the clans, you can just tell them:” He paused to reach for the rake. “The prince is not ready for this betrothal; in fact he may never be ready so good day to you!” He raked the strands of hay into a pile before turning the gardening tools upright and striking the ground like a pike.

“We’ll be expecting you’re declarations of war in the morning!” He finished with a cheesy grin.

______________________________________________________________________________

“I understand that this all must seem unfair. I mean your mother and I never had to go through with the marriage; at least not eventually.” He strolled back and forth between Merida and the tapestry, his hands folded like a deck of cards.

“And the idea of being king; that was hardly an easy feat with a nagging woman by your side-” Merida released a small gasp. “I meant your mother.” He finished with a forceful look at his wife.

“But we can’t just run away from our who we are.” He shook his head at the queen, his voice regal but understanding.

______________________________________________________________________________  

“I don’t want my life to be over; I want my freedom from all of this!” Mathuin ran a hand through his crimson ponytail, leaning against Agnes, who brayed softly.

______________________________________________________________________________

“But are you willing to accept the the consequences your freedom will bring?” Conor asked placing a hand on the wall beside him.

______________________________________________________________________________

“I’m not doing any of this to hurt you,” The prince grabbed a brush and began to stroke the horses jet black fur with it.

______________________________________________________________________________

“If you could just; try to see what I do; I do for your own good.” The king looked on with a soft understanding gaze.

______________________________________________________________________________

“But it’s my life to worry about. I-” Mathuin paused, unsure what to say as he emptied the bucket of water he had left for Agnes, pouring the dirty water over the fence on the stable and pressing his back against the fence and hugging the bucket to his chest. “I’m just not ready.” His voice cracked for a split second.

______________________________________________________________________________

Conor held both hands out in an accepting gesture. “I think you could see what I’m trying to say; if you would just-”

______________________________________________________________________________

“I think I could make you understand;” Mathuin came to a sudden realization and rounded to Agnes, pretending the horse was the king.

______________________________________________________________________________

“Listen.” The king looked into Merida’s eyes, and she smiled and nodded.

______________________________________________________________________________

“Listen!” Mathuin sighed at the horse, who brayed indifferently at the prince’s protests. His spirit fell flat as his gaze darkened once more. “I swear Agnes, this isn’t going to happen. Not if I can help it.” Mathuin held a hand on the shires muzzle and stroked it softly at the night wore on in the kingdom.

Chapter Text

The next morning, one could practically hear the clans arguing despite the fact that they were still more than a mile from the docks of Dunbroch. This was because they already were arguing; albeit from the bow of three faerings that held the visiting groups from Macintosh, Macguffin, and Dingwall, just as they had on the day of the queen’s betrothal.

The leaders of the clans that once vied and fought for the princess's hand had long since replaced their fathers and found love in time and choice, something that their traditions had been against.

Young Macintosh stood at the bow of his boat, the aged wood making for a fine vessel that had traversed the waters of the bay for nearly three decades, the hundred men working the oars never ceasing to impress the handsome leader of the clan Macintosh. Easily the best looking of the princes fighting for Merida’s hand, his earthy brown hair fell in spilling waves around his head, a fringe of hair falling over his face, which was decorated with navy blue facepaint. It had long been tradition in the clan of Macintosh for royalty to dawn blue facepaint, the decorative material made from woad dye was spread about the face and chest in swirls and dots like vines. He was dressed in a tight red kilt, a thick bunching of cloth supporting the wear.

He shared his dark hazel eyes with his daughter, the eldest daughter stood behind her father, her face confident and proud as the leaders was. Her deep brown hair fell behind her in a plume not unlike Merida’s, her thin composure easily visible under the burgundy bodice of her dress. The girl was often worshiped like a godess by the men in her clan, her beauty uncommon within her family line. However, she did possess a thick nose, one of the few things she received from her father; physically at least. Personality wise, she was competitive, confident, and many said vain, the third one muttered beneath those who attempted courtship. It wasn’t that she was vain; quite the opposite really. She had been bred from birth to understand she was the best that there was, and no man under the title of prince was good enough. Therefore, she wanted to win, no matter what the costs to end up in the prince’s arms.

Her watch over the cliffside kingdom was interrupted by the shout of a bulky man to the ships right; one she could only assume was the leader of the rival clan, Macguffin. At least, that was the assumption after he shouted: “Macguffin!”

The leader of the Macguffin clan had found love as well, but in a different way than expected. His husband had died many years before, but not before agreeing to allow a surrogate to birth the leader a daughter. The Doric speaking man had learned enough English in the years since leaving Dunbrochs shores, but only enough to communicate. He was easily the largest of the three young men, a trait that was passed to nearly all Macguffin men, and few women. He had dirty blonde hair that formed around his large head in a near bowl shape, a thick beard covering the majority of his face as it had his fathers. He was today dressed in a gray flax shirt, a brown leather overshirt, and a green tartan kilt.

His daughter was one of the few things the leader of Macguffin truly cared for aside from his late husband and his clan. Her dirty blonde hair fell to her shoulders in a wavy texture, stray wisps appearing here and there from where she stood by the mast of the ship. Her body type was not bulky like her fathers, but far from wispy and thin like the daughter of Macintosh. She was big, but beautiful, her thick frame curving in even slopes, much like the curves of a rolling hill. Today, she was adorned in a green tartan dress that hugged her body in all the right places, a gold necklace fasten to her small neck. Her green eyes were shy and withdrawn; as if she was trying not to be seen. The daughter of Macguffin was a splitting image of her father; at least, when he was younger.

“Macintosh!” She heard the leader of the Macintosh shout from the bow of the boat next to her, closing her eyes in an effort to avoid the gaze of the rival daughter, unable to look her in those deep hazel eyes. It was far too intimidating.

The leader of Macintosh was barely able to shout another response that was far more undermining when another called out to him, this time from the left. “Dingwall!” The leader of said clan shouted confidently in a thick scottish burr.

The leader of Dingwall clan had not even the grace of being called young once, instead being referred to as ‘wee,’ which was obviously nothing to be happy about. He had a frail frame that suggested either malnourishment or some horrible, bedridden illness, the latter being true. The thin suitor had since put on a few pounds, though the amount made barely any difference in his appearance. He had a crop of ash blonde hair that stood straight in a way that resembled a candle flame, his fringe increasing his overall scrawny height by at least six inches. One of the strange features he was never able to change was his buck front teeth, the top front incisors peeking from under his lips most of the time unless he made a conscious effort to conceal them. The leader of Dingwall was dressed in a black shirt underneath a buckled green tartan kilt and gray iron shoulder pads and black leather bands on his forearms like gloves, a sporran of matching color wrapped around his waist.

His daughter sat on the deck, her back against the mast of the ship. Her nose buried in a thick red book that contrasted with a flowing fawn brown dress with a white bodice pinching her waist inward. She released a discontented sigh at the petty squabbles her father always got into, rolling her gray eyes. Her ash blonde hair fell in a messy pool down to her back, her front row of teeth visible in a snarky kind of grin. Lady Dingwall held the title that would have been Merida’s had the marriage gone through; which thankfully for the Queen, hadn’t. Wee Dingwall respected her choice and found love with one of the kitchen staff at the castle of Dunbroch, offering to take her back to see the Dingwall clan, and a whirlwind marriage followed with four daughters. Beneath her pale skin stood mostly apprehensive silence, not wanting to vie for the hand of the prince. She was hardly happy in going along with this; as was her mother or sisters, but she had no choice in the matter, no matter how many irritated sighs she shot the lord’s way.

The Macintosh daughter looked at her competition and smiled. “Macintosh!” Her father shouted like a battle cry through the bay, the rowers tripling their speed in a petty attempt to be the first ones on shore. “This,” She chuckled under her breath. “Is going to be far too easy.”

______________________________________________________________________________

Meanwhile, in the castle, the prince sat in his room, his father behind him with a thick pair of scissors used to cut sheeps wool. He closed his eyes and tried not to pull away as the king gently pulled the long crimson hair back and enclosed the iron blades around the wavy strands, severing the long red hair by at least 17 inches, the length reaching an area just at the base of his neck. While Mathuin didn’t want his hair cut, he considered himself fortunate that Conor was leaving him with as much as he did. It had taken a fair bit of coaxing on Merida to allow the king to cut her son’s hair, but she eventually folded after Conor reassured her he would take no more than seventeen inches off. True to his word, he had been.  

As for the rest of him, the prince had near no say in what else his father had in store for the crown prince, the first being the thin section of crimson curls that grew on his chin. With all the precision of the castle gardener, his face was shaved. Next was the rest of his hair, which Conor had insisted on combing flat; much to his son’s dismay. The curly mess was held in place with a thick substance that reeked of pigs fat, the bright color damp and dark as if fresh from a dip in the creek. There had almost been a shouting match over why; but in the end, the parent came out victorious. Mathuin, however, was not one to let the king win, and was caught numerous times tugging the fringe down from the slicked area as if to purposely annoy his father, who re-tucked it every time.

On top of all that had been the clothes. What had been selected was constricting to the point of suffocation, the wear being a pair of black trews and a red tartan shirt that reached down to the princes wrists and was covered by a tight black jacket that Mathuin had guessed was imported, based off the designs. The suit pinched every muscle in his body and held them in place like a suit of armor, which he had tried to break out of, but to no avail. It made the prince hot and sweaty, not being used to having nearly every inch of his body covered at once. The shoes were a black leather and folded his toes like a piece of paper, his feet aching on the support arches. Conor had thought his son looked fit to be wed, but Mathuin felt like a lamb being led to the slaughter.

The final two pieces of his betrothal: a gold coronet that reminded the prince of a crochet scarf, the gold forming in dark and light zigzags in an arrow shaped pattern around the simple band. As it was lowered onto his head, the prince held the longing urge to tear it from his head. But that required moving his arms, something that he couldn’t do at the moment. He could only watch as his father removed something from his pocket; a locket.

The necklace was a simple chain of gold that roped through a pendant on the end. The pendant was an ancient Gaelic symbol that his mother had once worn. It depicted three bears made from cleverly carved lines, chunks of basalt substituting for the onyx eyes. Merida had traded it away for the cake that changed her mother, and a replacement was forged in silver and gold; the silver still remaining in the queens possession, the gold to become Mathuin’s once he ascended the throne.

Conor took a step back to admire his work, and released a gasp of confidence at his son. “You look fantastic!” He crossed his arms and smiled happily.

Mathuin released a groan and a scowl that would curdle dairy. “I can’t feel my arms.” He struggled to move his arms, and they remained where they were, despite his efforts.

“Oh, hush. You won’t be doing much today anyway.” The king brushed off the exaggerated statement.

“Except losing my freedom.” The prince muttered, but his father wasn’t done.

“Okay,” He gave a nod. “Give me a spin. Let’s see how it fits.”

At this Mathuin struggled. His legs were pinched so tight it was a nightmare trying to move them, as if they were encased in solid cement. Yet, he still did; albeit in wobbly turns. “I can’t move;” He grunted as he slid one foot to the side to complete the turn. “It’s too tight.” He finished the turn as Conor watched, his gaze glowing once again with pleasure.

“It’s perfect.” The king said in awe as Mathuin released a tortured groan.

The prince looked at the floor as he squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could just dress casually like Merida and the triplets would be. Conor uncrossed his arms as his elated glow began to fade, his hazel eyes going dark with what the prince could only describe as sympathy. He opened his mouth, but couldn’t think of anything to say. The stare between them lasted for about ten seconds before Conor said something that broke the silence.

“Mathuin,” He started, stroking the stubble on his chin.

“Dad?” The prince said, barely above a whisper.

The king took a step forward, his eyes dark and brooding, as if recalling some horrible memory. In truth, he felt sympathy, just as the prince suspected. The king hardly thought it was easy to watch his precious son so discontent and tortured. But at the last second, he couldn’t bring himself to say what he wanted, knowing what would happen if they didn’t hold up their end of the bargain. “Just…” The king started, but released a tense breath.  

“Remember to smile.” He nodded and walked out, leaving his son to contemplate just what his father was going to say.

______________________________________________________________________________

“Aye! They’re comin’!” One of the guards calls echoed across the throne room of the castle as the servants and royals tried to get ready.

“Places everyone!” Conor yelled across the room as the near hundred servants struggled to weave through one another, Merida having already taken her seat in the queens throne as the officiant of the procedure, despite how she opposed this ceremony. Mathuin waddled onto the dias and practically collapsed onto his seat, his posture fallen after an hour of walking like a ruler. The triplets, giggling at the prank they had acheive by slicing half of a guards mustache off while he slept, hopped into their little box, which was designed like a jury’s seat, a cushioned bench for the three of them to sit on.

The king strolled about the dais as the near hundred people formed even lines on either sides of the throne room, just as normal. He turned to face his family, and his eyes darkened scornfully at Mathuin and with a quick gesture of his fingers, the prince righted his posture with an angry scowl.

He was just about to go to his throne when he saw that his son had tugged a fringe of his scarlet hair free from the combed area, the fringe falling in a delicate placing just next to his right eye, which was trained on the king in a hateful manner.    

He walked up, bent over, and corrected the hair before sitting down in his throne. Mathuin pursed his lips and tugged the strand free once more, just as the doors to the throne room opened to reveal the three clans that were marching in. Bagpipe music started as an introduction to their entrance.

The three clans marched like they were all situated on a battlefield and not a castles throne room, their hundreds of boots clapping against the floor in a unified manner. Macguffin to the right, Dingwall to the left, and Macintosh directly in the center, all holding up flags that showed their symbols. Behind the lords, a literal army the was nearly indistinguishable from one another held pikes, spears, swords, any amount of sharp weapons that could skewer a flock of sheep with one prick. It was an overwhelmingly male group, the only females in the room appearing to belong to Dunbroch. For a moment Mathuin wondered if the women were simply blended into the army. That would have been fine with him if they never stepped up to be introduced. All he wanted to do was get this over with.

But what he wanted didn’t matter. Not when he was betrothed to one of these women.

The shouting of the clans as well as the merry tune of bagpipes ceased as all the men slammed their pikes to the floor in a deafening sound, Queen Merida getting up to announce the events.

“So… here we are.” She began, her voice wavering ever so slightly. “The four clans. Gathering… for…” She couldn’t bring herself to say it as Conor stood up and finished for her, giving him a cold stare that said he was giving the announcements from now on.

“The Presentation of the Suitors!” The king said to the crowd with an enthusiastic tone of voice, lifting his arms up as if that would make the ceremony go perfectly.

Both Conor and Merida stood at the front of the dias, the clan leader of Macintosh going first, as customary. “Macintosh,” The queen gave a curt nod to the leader who had once vied for her hand in marriage, who bowed down out of respect.

“Your majesty,” He began as a gorgeous young woman stepped up, her burgundy dress flowing behind her with her wavy brown hair, a blue swirl painted just beneath her right eye, as her left was blinded by a wave of soft brown bangs. “I present my eldest daughter and heir, who, with her cunning charm and mighty dirk, slayed a thousand of the northern invaders!” The girl in question slid a sharp dagger from the hilt of her sleeve, and with a flick of her wrist and a flip of her bangs, the dirk sailed through the air and with a soft sound, the dagger embedded in the nose of a stuffed buck’s head.

Mathuin rolled his eyes, knowing the lords would outright lie in order to make their daughters seem like elegant contenders for the hand of the prince. And while the Macintosh girl was beautiful and had a good arm; it was hardly impressive to him.

“Macguffin,” Merida looked to the lord of said clan and he stepped aside to reveal his daughter, who carried an apprehensive gaze with her gray eyes as she stepped out of her father’s shadow.

“Your majesty; I present my only child. Her beauty and wits are unmatched. She has vanquished a scourge of viking ships from the bay of my clan, and with her bare hands;” He turned to the lord Macintosh. “Killed two thousand foes.” As if to prove his point, the daughter took a log that was sitting next to them, and split it in half with minimal effort, the shyness on her face still prevalent and obvious.

Mathuin raised an eyebrow and buried his face in his hands, not believing a word the lord had said.

“Dingwall,” The queen gave a third nod to the clan on the left, signaling that the lord could present his daughter. And present he did.

“Your majesty, I present my eldest girl,” His pale hand flew to his left to indicate his daughter, who was what could only be described as a woman worthy of a greek statue. She had honey colored eyes, long blonde hair, full lips, and high set cheekbones with a thin and fit body type. “Who was besieged by ten thousand Romans, and took out a whole armada singlehandedly!”

Mathuin, Merida and Conor all stared wide-eyed at the goddess like woman. For once, it seemed believable.

“With one hand, she steered the ship; and with the other-” The lord finally looked and grumbled, pulling a much frailer and more pathetic looking girl out from behind. The belief and possible truth left the hall on wings the instant that happened. But lord Dingwall didn’t seem to care about the audacity of his claims; or the looks his daughter was giving him.

“With the other, she held her mighty sword, and downed a whole attacking fleet!” He acted out the scene by grabbing onto her arms and moving them around wildly as a shout sounded from somewhere in the back of the throne room.

“Lies!” The voice said, to which almost everyone, including the daughter of Dingwall, nodded.

“What? Who dare said that?!” Lord Dingwall turned and looked into the Macintosh crowd, trying to see through the hundred of men in far better shape. “Come on out; say it to my face! Or are you Macintosh afraid you’ll mess your pretty hair?” He ran a hand through his blonde fringe.

“At least we have good looking hair!” The lord Macintosh crooned.

“And our teeth aren’t buck like a beavers!” Macguffin chuckled, and his daughter appeared behind and begin speaking Dorin and pointed to her teeth. A brief and awkward silence followed before the daughter of Macintosh stepped out from formation to join her dad.

“And at least we weigh something; you’ll blow away in the wind!” She exclaimed at the pale and frail daughter, who just stayed unresponsive as if the arrogant young lady hadn’t said anything. A deep rumble shook the hall as all the men outside of Dingwall clan laughed, the chortling reaching the queen, who fell into a fit of laughter until Conor gave her a soft nudge and a harsh whisper.

“Ya wanna laugh eh?” Lord Dingwall smiled wickedly. “Daughter, attack!” At this, the girl let out a piercing scream that no doubt broke every piece of glass in the room echoed throughout the hall as a streak of crystal blonde lunged at the daughter of Macintosh, biting her shoulder with her large buck incisors.   

And with that, the laughing men broke into fighting, the only sign things were still in order at all the lively bagpipe music having started up once more. Clan turned on clan, none of them getting the upper hand as they each lost a man for every other man they downed. What really escalated the fighting was the triplets, the wee devils having snuck into the brawl while no one was looking, and causing mischief in every way, shape, and form. It reached its climax when Merida got into the fighting, her husband releasing an angered groan before storming into the brawl as the crowds parted for him as if he possessed some magical shield that was powered by his withering scowl.

It took all but five seconds to get everything right again after he led his wife back to her chair, casting a disappointed glare at the lord’s and his queen before taking a deep breath, running his hand through his brown hair. He cleared his throat and began. “Now,” He sighed. “Where were we before that… argument?” The king muttered.

“Ah yes. In accordance with our union and laws, the brotherhood of the four clans must be maintained through heritage and tradition. By our customs, only the first born of each of the great leaders may be presented,” This caught the prince's attention.

He was the first born of clan Dunbroch. What was stopping him from competing? In an instant, an idea grew in his mind, snowballing as his father’s speech continued.

“As suitors to compete for the hand of the prince of Dunbroch. Though the laws state the gender roles are reversed, let us not allow circumstance to hinder our efforts to preserve our culture and heritage.” Conor continued, gesturing to Mathuin, whose blue eyes were alight with a sense of wholesome mischief. “To win the hand of the prince, they must prove their worth in strength of arms or might in the games, as I’m sure they are well rehearsed in.” He gave a curt nod to the three daughters, who now smile smug smiles on their faces, knowing they would beat their contenders should they must.  

“And,” The king continued. “It is customary that the challenge be determined by the prince himself-”

“Archery! Archery!” Mathuin stood up and shouted with enthusiasm as both his parents looked over at their son with a bout of confusion. The prince almost blushed, knowing he had spoken a bit too enthusiastically, and his smile faded from excited, to a soft jubilance.

“I choose,” He looked over at his father and crossed his arms. “Archery.” With a confident nod.

Conor saw no reason to doubt the princes enthusiasm. “Let the games begin!” He called across the hall as a round of applause and cheers arose from the three clans.  

Chapter Text

It took in all honesty little time to set up the games around the castle, the visiting clans men having helped in most of the things that required more than two hands. It was a sight to be seen. The rolling green hills around the castle were covered in the light of the sun, its golden glow creeping out from behind the clouds and bathing the ocean of manicured ground in its warmth beneath the stone blue sky. Hundreds of white hessen tents were pitched along the flat expense of the area and secured to the earth with twine ropes, the place acted as a sort of bazaar for the peasants who rarely saw such imported luxuries brought in by the three clans. There was the finest fabric in all shades of colors, the softest wool and cashmere bundled in rolls, the most intricate works of stone and wood in carvings, and the strongest weaponry that was to be used in the games.

The games themselves preceded the official betrothal, and was often more for the peasants and the men of the other clans. It was, in a sense, an olympics of sorts. Ten to twenty men in all stages of youth and elderhood, regardless of nationality or class would compete in some kind of athletic feat to be judged by previous champions with prizes going to the winners. The prizes themselves ranged from weaponry to decorative things; the best prize being a full grown pig should one be able to outperform the others in a game of shinty.

There was something for everyone, be it man, woman, or child. The near hundred options seemed limitless once one began them. In sports there was javelin throwing, golf, hunting, shinty, tug of war, and even axe throwing for the gutsiest of soldiers to try their hand at. For the ladies there was arts and crafts; the activities ranging from ceramics to sewing to painting. Along with that, there was a performance by many beautiful ladies partaking in traditional highland dancing wearing dark and sultry dresses. And for the kids outside of the royal triplets, one of the stall boys from the castle had crafted a pot nested in hay that was groomed into a cartoonish effigy of a bear for the children to bat at with branches in an attempt to break the pot within and release the caramel drops from their clay prison.

The triplets themselves were far more interested in the tarts Maudie had made for the occasion, their nurse less interested in protecting her treasure and more interested in one of the muscular Dingwall men she had come to court with after Merida’s betrothal. Aileen and Ailis took to lowering Alistar down on a length of rope like on a stealth mission, the toddler catching one only for Ailis to trip on a fold of tents roof and sending the three of them tumbling into a barrel, which Maudie quickly covered with the plate of tarts like a makeshift lid.

“Now,” Her voice entered a scolding tone. “I told you you’re not to-”

She didn’t get to finish her sentence before the barrel tipped on its side and two small hands tipped the plate of pastries within the depths of the container, the triplets rolling the object at an incredible speed like a hamster wheel into Maudie, and knocking the old maid off her feet. However, Maudie was not interested in letting the triplets get away with their little crime spree. She began a chase after them, the nurse hot on their heels until a flock of rams interrupted her running as the barrel weaved through the flock with ease. The goosechase continued until they reached the open part of the field and Maudie gave up; but only after tripping and planting her face on the grassy fields, her age painfully reminding her she wasn’t up to such tasks any longer as a loud horn sounded from the center of the field signifying the betrothal was to begin.

A covered wooden box shaded the royal family, their thrones having been carried outside for the event and placed in a way that was reminiscent of a living room, despite the fact that the structure lacked more than one full wall carved from the finest ash wood logs. Two intricately thin columns supported the roof over the monarchs heads and was the only obstruction to the view of the flat expanse where Mathuin’s fate would be decided.

The expanse itself was filled with lush green grass, three solid lines of earth the width of a tree trunk that acted as the barriers the young women would shoot from. At the end of these sandy lines lay the target, a thin straw cylinder that was woven tight enough to deflect a sword or ax thrown by the mightiest warrior. The target what as large as a tabletop and covered in a thin sheet of flax that was painted with bright yet sullen colors that indicated just how close the arrows were to the target. A black ring ran around the outside of the flax; representing it was the worst, should the person even hit the target. Circling towards the center like a snake was a navy blue ring that protected the final color, a faded scarlet red dot in the very center of the flax sheet that was the bullseye. At the opposite end of the firing area, rested the single posts that held aloft the three symbols of the three clans, Macguffin at the right end and closest to the royal family, Macintosh in the middle, and Dingwall at the very end on the left. Behind them, the peasants gathered in a thick crowd that went back at least twenty feet.

“To honor the peace between the clans,” Merida stood up and strolled to the front of the dias pavilion as the lords delivered physical blows at one another, her tone seemingly calm and regal in a way that hinted she wanted to take this part of the ceremony. “The clans will now present their relics.” Her eyes drifted down onto the three men.

“Macintosh,” She threw a hand to the side to indicate lord Macintosh.

The lord removed something from an unseen place that was oddly shaped, and matched the crest of his origin. It was primarily wood, and had several strings running down its center. It took Mathuin a moment to realize it was a lyre; one of the many instruments in the castles music room that no doubt had a thick layer of dust on it from being tossed and no doubt buried in a corner by a frustrated prince.

“We present the lyre,” The tone in his voice was sly and near alluring in the simplest sense, as if his voice alone were what made music and not the instrument in his outstretched arm.

“This very lyre slayed one thousand Dingwalls,” The lord continued as Mathuin sighed from his seat, knowing for a fact the only thing that lyre had slayed was the tree that was carved to create it. At least some of the lies were believable when it came to the suitors. But when it came to objects, the limit was only reached when one of the lord's lost his respective pride. Which, from the looks of things, would not be happening in Mathuin’s lifetime, much less his wedding.           

“Rubbish!” A Dingwall guard shouted.

“My sentiments exactly.” Mathuin mumbled.

But the lord Macintosh seemed unphased by this comment and continued. “Shall I play it now?” His fingers drew close to the first string in a threatening manner that Mathuin would’ve found comical had he actually followed through on the threat and failed to deliver its magical properties. “Shall I?” He jaunted and stared at the lord Dingwall with a mocking glare.

“Please, put me out of my misery.” Mathuin groaned below audibility, his cheek pressed into his fist.  

“No,” His mocking gaze fell into an overconfident smirk. “But I very well could.”

“I very well could.” Mathuin mumbled.

At this, Lord Macintosh stepped back into line with the other leaders, the mystical lyre disappearing to who knew where. Merida cast a nod in his direction before stepping up to announce clan Macguffin.   

At the mention of his name, Lord Macguffin hoisted a rusty golden pot into the air with minimal to no effort. Light glinted off the flecks of worn precious metal. From Mathuin’s prediction, Macguffins claim would be the pot had some kind of impossible magic powers that instantly killed the other clans army in less than three seconds at twice whatever number his counterparts musical instrument had claimed. But of course, it had to be something stupider.

“The cauldron, with one moldy potato, this magical-”

“Of course,” The prince rolled his eyes.

“cauldron, fed the entire clan through a harsh and bitter winter.” The lord patted the implement proudly as a braying laughter surfaced from Macintosh.

“Which give us the strength to slay ten thousand Macintosh!” With that, he swung the heavy golden pot at Lord Macintosh, and the pot banged into its target, knocking him to the ground and silencing his euphoria.

“And, Dingwall.” The queen indicated the scrawny lord, who was hoisting a large rock over his head with the clans symbols carved roughly onto the blunt object. By anyone's assumption, the rock in question could have crushed the lord beneath it should the weight have become too much for his shaking arms to handle.

“We bring a rock!” The lord's voice weighed down from the heavy object.

“And?” Mathuin found himself saying louder than he assumed, only to see the hint of a smile creeping onto his mother's face as she lifted a hand to cover it.

“And… that’s it.” The lord answered back.

The crooning and laughter of the other two lords returned, only for a wicked grin to appear on the pale man’s face as he dropped the large rock on Macguffins foot. This quickly escalated into a full on brawl that caused Mathuin to double over in a fit of chortling with the queen until Conor stood up and silenced the brawling lords with a glare.

“Now, are you three quite finished?” His voice laced with saccharine.

At this the three lords mumbled apologies and stepped back into line like scolded children.

“Good. Archers!” HIs voice rang out over the waves of grass. “Archers, to your marks.” He continued as the three young women stepped out of the crowd and to their respective targets.

“And may the lucky arrow find its target!” The queen nodded at the targets.

A mischievous grin appeared on the crown prince's face as he moved his right leg over to the arm of his throne, nudging his own bow and quiver out of sight from the crowd.

The king and queen took their seats as the princess of Macguffin stepped up to the marked line where she’d be firing from, her bow a fair bit smaller than she was as she blew a cowlick of golden curls from her vision. The large girl took to closing one eye as if that would guarantee something. Her first arrow loosed, and it struck the target on the ring of blue. She groaned, and set the bow down in defeat.            

Her father brought a hand to his forehead as the other lords laughed.

“Oxen had better luck.” Merida whispered to him. Mathuin laughed until the king caught wind and shushed them.

Macintosh stepped up to the line, and drew her bow back before tossing her brunette bangs and a flirtatious grin the princes way. He rolled his eyes in response, and wished he had something to cover his face with.

Her dress proved to be no trouble in drawing the weapon back, the burgundy bodice stretching with her form as she focused on the large straw target ahead of her. The arrow released, and embedded itself far from the center; outside the black ring. A moment of silence passed as the princess's eyes glazed over. Her reaction, to say the least, was a temper tantrum. She shouted, cursed, and finally fell to the ground after pitching to bow out into the crowd. The weapon sailed to the back rows before shouts of notification rang from that section of the citizens.

“Good arm dear.” Mathuin complimented with a cocked eyebrow.

“And such poise in the face of failure.” Merida replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

“I know, ri-” Mathuin stopped suddenly as cheers rang out from the crowd. “I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” An excited man shouted, holding up Macintosh’s bow in triumph.

After a moment of this, the crows quieted as Lady Dingwall positioned her bow, her teeth gritted as she struggled to focus the bow correctly. One could hear her mumbling something, only for the back of her dress to tear with a loud sound as gasps surfaced from the spectators. She loosed the arrow, and Mathuin waited for the bolt to hit the outer ring of the target.

But the arrow hit dead center in the faded scarlet dot.

He immediately stood and grabbed his bow as everyone began to cheer aside from Merida, who was scoffing at the girl and complaining about lightning hitting the same spot twice.      

The prince dashed over to the nearest white tent, and set his plan to work. Never in all his life has he been so happy to see a bucket of water. He splashed his hands into the bucket and slathered the grease from his neatly combed and slicked back mane, messing it as the grease dripped down his cheeks. He wasn’t about to go out looking the way he had; even if he was running short on time before the ceremony would close and he’d be dragged to a chapel.

It didn’t feel fair that he wasn’t giving any of these ladies a fair chance, but really, he didn’t care enough not to. Macintosh looked too smug for her own good, Macguffin was as shy as her father had been. Dingwall obviously knew her way around a bow and arrow; but he knew absolutely nothing about her aside from an overbite and archery skills, neither of which attracted him very much, especially right now.

The prince sighed as the cheers continued and threw a cloak over his outfit, and tucking his coronet in his pocket.

He stormed out of the tent with his quiver slung over his back, the feathered tips of his arrows peeking from the black felt cover. His bow was gripped tight in his right hand, his fingers tracing over many elegantly carved designs in the ashwood as he disappeared into the crowds, pacing through the ecstatic onlookers. He took to ignoring the fact that Dingwall was dancing a jig in giddy celebration of his daughters apparent triumph while Macguffin and Macintosh grumbled to themselves; no doubt about their misfortunes and dumb luck on their rivals part.  

Thankfully, if all went well, that triumph would be short lived.

The prince strolled onto the grounds only twenty feet from the princess of Macguffin, whose face  was red with embarrassment. The crowds cheering stopped as the cloaked figure came up to the mark, and with all the courage he could muster, Mathuin pulled down the hood.

His eyes nearly stung in the blazing sunlight as his presence was known around the games. There was an uncomfortable silence as people slowly put two and two together before a chorus of gasps surfaced in every part of the crowd. Mathuin felt a lump in his throat, but he swallowed it and made his claim.

“I am Mathuin,” He began despite the fact that everyone knew that by now.

“First born of Clan Dunbroch,” The lump rose in his throat again, but he gulped and kept his determination going by reminding himself what was at stake.

“And I’ll be shooting for my own hand in the game of archery.” He saw his father stand up, his hands clenched in fists as Merida started to stand up and follow, the whole scene eerily familiar to her in every way.

“Mathuin, what are you-” The prince ignored his father and began to stroll towards the first target as the princess of took a step back, her gaze wide eyed with surprise as Mathuin began to draw back his bow. However, his constricting outfit prevented him from using his bow. He cursed the horrible garment and pulled himself free with all his might, the sound of tearing fabric seeming to linger on the grounds.

His arms and back now free, he closed his eyes and took a breath as he drew his bow back and fired at Macguffins target, the arrow striking dead center. The prince continued onto Macintoshes target and fired another arrow, the result a perfect bullseye.

“Mathuin stop this!” His father’s voice came across in the stern tone the young man was accustomed to.

Stray droplets of water dripping down his cheeks, Mathuin’s eyes fell to the final target, the princess of Dingwall gaping at him before looking at the other targets and back to him. The arrow was already dead center, but Mathuin didn’t care. The world seemed to slow to a stop as everyone watched the fiery redhead draw the string of his bow, an arrow positioned as the boy gave a deep breath, the king storming closer to him by the second.

With a second having passed, Mathuin felt his fingers come loose from the drawstring, the fletching curving ever so slightly in its departure as his gaze relaxed. The entire realm was watching the seemingly impossible feat as the arrow flew towards its target.

The sound was unlike anything one could have described; the splintering wooden shaft seeming louder than cannon fire. Their eyes trained on the broken band as the fletching of Dingwalls arrow came loose and a few feathers began their slow descent to the ground. The prince’s own arrow held strong, and in what felt like an eternity; the telltale noise of an arrowhead embedding in wood echoed across the crowd.

The world remained still as every pair of eyes took in the sight before them. All three targets having two arrows; the light wood of the princes bolts in the center of every target. Dingwalls target, however, was the most shocking. The clean splinters of the first arrow bowing outwards from the split, and the second arrow barely visible aside from the last inch of the shaft and the turkey feather fletching embedded deep within the woven straw target.

Mathuin himself had the hint of a smile appearing on his face, the blue of his eyes sparkling as he realized just what he had done. His lips pressed into a thin line, he turned to face his father.

Conor and Mathuin glared at eachother for what felt like a long time as Merida pressed her head into her hands.

“And here we go again.” The queen mumbled to herself.