brave in the heart. vikings

𝐶𝐻𝐴𝑃𝑇𝐸𝑅 30

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She could stay in bed no longer. The blankets that rested on her lap that once felt like weights and chains fell like silken ripples as she pushed them from her body, letting them fall to the floor as she stood. Merida tested her leg, walking a single step, and then another until she knew the healing wound would hold.

She pushed a hand to her head, glazing over the sweat that stuck to her forehead and toward her hair, to where it should have been unruly and wild atop her head. But her hand smoothed across braids- the same kind of intricate plaits as Lagertha wore. She must have done it for her sometime in the past days that she'd been bed-bound.

Merida couldn't remember that. but, then again, there wasn't a lot that she actually could remember.

First, there was the faint feeling of a swaying boat, the sounds of panting as men and women pushed forward with their oars. Her head was heavy, her eyes blinking against the harshness of the sun, the taste of salt crippling her lips. A flask of water was pushed toward her, then blond hair broke the glare of the shining rays. Merida's head was on Bjorn's lap, they were sailing home to Kattegat. That was all she remembered of the journey home. The rest of her memories were filled with the ceiling of the hut she was confined to, and Merida was sure she could give every detail of the roof, after staring at it for so long.

Her knee still throbbed as she walked on it, but the pain was easily bearable. Helga had tended to it at one point, she was sure, but time, that Merida at first was not willing to give, had inevitably healed her. And no matter how many times her skin had been scrubbed in her sleepy insistence, it still felt dirty, as if blood still crusted over her wounds.

It was warmer now than she remembered. Snow still scattered the mountain tops but ice no longer ebbed at the water's edge. Merida walked along the seafront, avoiding the hoards that gathered near the markets and centre of the city. Not one of her friends were in sight. Lagertha, no doubt had gone back to her own city and Floki to his little hut with Helga and his half-finished boats, taking solace among the trees. But Bjorn- she'd sensed him numerous times by her bedside, with a touch to her hand or forehead. Only a few times had she been able to pry her eyelids open to blink up at him.

Rain kissed gently upon her freckled skin, soft at first, but then it grew harder until it was thrashing down upon the cold earth. Merida started to turn, but down in front of her, louder than the rhythmic crashing of the waves and the clattering of the weather, shouting broke through the square. Merida knew this area. It was where the drunks drank through the day, somehow managing to stay on their feet well enough to be functioning. With a limp, she pushed herself through, meeting with the edge of the small crowd. The sound of fists meeting with skin pounded against her ears.

"Who is that?" she said, pushing her way through to the front. The two men fighting were nothing more than a blur to her eyes against the mud and the rain.

"Rollo," an older man said.

"Rollo?"

"Yes. He's been drinking his death ever since he returned," he said. The man's face seemed to drop as he noticed who he was giving the information to.

Seconds later, Merida realised why. Rollo toppled backwards in one large, drunken heap. The other man staggered to his feet, wide shoulders unfurling until he held the stance of a bear. Blond was streaked with blood- both his own and Rollo's. Such a familiar sight, Merida thought, as she realised it was Bjorn.

"Bjorn?"

Her voice barely rose over the cheers around her and Rollo's shouts. They were both standing again, circling.

"Bjorn! Stop!"

"Hit me again!" Rollo screamed, the shout ripping through his chest as he held his arms open. "Hit me, Bjorn!"

Bjorn stormed forward, hitting Rollo but taking himself down with him, sliding deep into the piles of slick mud. They were grappling, arms hitting out, both gaining hits. Merida finally rushed forward, pulling Bjorn back as he lept to land one last fatal blow. She didn't care about the groans of the men who watched, she didn't care that Rollo may have deserved it- he had asked for it, begged for it almost, after all.

Bjorn let her pull him back, his feet barely carrying him. Eyes didn't need to wander over to her bright orange hair, he could recognise her touch anywhere. Merida let out a sigh as she made it away from the crowds and Rollo, pushing him against the wall of a random building, under meagre shelter.

"What were you doing?" she hissed, watching as he pulled a hand over his pale hair and face, leaving a crimson streak whereever his hand wandered.

"He asked for it."

She pulled his hand away from his face, using her own slim fingers to wipe away the wetness from his skin: a mixture of blood and rain and angry tears. Her hand stopped to the side of his face, her eyes trained on her own touch.

"My protector. That's what they're calling you," she said, startling him slightly with the tenderness behind her words. "You can't be my protector if you're dead."

He cracked a small smile, wincing at the crease of a cut on his eyebrow. But there was something behind his look: a onesided tug at his lips, a raise of the untouched eyebrow and the piercing nature of his stare. It was rare that Bjorn would act such a way but Merida knew exactly what that look was. Smugness. He liked the fact she was worried.

"Stupid boy," she muttered, averting her eyes from his own.

She meant the statement. Merida hated how much he found pleasure in teasing her about the subject, and she knew her caring would only come back to tease her in the future. But her words were far too endearing to ever cause harm, and so she continued to dab at his forehead with a ripped piece of material from her dress.

Yet, despite all of it, Bjorn no longer looked so complacent. His face had softened as he gazed up.

"You should not be in the rain. It could make you more unwell," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Don't speak of me being ill when you're bleeding."

"If I am your protector, then I cannot have a moment off," Bjorn said. There was no teasing in his voice.

Merida let the cloth drop to her side, her eyes finally drifting down to return his look. His eyes were the same brilliant blue that ran in his family: the colour of the ice that was armour to the thrashing waves below. Intense couldn't describe his eyes as he stared at her, his whole body still, his breath the only warmth that met her skin.

But Merida looked away again, eyes drifting across his nose, his lips, the cut on his chin and finally back down to the bloodied cloth in her hands.

"Come on, I'll have to clean you up," she said gently. "My protector can't be seen with blood on his face. What would they think?"

Born reached down to her, pulling her chin up so her eyes met his again.

"I will walk beside you," he said, mimicking the words he had said when she'd injured her legs. "And they will not touch you."

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