𐂂

They marched forward in scattered unison. The mist had settled between the lower grounds and the high tops of the great mound of hill they would climb. A breeze was quick to wipe at their faces, a bitter type of warmth, the smell of sweat and blood stinging the the air.

Merida's face was slick with the paint of blood in stripes down her face. She could still feel the lingering touch of Bjorn's fingers as he cut down her face with the crimson liquid. His own face matched hers, blood dripping down past his eyes and to the grizzle that stubbled his chin.

The painted army marched up toward the hill in a broad line, ducking as they prowled, circular shields held in front. Floki was just ahead, pausing by a boulder, hands free of protection, his axe just barely hanging from his belt. Behind Torstein groaned as he stumbled to the ground, leaning against his remaining arm, Rollo just a step behind him.

Ragnar's head pointed forward, he nudged his son. Bjorn's face was harsh as he headed over the tip, knees bent as he lunged forward carefully. He glanced around, before returning with unmatched swiftness.

He shook his head. "I can't see anyone."

Ragnar gasped, holding his hand out for quiet. They listened, the sound of brushing winds and crunching grass spilling through the space. But then his head lifted. Out from the top of the hill broke the cry of a horse, their whinnying drifting downwards. Bjorn smirked. What a fickle type of luck they'd had.

"They're up there," Ragnar said, as he started forward again.

He was stopped by the call of his friend. "Wait," Torstein said as he crawled forward up the small mound, his axe spilling him up further. "I will go first."

Ragnar paused his movements. The pure look of determination on the man's face was enough to make him nod, move from the way and watch as Torstein staggered back to his feet, grabbing a shield from the ground.

He nodded, his shield taking the place of the weapon. "Thank you."

By the will of some god, he made his way up, jaw taunt and eyes narrowed aggressively. It was the anticipated promise of dining in the hall of the heroes that inevitably drove him forward, closer to his demise. But either way, whether it was bravery or stupidity that convinced him to be the first up the hill, Torstein didn't take the time to even glance back.

They waited with held breath as Torstein hobbled up, eventually disappearing behind the grass top from their poor vantage. There was a scuffle of low voices- foreign ones- and then a laugh. Torstein let out a raging battle cry, then all was silent.

"Do you hear that?" Merida whispered, drawing Bjorn's gaze away from the field above and toward her.

He shook his head. "No."

She breathed out. "Arrows."

She could recognise that sound from anywhere, not matter who's arm drew back the bow that shot it. The whizzing of metal cutting through the sharp air, the gutting sound as the airborne weapon made contact with soft, fragile flesh. It should have been like a familiar song to her ears- this one made her feel sick.

"We go now," Ragnar said, beginning to crawl forward.

Bjorn and Merida shared one last glance before they were to be parted on the field, and advanced.

A roared ripped through the crowd of Northmen as they charged up the hill, shields in a line and swords in the opposite hand. They weren't met straight away. Instead, the men that attacked Torstein fled to the comfort of their own crowded troops, the northmen in pursuit behind. As she entered the flat battle field, Merida's eyes were draw to the sight of Torstein, his body slashed by the arrows that still remainder embedded in his flesh. His eyes were own, misty, and staring up to the sky. She could have sworn there was a smirk on his cold face.

She drew her bow, pulling an arrow out with it, sending her first shot toward the first of the charging opposition. He toppled to the floor in one ungrateful grunt. The next was another soldier, who was too loud for her to let him last any longer than he already had. An arrow met his run halfway, splitting through the side of his clattering armour. Arrow after arrow was released. Her friends had been lost among the fight within the first minutes. Now, she was on her own.

They advanced one by one after her, seeing her as an easy target. Merida smirked, seeing the soldier grinning beneath his helmet as he advanced. She reached for an arrow, but her hands came back empty, her fingers slipping easily though the air. She'd used them all. In that slight wasted second, the soldier had advanced further, reaching forward with his sword. Merida pulled out her own, the clean and clinging blade flashing against the dulled sun, clashing against the used blade of the enemy, too dripping with blood. She pushed against him, sending the man toppling backward. But with his last swing of momentum, his sword came hurtling forward, swiping the sword straight from her hand.

Merida cried out, her hand bending backward. Her weapon had flown too far, past the dead man a metre from her feet who she'd shot down minutes before. The soldier was back and steady on his feet sprinting toward her, another just metres soldier at feet. Her wrist ached, the cut on her leg had burst open and began to bleed again. She was outnumbered by one, and without a sword.

With only seconds to spare, Merida hoisted herself to the side, ripping an arrow from the body beside her. She screamed angrily as she ran toward the advancing soldier, watching his face turn in surprise, the helmet clattering on his head. Dodging the meagre swing of his sword, Merida leaned forward, bringing a foot to his chest. Pain shot through her leg.

But she followed it through, pushing him to the floor with her foot as she jumped from him and onto the soldier behind. The arrow drove home, this time her arm being the swift mechanism that shot it forward through the air. The second soldier spluttered, blood spilling from his lips as the arrow hit its target: the throat.

Turning on her heel, Merida gripped the fallen soldier's sword in her hands. It felt short, heavy unbalanced. She dove forward, this time missing the mark. The first man's sword came swinging toward her, slashing across her torso. Again, she cried out, both in pain and anger. She tried to hit again, but sword clashed against sword.

His sword came arming down toward her, and for a a moment, Merida knew this would be her last moment. She knew it would be the last thing she'd see. She met the sword with sword again, but the force down on her was too strong. Looking to the side, she saw her friends: Floki with his two axes, Ragnar with his vicious grin, Bjorn... she couldn't see Bjorn. Would she too go to the hall of the heroes and done by Torstein's side?

Merida flinched as the bloody tip of a sword appeared in front of her chest, poking through the stomach of the man attacking her. The soldier slumped, his sword clattering to the ground beside her, leg. She let out a cry, head snapping toward where Bjorn stood, his dripping sword still hanging in the air. He took her by the arm, dragging her to her feet.

Shouting rang out behind them. The northmen were winning. Their archers had appeared from higher up the hill, shooting down upon the enemy.

"Don't shoot the Prince!" It was Ragnar shouting the order.

"I surrender!" The prince shouted. Merida could hear every word. "I beseech you, don't kill me."

Her legs felt weak, as if she would snap at any minute. She swayed slightly, determined to stay up straight. Bjorn took her by the elbow, dragging her toward his father. They would be leaving soon. He still hadn't said a word. But Bjorn Ironside had saved her life and she had no idea how she would ever repay that debt.

"Get off me! I'm fine!"

Merida wrestled against Bjorn's hold, but he just held her tighter, keeping the most part of her weight from her own legs.

"You are not fine," he snapped.

She shoved him again, and this time, Bjorn gave in, letting her go. Merida glowered, staggering forward on her own weight for a few steps. She let out a howl of pain as she stepped wrong, a burning sensation cutting across her chest and leg. Bjorn took her arm again.

"See!"

They leaned against a tree, letting the line of northmen march past. Merida steadied her breathing, glaring heatedly at the floor in front of her. The pain in her stomach had been unnoticeable and numb up until the point they'd began to walk back toward boats, the adrenaline from the fight finally wearing off.

"Get me a stick," she snapped.

"What?" Bjorn asked. She was surprised he hadn't upped and left her against the tree by then.

"Get me a stick."

Bjorn strayed a few steps, retrieving a long and thick branch from the base of a nearby tree. Merida gripped it in her hands, leaning against it, testing it against her weight.

"I will walk from here myself, even if it takes me the  whole damned day," she said, beginning her slow walk forward.

"Then I will walk beside you."

She didn't have the energy to scowl, or to tell him that he was being absurd, and that she was perfectly capable herself. She didn't have the nerve to tell him to send himself forward to be with the victorious lot that surrounded his father. In fact, all she had to act upon was selfishness, a want to have him supporting her side.

So Merida rolled her eyes, but smirked, letting him take up the side opposite to her make-shift walking stick, and walked on in comforting quiet.

𐂂