She needs him.

She's hurting.

It's as if it's tearing her up from the inside. Part of her is dying without his reassurance, his comfort and his gentleness. He is the water to douse her flame; without him she is a forest fire that kills all she sees and all she touches and now her own flames are lapping at her fear, sucking at it eagerly, sapping her energy until she cries for mercy. The thoughts that infect her are more urgent, more raw, than anything she's ever experienced before. One day she imagines something that she never thought she could ever even come close to.

She dreams of death.

Death's warm embrace, holding her close, then closer still, until it's so tight that she's choking, but she welcomes it readily. He casts her off the castle tower and her eyes close as she falls, smiling gently as her hair whips around her, her dress fanning in great billows, dancing with the wind. All turns to black as she wakes, drenched in sweat and yet somehow wishing she had not woken.

This is what scares her most. The longing that she was not here that she feels so often now. She is forbidden from seeing him now. She cannot even comprehend why; the Vikings and Scots have needed an alliance for generations and surely this is the most convenient for everyone? If they were to marry and rule both kingdoms...

She stops herself.

For that can never happen. It will never be.

She will never forget the crushing weight of the truth when her mother confronted her about the Viking boy that she'd been visiting. About her happy nature, her readiness to leave the castle. About the kiss the Scottish guards had spotted and immediately informed the queen. They'd also identified the young man as the heir to the Hairy Hooligan Tribe, Hiccup Haddock the Third. From that moment Merida was banned from riding, from leaving the castle except under heavy protection, and her beloved bow was confiscated. That night she was locked into her tower under guard and she screamed to be let free, to explain, but her mother simply walked away, her head held high, not a drop of pity in her hazel brown eyes.

From that moment, she hated her mother.

She closes her eyes as she lays on her bed, spreading her arms as though she were an eagle and breathing gently. It's at moments like this when she remembers him most and it's when it hurts so terribly. His arms were warm for her when her love for the world became so cold, and he pulled her through it all. At moments like this, she'd dream of the night when they'd ridden away together, to watch the sunset and stayed into the early hours, so she'd had to sneak back inside. The daring of it all sent electricity through her body in jolts that delighted her and she revelled in the danger, the excitement, and she bathed in the light it formed. She was a goddess to him, a goddess of fire with flaming hair to match and cloaked in a steely resolve to conquer all she desired.

At those times, he'd hold her so gently she wanted to scream but she'd melt into him so quickly she questioned her own judgement. How could anyone make her feel so special, so necessary and wanted? At first she was suspicious of it (she still was to an extent) but she managed to conquer it with her longing for his hand to brush against her cheek as he brought her into a kiss sweeter than any delicacy offered to her from the castle kitchens. Over time she grew to realise she did not have to be frightened. She did not have to worry about his motivations, because they were true as anyone could be. He loved her for who she was, and that was all she needed and all she ever wanted.

Times like this made her dream, not wistfully, but painfully. She couldn't sleep for fear her head would bring forth her memories of his kisses and whispered words that made her shiver deliciously; she could not go through that and then wake up. The times she did, she awoke fully anticipating his crooked smile and shining eyes to greet her as she woke, a tentative hand winding through her hair as it splayed on the pillow and his low voice whispering, "I'll always be here."

Sure thing, she thinks viciously as she punches the wall, instantly regretting it when the blood and pain is drawn out together steadily like water from a well. Further aggravated, she wraps her hand in a strip of cloth and fastens it left-handed clumsily with a pin.

Her door is open and from where she is sat cross-legged on the floor she sees her mother walk past, peer in and turn away like she had been personally offended by the sight of her daughter. Merida herself is personally offended that she is forced to recognise a woman like that as her mother.

The hours pass and darkness palls over the castle like Death's cloak. For the moment, she will have to figure something out. Something, anything, but she knows she has to see him again. The longing is eating her whole and is leaving her starving for his company and the only thing that keeps her sane is the fact that he is out there, desperately thinking the same thing, horribly devoid of the one thing that the pair of them want so terribly and neither can indulge. She lays down and summons rest for the night, but she knows her head will not let her go so easily.

Neither will the knock on the window.

She rises with a start like a frightened mouse and snatches her candle from her bedside table. Holding it out in front of her, the gentle orange glow falls on a pair of wide, anxious eyes looking at her desperately. As her heart leaps to her throat she realises who they are. She fumbles with the latch of the window and throws her arms tight around the neck of the Viking, who returns her embrace equally before pulling away to ask her:

"Would you run away with me?"