Chapter Text
Resolve
Connall sat on the edge of his chair by the window, lost in thought as he finished the last few stitches on his linen shirt. Outside, a wild storm howled, but he was too focused on the task the Bear Witch had given him to pay it any mind.
The evening had been a strange one indeed...
--
Now it was Connall who was pacing the floor beyond the hearth, alternating between wringing his hands and tugging at his hair while muttering to himself.
“There's a head in the fire. O'course there's a head in the fire. There's a head in the fire and it's talkin' to me - Oh the Gods, it's lookin' right at me!“
The aforementioned head of the late Bear Witch raised a judgemental eyebrow and leaned towards Elinor. “Ocht for goodness sake, what a carry on. If you ask me, that lad needs a good skelping.”
Elinor didn't resist the urge to lean back in disgust. “I didn't ask you,” she replied sniffily, trying in vain to avoid the awful eyes bulging out of the fireplace, but she did raise a hand to hush the quivering young Lord. There was no sense in everyone losing their heads. “Do calm down, MacGuffin. You're panicking.”
Connall stopped mid-step. “Panicken'?” he squeaked. “Aw naw, not me, yer Majesty. I'm fine. Absolutely fine! It's no like the severed heid o' a deid witch – the vera same who turned ye into a bear an' Merida intae a corn doll - has come tae greet us fer a wee natter in the fireplace. Ah'm fine. Just dandy. Tatties' o'er a dyke!”
Elinor raised a delicate eyebrow. “Clearly.”
“You might want to sit yourself down for this, lad,” the Bear Witch advised. “Unless o'course you aren't interested in helpin' save yer fair Princess, in which case ah'll just be off...”
The fire whooshed and fluttered, and the Bear Witch's head began to fade. Elinor and Connall lunged forwards as one.
“Wait! Wait!”
“We're listening!”
The witch's head popped back into sight with a wicked grin. Connall reluctantly returned to the hearth side (though his hand didn't stray too far from the hilt of the battle-axe hanging his belt).
“Good. Now listen closely. You were right in your assessment, my Queen. That isn't your daughter lying there on the bed. The corn doll is a charm and its purpose lies in anchoring your daughter to the living world.”
Elinor turned pale. All fear of the apparition she felt faded at once and she lurched forward, her face mere inches from the witch's. “Where is she? Where is my daughter? I demand you tell me at once!”
“Far from here, and yet not far at all,” the witch replied calmly, with something akin to compassion in her ancient eyes. “The Princess has gone to the land under the waves where lost souls of the dead walk. She wanders the Hinterland now, keeping the Cailleach's spirit on a wild goose hunt.”
A sob escaped Elinor's throat as her hand flew to her mouth. “Then she is gone.”
Connall laid a hand on the Queen's shoulder, but the blood had rushed from his face; he looked stricken.
“If you would please let me finish,” the Bear Witch admonished with a roll of her eyes. “Honestly! Drama queens, the pair o' you. Yeh'll be no use to the Princess if you don't keep yer heads.” She paused, then chuckled to herself. “You Ken? Like me? You might say I'm always one step a-head. Ha!”
Elinor and Connall did not share her amusement. Looking a tad embarrassed, the witch cleared her voice and continued.
“Your daughter isn't dead. Her body walks in the Hinterland, but her spirit is anchored here to the corn doll. But that does not mean she's no' in danger. If any harm comes to the doll upon that bed, it will be as if harm had been done unto the Princess. Furthermore, the charm I cast cannot anchor her spirit here forever. You must stay by her side, m'Queen, and speak to her. Sing tae her. Remind her she's still human.”
“But how is she to return? And why in blazes did you send my daughter to the Hinterland in the first place?!” Elinor leaned into the fire again, her hands spread against the soot covered flagstones. The red glow of the flames gave her an almost demonic appearance as she focused her most powerful glare on the Bear Witch. “I swear, you had best hope your answer is a good one, old woman, or no power in this world or the next will stop me from bringing you back to life and wringing your neck all over again.”
“Well I can see where your daughter gets her charming personality,” the witch muttered under her breath. “Who am I to refuse the demands of a royal? The tale is long one, so make yourself comfortable.”
--
Connall finished the last stitch on his shirt and held it up the dim light to admire his handiwork. He had always loved working with his hands, whether cooking or woodwork, or even caring for the horses in the stables. With their mother gone and so many siblings to look after, he had gladly taken on some of her responsibilities, mending and patching his brothers' torn garments and sewing intricate patches for them. Occasionally they teased him for his girly hobbies, but it never bothered him and his work was always so beautiful that the teasing remarks quickly fell silent.
Folding the shirt and placing it to the side, he picked up the fleece rug and continued his work, as per the Bear Witch's careful instructions.
--
Elinor and Connall listened as the witch related the same history of the Cailleach and Mord'u she had told Merida. The high whine of battering winds outside made an unnerving backdrop and Connall found himself shifting closer to the fire for the reassuring light as much as for warmth.
When the witch had finished, Elinor sat back on her heels and chewed the information over for a while. After a while she huffed and said, “My Husband will never believe any of this.”
The witch snorted. “Och, men rarely believe in anything but themselves.”
“How can ah' help?” Connall spoke suddenly.
The witch gave him a sideways glance. “See? My point entirely.”
Connall blushed. “I only mean if Elinor's tae keep watch o'er Merida here, there maist be somethin' ah can do... out there?”
“The Princess doesn't need your help, laddie. It's her battle tae fight.”
“Ah ken that!” he cried out in earnest, squeezing his hands into fists. “Ah ken.” He was quiet for a moment, surprised by his own outburst, but the feeling of desperation, of wanting – needing to do something was so fierce it felt like a furnace boiling up inside of him. “Ah don't expect tae be of help tae her. Ah never have. But ah ken where my place should be an' it's no here. If you cannae tell me how tae find her... ah'll find a way myself.” He raised his chin to her, eyes clear and hard. “But ah will find a way.”
The witch shook her head with a weary sigh. “That's all very romantic, lad, but I have no way of keeping you anchored here. Not without a fancy pair of hands to cast a spell. And don't either of you bother volunteering yer own – it takes years to master a spell of that level.”
Suddenly, an idea struck him. He sat upright. “What if ah didnae have an anchor here? What if ah went there... like this? Whole? Could it be done then?”
“MacGuffin, don't be foolish!” Elinor admonished, but the Bear Witch looked interested.
“Oh?” she hummed. “You'd risk that for her?” There was a sly glint in her sharp eyes. “You do ken it's much easier entering the land of the dead than it is to leave it, boy?”
Connall nodded fiercely. “She's my Princess. Mair than that. Merida is... she's my friend.”
The Bear Witch regarded Connall carefully for the first time. He was an odd lad, not the sort she expected Dunbroch's fiery Princess to fall for, but what she knew about love and romance could be written on the back of a matchstick.
“The way Merida took is closed now. However, there are other doors,” the witch relented. “The Coryvechan Whirlpool.”
“The Coryvechan?” Elinor gasped. “You can't be serious! You'll kill the lad sending him into that!”
The witch tipped her head in a sort of shrug. “He asked and I'm tellin' him. Yeh might as well let him go, dearie. There's no stoppin' a silly soppy lad when he's in love.”
“All the more reason why I should stop him!” Elinor shouted. “ I shall go instead. He's lost his silly wee mind and I won't have you sending another child off to their deaths!”
““Now that's hardly fair!” The witch's bobbing head sizzled with anger. “Yer daughter is still alive and kicking. It just so happens she's alive in kicking in the land o' the dead.”
The head turned towards Connall with a stern look. “If you really are serious, then you must follow my instructions to the letter, you hear me, boy?”
Connall nodded.
“Good. At daybreak you must cross the mountains to the north west and make for the Coryvechan whirpool. Do not stop, for the storm won't hesitate to take you if you do. You'll need a fast horse.”
“He'll never survive out there,” Elinor protested. “And neither will any horse!”
“There's as good a chance as any. Better, if you both listen to me,” the witch said petulantly. This is why she hated working with royals – they always thought they knew better than anyone else. “Listen carefully, for this may save your life. Sweep the ashes from my fire and sew them into the lining of your shirt. Then do the same for your horse's rug. It willnae keep you fully warm, but it should keep the cold from killin' you.”
Connall nodded, but Elinor still scowled. “Should?”
“Och, dearie. In my line of work I never deal in absolutes. That's a good way t' get sued."
–-
Tipping the remainder of the ashes into the pockets he had sewn into the horse's rug, he assessed his finished work with something like pride. Perhaps this was fate after all? One of the clan's tales spoke of the origin of the MacGuffin cauldron, born of Coryvechan whirlpool: a group of men and women escaping a cruel Norse ruler stole a ship and sailed to Alba. But as they neared land, delirious with hunger, their ship was caught by the Coryvechan and nearly pulled under. As the ship struggled out of the wild waters, a crewman spotted something bobbing in the waves – an old black cauldron. Retrieving it from the water and making it to land, the band of survivors discovered the cauldron had the ability to produce enormous quantities of food, thus saving them from starvation. Thereafter, every year at Lughnasadh, the MacGuffin clan would make the pilgrimage over the Red Hills to pay homage to the Coryvechan by tossing a portion of the harvest into its waters.
As a boy, Connall had been petrified of the great whirlpool. He had clutched the back of his mother's legs and watched, fearfully, as the older clansmen and women tossed bags of their hard earned harvest into the sea, they were swiftly sucked down into the deep dark depths.
Connall knew he should feel afraid now, knowing what he had to do, but a strange sense of calm had enveloped him.
He pulled a leather cord from around his neck. The charm that dangled from it always felt warm to the touch after being tucked beneath his tunic, close to his heart. It was formed of three arrowheads linked by a loop of silver. Carefully, Connall turned each arrowhead around in his hands, feeling the smooth surface of each against the rough pads of his fingers.
After the suitors tournament and the subsequent fall out between the bickering clan leaders (say nothing of Dougal's bruised ego), Connall had lingered on the field a while, still dumbstruck by the unexpected turn of events. His mind kept returning to the moment the Princess of Dunbroch had strode onto the grass, proclaiming in a loud, booming voice that she would shoot for her own hand.
Her fierce gaze had terrified Connall from the moment he had glimpsed her in the King's hall, but her presence on that field had been something else. He knew at that moment what it meant to have courage, real courage, and as she let loose arrow after arrow, Connall had felt each point connect with its target as if it had struck his own heart.
When the crowds dispersed and the arguing moved indoors, he had walked towards the targets in a daze to remove the arrows. Connall had not understood the significance of the moment, or why he had kept them.
But he knew now and that knowledge gave him courage. He would do whatever it took to return to Merida's side.
oOo
There was no dreamy gossamer veil to pass through. No swirling mists or open grave. No towering gates guarded by some great fierce coal-eyed beastie. One moment Merida was in the forest by the Nemeton, watching helplessly as the ripping teeth of the Stoor Wyrm bore down on the Bear Witch – and the next, she simply wasn't.
Merida didn't know how she knew, she just did, as much as she had known the sun would rise everyday at cock-crow. But the sun didn't seem likely to rise in this grey place. Perhaps this was the place her dreams had been trying to warn her about? The land beyond the veil where the lost dead walked and it was always winter, never summer.
The Bear Witch's last crooked smile flashed in her mind.
“You never even told me yer name!"
“If I ever had one, I don't remember it. But an old friend o' mine called me Bhu once. That'll do fer you, dearie."
Merida thumped her fists into the dry ashen earth with a strangled cry.
“Stupit, stupit old bag!”
Connall had been all wrong about her. The selfish choices she had made in the past could never be undone or made right. They would mar everything she did, haunt her every step like the blight on the stone circle had darkened their old magic. Only this time her choices had left blood on her hands.
Merida swore loudly, half in rage and half in some kind of frustrated effort to ease the knot in her chest. She felt caught in a rip tide between grief and numbness. The absurdness of it, the idea that she had caused the deaths of the witch and her father's men, crashed down again and again, each new wave hitting her harder until she curled in on herself, hung empty and bone tired.
And what about her? Was she dead too? Surely she would know. She didn't feel dead. But everything felt so abstract and uncertain in this strange land with its hollow grey light.
Part of her wanted to doze. It was so tempting to give in to the steady lapping grief; to let it ease her into a deep sleep, far from the events of the night. But just as her eyelashes dipped to brush the ruddy tops of her cheeks, her father's words rang in her head:
“If yer ever trapped out there on the mountain, never give in tae sleep, yeh hear, lass? No matter how much ye might want tae, no matter how temptin' it is tae close yer eyes just fer a moment, stay awake. Always stay awake.”
Her eyes flashed open. The grief cut deep and pulsed like a fresh wound around her heart, but her willpower ran deeper and burned brighter.
The certainty of her situation struck her and suddenly Merida knew she only had two choices: either sleep and allow this strange land to consume her whole, or get up and keep moving forward.
A flame inside her flickered, burning brighter. She was going to repay the debt she owed the Bear Witch and change the fate of her kingdom. She wouldn't let the old woman down. More than anything now, she wanted revenge.
God or not, Merida would make the Cailleach pay for the lives she had taken tonight.
oOo