(A/N: This is faux Scottish. In other words, while I did look up some of the accented dialect, I've modified a number of the words to make them easier to read. (But some sentences are still quite difficult, so don't worry.)

Note that the word 'how' is also used for 'why.' E.g. "How do you mean?")

THE BALLAD OF DUNBROCH

i. a proper lady

Everyone was drinking, feasting, singing, and generally making merry in the palace's Royal Hall. Everyone, that was, except Elinor of Clan Kincaid. And the bumbling, giant creature who was stuck in the same room as her.

"A'm Fergus," he said, shifting on one foot.

Elinor granted him a prim nod.

"A' won th' games, ye see," he said, rubbing at his nose.

Another nod.

"We're t' be married la'er," he said, fiddling with his breastplate.

"An'no," Elinor snapped, then withdrew, berating herself. A lady does not raise her voice. "I know," she repeated, softly, elegantly, in the manner of a proper lady.

Fergus seemed rather crestfallen. "Ye... dinnae mind, d'ye?"

"Of course A' mind. Ye are t' be my husband." Elinor drew herself to her feet and strode to the chamber, fisting her hands in her skirts to keep them from shaking.

"Ye... dinnae like thae?"

She stared at him, examining him from head to toe. He wasn't bad. He would be strong. Loyal. A good husband, surely. And he was the most bearable of the suitors that came, even if there were many. She should be nicer to him. She should welcome him, like a proper lady.

"Nae particularly," she said, and left the room, shutting the door behind her. Softly, like a proper lady.

::-::

ii. a midnight ride

The first meetings were painfully awkward. They were arranged picnics out in the countryside—with an escort of four score men, of course—or stuffy dinners with her parents listening in on every word and interrupting at every possible moment.

Elinor wanted her life back.

She wanted the long rides through the beautiful cliffs, where she could lay in the grass and close her eyes, feeling nothing but flowers and sun and wind. She wanted peaceful days where she could bring her thread and her needle, and do nothing but copy the wonderful scene around her dutifully. She wanted time to herself.

She didn't want to be a princess.

She didn't want to be betrothed to Fergus.

Elinor decided that there was nothing for it; she would have to leave. Quietly, silently, without a fuss. With a note, too; then her parents wouldn't worry about her being kidnapped. She'd even gotten as far as packing a bag when a clicking sound came from her window.

It was Fergus, flicking pebbles up to her sill.

She reached up with one of her trusty brushes and, with ease of long practice, dug out several loose rocks from a crevice in the castle wall. She poked her head out into the biting night air, narrowing her eyes at the intruder.

"Wot'cher doin' tannin' ma windows?" she hissed, hints of her true accent bleeding through her tone.

"Come doon 'ere," was all Fergus said.

"In ma nighties?"

"Come doon," Fergus said stubbornly.

"It's baltic ootside, ye galoot!"

"A'm ootside, it ain't baltic."

"A' ain't goin'. T'ain't proper."

"A'm sayin' ye gonny regret it if ye dinnae come down," Fergus warned.

But if she left with him, she wouldn't be able to leave on her own like she planned.

"What's it ye got?" she called.

"Come doon," Fergus said.

Elinor only had to think for a few more seconds.

"Awrite. A'm doon in a bit."

She threw on her least favorite gown and slid through the palace using a series of secret passages that a proper lady would never use, but-nobody liked proper ladies anyway. When she reached Fergus, he had two horses beside him: his, and hers.

"Ye gantin' for a ride?" he said with a wide grin.

"A' wos sleepin'," Elinor said, folding in her arms in an attempt to look unimpressed.

"Naw ye wain't," Fergus said. "Ye been up since th' sun gone down, lassie."

She stomped her foot. "A'm ur no lassie! A'm ur princess!"

"Princesses am ur lassies," Fergus said. "Lookie 'ere, ye gonny jus' stand thither, or ye gonny ger'on th' horse?"

If she was being honest with herself, Elinor did want to go with him—badly. She wanted to see what kind of person he was; if he was as charming as her parents claimed, as brave as the games made him seem, as chivalrous as he appeared now. She was only giving him a hard time to, in some indirect way, defy her parent's decision. Part of her wanted to get to know him, and not under constant supervision; the other part wanted to hate him for the rest of her life, because then her parents might see how miserable she was.

"Awrite," she said, her shell beginning to crack. "Ye plannin' someplace particular?"

Fergus seemed to sense her hidden apology. "Follow me," he said, and with a nudge of his heels, his stallion galloped off.

Elinor followed close behind. She noticed how he never slowed down or looked back; whenever she rode with anyone else, they always patronized her riding skills, not wanting any harm to befall the princess. But not Fergus. He rode steadily through the forest, dodging through dark grass and tree like he'd been living on the grounds all his life.

Elinor couldn't help but be impressed.

They stopped at the cliffs that overlooked the sea—Elinor's favorite spot for painting.

"Oh, A'd been 'ere afore," Elinor said. "It's ma favorite place."

"'Tain't 'ere ye need to see," Fergus said, dismounting. He held out his hand to her. She dismounted without taking it.

"Wot's it ye been gantin' to show me, then?" Elinor said, drawing her cloak around her dress.

"Thither's a cave," Fergus said, pointing down. "Many a bonnie trinkeet t' be found, if ye dinnae mind a wee bit o' a climb." He looked her up and down. "Reckoned ye didn't."

"A'm a princess. Ah dinnae need no trinkeet."

"Ne'er hurt a body t' jus' lookie now, did it?"

And he was off, scrambling down the cliffs like a nimble squirrel despite his size. Elinor couldn't believe it. The cliffs were dangerous—far too dangerous to scale, much less in the middle of the night! She should just stay here; it would be safe, it would be proper—

But wasn't she leaving in the first place because she didn't want safety? propriety?

Elinor sucked in a deep breath, tightened her cloak, and swung her feet over the cliffs. Adrenaline sung in her veins as she staggered to find a good footing. She shouldn't be doing this. She should go back. This was dangerous. This was idiotic.

This was thrilling.

"Ye doin' awrite, Princess?" Fergus called presently.

"Crivens! ye gonny kill me dead, Fergus," Elinor squeaked as a rock gave way beneath her searching foot.

"Eh? Dinnae ye worry, A'll catch ye," Fergus said. "A'm right big enough and A'm on solid ground, Princess."

"Stop callin' me thae," Elinor snapped, continuing to descend.

"How? Ye keep remindin' me thae ye're one."

"Ah—dinnae rightly know. Jus' stop callin' me thae," Elinor muttered, and suddenly found solid floor beneath her feet. She dropped down, only to find that her legs were much shakier than she originally thought; she collapsed on the ground.

"Help ma Boab! Ye awrite?"

She staggered to her feet, shooting Fergus a glare. "Ye di'n't catch me," she accused.

"Ye di'n't looken ye wanted 'elp," Fergus said with a shrug. "Ready t' see th' cave?"

Elinor swept to her feet and dusted off her dress. "'Slong as th'ain't no monsters too," she said, and walked after him with dignity.

::-::

iii. a heartbeat

The weeks that followed were much less painful than the weeks before.

Elinor found herself sneaking to the cave whenever she could, despite the danger—and when she did, Fergus was always there, waiting for her. They became a pair of little children whenever they went to the cave—children in search of adventure, danger, treasure. Many times they found all of these things; adventure in the creepy, dark crevices of the cave, danger in the occasional creature they walked into (although nothing Fergus couldn't handle), and several pretty treasures like jewelry or gold strewn about the cave floor. The cave became their cave; it became a symbol of their friendship, which was strengthening by the day.

Then Elinor began to experience something that she thought she never would.

It started out innocuously, with nothing but an erratic heartbeat. They seemed to come with no pattern; sometimes when she was riding, sometimes when she was painting, but mainly when she was adventuring through the caves with Fergus. Once it got so severe that she began to have troubles breathing.

"Ye awrite?" Fergus asked, catching her with his large hands as she stumbled to the ground, gasping for breath.

"Ah dinnae know what's wrong," she mumbled; then her heart lurched as Fergus's arm cradled her shoulders. "Sommat—sommat feels right strange."

He studied her face. "Ye face is red," he said, his fingers brushing against her chin.

"I-it's gettin' worse, so seems," Elinor said, holding one hand against her racing chest.

It was only when he took her tiny hands in his very large ones that she realized it.

"Michty me," she whispered, staring at his rough, callused, warm digits.

She was beginning to fall in love with Fergus of DunBroch.

She scrambled away from Fergus instantly, staring at him with wide eyes. He only frowned curiously, examining her with concern.

"Sommat on ma face?" he asked, wiping his features with his sleeve.

She hurriedly glanced away. "A' wanner go back."

"Whit's thae?" Fergus asked, brow creasing.

"A' mibay... A' reckon... A' dinnae..." Her mouth was struggling over itself. She'd never asked to leave early before. "A'm feelin' fair puggled t'day."

He reached to her, but she pulled away. She caught the brief flash of hurt that whisked across his eyes. "Ye look pure unweill."

She began to climb the cliffs—but this time, her grip was shakier than usual. Fergus was never more than an arm's reach away, watching her every move. She nearly slipped at every step she took.

"If ye want, we kin jus' stay in th' cave," Fergus called.

"N-nay," she mumbled. She had to get home. She had to get away from Fergus.

As it was, Fate seemed to hate her.

Right as one of her hands slipped on a falling rock, the footholds beneath both her feet crumbled. She tumbled downward for half a second in a terrifying freefall—but then a large hand wrapped around her waist and crushed her to Fergus's chest.

He was warm, strong, his heartbeat rapid from climbing the cliffs; he felt sturdy like an oak tree and tough like a boulder, but gentle as a spring breeze and kind as her own da.

"Ye awrite, Princess?" he asked, studying her with a frightening intensity.

She nearly struggled to get away from him... before she remembered that she was, well, hanging on a towering cliff with very, very sharp rocks at the bottom. "Mibay," she mumbled, turning her face away.

"Well, nae more climbin' fae ye, Princess," he said. "Ye're wobbly laat a wee bairn."

"A'm ur no wee bairn!" Elinor said defensively.

"Ye gantin' to kill yeself?"

Elinor ducked her head. "Nae particular."

He swung her easily over one should like a sack of potatoes. "Then quait ye gab. It's nae danger if A' jus' carry ye."

She balked at the undignified position. "A-at least carry me proper, Fergus! A'm ur lady!"

"And ur princess, An'no. Quait ye gab, lassie."

Elinor almost protested again—but presently decided against it. After all, her life was completely in this giant's hands.

::-::

iv. a battle

She constantly avoided him after that.

No longer did she meet him at the cave, nor explore the rest of the forest with him. When he became concerned enough to start flicking pebbles at her windows again, she threw her pillow over her head and pretended not to hear. Family mealtimes where awkward, where Fergus would spend much of his time trying to get a reaction out of her—but she made sure to keep her visage stone-cold, silent, and above all, proper.

She would not fall in love with him. If she did, her parents won. If her parents won, what little remained of her freedom was gone.

A week passed, then two, then three. Fergus stopped coming to her windows. He stopped trying to talk to her at dinners. He stopped everything. They treated each other with a strange coldness and a hostile unfamiliarity.

Until the invaders came.

Reports flooded into the palace of Clan Kincaid. They were fierce warriors, with no conduct of honor; armed with brutal weapons carved from teeth, horns, and husks of animals; marching in numbers that reached to the millions, or so it was said.

Fergus of DunBroch was immediately called home, where he was to lead his meek force of five hundred as the firstborn son.

Surprisingly, he visited her before he left. She was embroidering furiously, her unfortunate tapestry feeling the wrath of her fiery needle, stabbing, stabbing, stabbing with a recklessness that was not proper—but she didn't care. When he opened her door, she couldn't help but drop the needle in surprise; it caught her finger and drew blood.

"Jings! ye caught me surprised!" she hissed, examining her finger.

Before the cave, Fergus would've rushed to examine her. Now, he stood at a distance, his face flat.

"How ye've been avoidin' me?" he demanded sharply.

She rose to her feet. "T'ain't proper to enter a lady's room with naebody aroond."

"Tell me!" he roared, his brow bearing down in a fearsome glare.

"Ye been daeing th' same, ye galoot!" she yelled, then remembered that a lady does not raise her voice.

"Who did it firs', eh?!" Fergus bellowed. "Ye did! Elinor of Kincaid did!"

"How ur ye askin' me this?! Whotcher gantin' for?!" (Forget being a lady.)

"A' want t' know so thae when A' die, I wain't gonny regret ne'er askin' ye!"

She felt her heart plummet to her stomach like an icy stone. Right. War. Battle. Sometimes she forgot that one existed, since all was well in Kincaid.

"Ye sound laat ye know ye gonny die," she mumbled, sinking back into her chair.

The tension in his shoulders rolled away. "Five hundred and three million jus' dinnae add up, Princess," he said.

Suddenly Elinor felt cold all over. She remembered how warm she felt in the cave. She felt empty; she remembered how fulfilled she had felt in the cave. She shouldn't have avoided him. She shouldn't have been so blockheaded.

"A'm ur galoot," she whispered.

He frowned. "Ye wot?"

"Git out."

"Nae."

"Git out!"

"Nae 'till ye give me ma answer!" Fergus demanded.

She stalked forward until their faces were an inch apart. She wanted to tilt her head up. She wanted to wrap her hands around his neck. He was so warm-an excitable, childlike, warm man. Who was going to war. A big, bloody war.

"I wain't tell ye 'till the war's over," she hissed. "Then ye wain't do sommat stupid and die."

Fergus blinked in confusion—once—twice—and then he straightened, his features hardening. "Ye want me t' die."

"What?"

"I told ma parents ye had a good heart. Never thought A'd be so wrong about a body."

He had completely misunderstood her. "Fergus—"

"Dinnae ye worry. A'll be sure t' come back nice and dead." He turned his back. "Th' betrothal's called off, case ye hain't heard."

He couldn't leave like this. What if he actually died? "A' wosn't—Fergus—"

He stalked away. She followed him and called his name. He ignored her.

::-::

v. an attack

Six months into the war, Clan Kincaid was decimated.

The invaders swarmed over their gates, setting fire to houses, killing villagers, destroying, destroying, destroying. Her father sent her away on horseback and told her to flee to DunBroch. She left with screams and fearsome cries still ringing in her ears.

She never saw her parents again.

DunBroch welcomed her with open arms but a cold heart. The lord and lady, once doting on her like a second daughter, now passed her by with an airy indifference. When she did summon up courage to ask about Fergus, they said it wasn't her right to know.

From then on, Elinor of Clan Kincaid resolved to be perfect. She would make them like her again. She would make them re-betroth her with Fergus. And she would make Fergus see that she loved him-and would hope that he would do the same.

She was proper. Poised. Elegant. Firm and confident, but not impudent. She set the precedent of manners. She was a lady.

They warmed to her again. The lady even apologized, saying that she should have heard both sides of the story before drawing conclusions. Barely able to conceal her relief, Elinor requested news on Fergus.

"He's holdin' them back," the lady said. "He's gifted at tactics. Mibay thae's just cos the boy is willin' to dae anything, so his soldiers ur willin' to dae th' same in return."

That wasn't exactly the answer she wanted.

"Will he be awrite?"

A faint smile crossed the lady's lips. "He's managed t' form an alliance with Macintosh, Dingwall, and MacGuffin all on his own. He's a force to be reckoned with, Princess Kincaid."

That wasn't quite the answer she wanted, either. "Is he returnin' soon?"

She nodded. "Next week. He's gonny prepare for the final battle."

Elinor gave up and went to bed. She dreamt of fire and pain and screams and watching the stones of her home char like wood.

::-::

vi. a kiss

When Fergus returned home, he was heartier than ever.

He danced about a roaring bonfire with his fellow soldiers, singing tales of extravagant battles, downing beer and wolfing food. But through all the festivities, he completely ignored Elinor.

It was her turn to move.

She spent most of the night learning how to cook from sympathetic maids. When it got late enough, she tiptoed to his room, balancing a tray of beautifully arranged fruits and meats on one hand, knocking on his solid door with the other.

The door squealed open. "Ma, it's get'in late. Ye should be in—"

Then he saw Elinor.

"Mornin'. A' mean, evenin'." Elinor mentally berated herself. "A've some vittles. If ye be gantin' for any."

His eyes narrowed. "A've eaten. A'm full."

His voice wasn't cold-just cautious, wary. "A' hain't poisoned it, if ye're wonderin'," Elinor said, rolling her eyes. "Take it."

He didn't move.

"My arm's shooglin', ye boakin' bawbee!" she hissed. "Take it!"

He took it. "Boakin' bawbee?" he said humorously, cracking a smile.

She felt warmer than she had in six months. "A' reckoned it sounded good," she said, shrugging.

He burst into laughter—large, rolling laughter that poured from his mouth and filled the desolate room. Yet once he stopped, he was completely serious. "A' missed ye, Elinor."

She felt her heart stutter in her chest. "A' missed ye too, Fergus."

"Th' final attack'll be the morrow," Fergus said. "Can ye tell me now?"

She blinked. "Tell ye wot?"

"How ye avoided me."

She tangled her hands in her dress. Yes; he deserved to know that. "Afore A' tell ye... promise t' give me some grace."

"How dae ye mean?"

"A' wosn't thinkin' laat a sane body, Fergus. A' wos a bit—a wee bit—not right in the head, mibay."

"A' dinnae right know whotcher sayin'."

"Ye will. Soon." Elinor closed her eyes and swelled a deep breath. The countless nights she'd spent composing the perfect speech slipped her mind as she felt words flow out of her mouth like a fountain. "A' di'n't rightly know wot A' wanted, Fergus. All my life, A'd loved art-but my mother kept trainin' me in politics, sayin' A' wos gonny marry somebody great, and A' needed to know everything in order to be a proper lady—but A' wanted my own life, ye see, and A' wosn't gantin' to listen."

"So ye avoided me?" Fergus said, baffled.

"It felt laat a way t' change my fate," Elinor explained, feeling more and more ashamed of herself with every word. "Mibay if A' acted unhappy, my parents would change their minds, and they'd let me be free. It di'n't matter thae ye became a friend t' me—a good friend. A' wanted my own life." Seeing the flabbergasted expression on his face, she hurried. "An'no it dinnae make sense. A' wos strange."

"But—thae's how ye've been so cold t' me?" Fergus mumbled.

"A' wos a galoot, An'no," Elinor said, squeezing her eyes shut. "A'm sorry. A'm sorry, Fergus, right sorry—"

She was shut up with a pair of lips on hers. Warm. Soft. But rugged, textured. Like Fergus. She fisted her hands in his shirt like a desperate child, feeling a deep fire swirl around in her veins, warming her from the tips of her fingers to the tips of her toes. She felt a large hand weave between her long, silky hair, clutching at the back of her neck-then an arm wrap gently around her waist, pressing her against Fergus's chest. She felt lightheaded, dizzy, like she was flying. She felt like every color in the world was pressed into the back of her eyelids, like every taste was painted on the tip of her tongue. Some part of her chest that had always felt empty and cold was now pulsating with life, with energy. When Fergus broke away, she was breathless.

"A' thought—" Fergus smiled, pressing his forehead against hers. "A' thought it wos cos of sommat A' did."

"Sommat ye did?"

"By thae time, Elinor, A'd, er... Well, come t' fancy ye. More than A' could say with words, ye know." He cleared his throat. "Bin wantin' t' dae this fer a time now."

She blushed. "Thae time in th' cave, when A' was laat sick... A' realized thae A' wos-wos-wos in love with ye."

He stiffened in shock. "Wot's that?"

She laughed aloud. "A' di'n't know! A' thought ye thought of me as a bairn. Ye ne'er seemed to react much."

"Ye were in love with me?" he mumbled.

"Aye. Now quait ye gab," she said, blushing even deeper. She shifted out of his grasp and started towards the door. "A'm in need of some sleep, Fergus."

He caught her arm. "Ye kinnae go yet, lassie," he said. "A' ne'er knew ye likened t' me so."

"Well, A' did. Let me go, Fergus."

Her joking tone quickly trailed away when she looked him in the eyes. He was completely serious, with no hint of a smile behind his kind features.

"Do ye still feel laat that?"

She froze. "Wot?"

"Ye ur still... Um..."

"Oh." In love?

"Aye." He scratched at his vivid red hair.

"Aye," she said.

"Really?" he said, a bright smile catapulting across his face.

"Aye," she replied, ducking her head in embarrassment.

He pulled her to him, a rumbling laughter pouring from his mouth, leaving her swinging like a straw doll in his bulky grasp. She expected him to say something—Ye shoulda acted laat it, ye shoulda telt me, ye shoulda, ye shoulda—but all he did was laugh, laugh with a purity of joy that she'd never seen in anyone else but Fergus.

"A'm sorry for bein' so pure crabbit, Fergus," she mumbled, feeling his warmth seeping into her bones. "A' telt ye sommats thae were real strange."

Fergus's laughter faded. "Ye telt me ye wanted me t' die."

"Ye addled my words wrong in ye head," she said, flicking his forehead playfully. "A' ment thae ye ki'n't dae sommat stupid laat die."

Fergus blinked in confusion—once—twice—and then he laughed again, a booming laughter in which he dipped Elinor down and was about to kiss her again when—

"Ye can forgive me? Jus' laat that?" she whispered, one hand pushing his forehead back.

"Och, love." His eyes were burning. "A' already have."

She removed her hand. His lips sealed over hers.

::-::

"And thae, Merida, is why ye mum can understand ye."

"Why daen't ye tell me this afore? It'd've helped a mite with MacGuffin, ye know?"

"A' telt ye, da'ling. Ye daen't listen!"

"Ey? Daen't A' now?"

"Merida, dinnae make that face! 'Tain't becoming of a lady!"

"But if ye'd just telt me sooner, A'd know how MacGuffin—"

"No excuses, Merida! A princess must—"

"Must have reservations 'bout her betrothal?"

"...Well, certainly, thae's true."

"Tell me more 'bout ye and Da, Mum. A' liken ye stories, ye know."

"Dae ye? Well, then—once, ye Da came with a notion thae A' right hated insects..."

(A/N: Welp. I hate writing endings. You can probably tell why.)