They descended around lunchtime, thinking to join the chieftains, only to find them neither arguing not eating but clustered in the doorway, watching something happening in the courtyard. Merida ducked under her father's arm to see what was so interesting. A blue flame erupted over the trees and Toothless flew through it, then swooped over the castle wall and landed in the middle of the courtyard. On his back Hiccup was laughing, like he hadn't just done something fantastically dangerous. He looked down at where the young lords stood and extended his hand to Wee Dingwall, who took it.

From the doorway his father shouted, "Oi! Don't do that! You bring my son back here, you ruffian!" but they ignored him, Wee Dingwall grinning and climbing on behind Hiccup. Toothless rose, much more sedately than he'd landed, and took an easy lap around the castle; it was the most leisurely she'd seen him fly.

Once one of the heirs had gone, the others had to as well—not because they wanted to, but because not riding the dragon would have caused them dishonor. Young MacGuffin seemed worried that he was too big for Toothless, but Hiccup encouraged him, and the dragon nodded until the boy got on. Young Macintosh just seemed scared, sitting stiffly, his grip on the straps white-knuckled.

Then the triplets demanded a turn and Hiccup wisely took them one at a time, though not before finding a length of rope and tying one end around the saddle and the other around the boy's waist. Of course for them just flying wasn't enough; they'd seen Toothless breathe fire and they wouldn't be content until he produced more. Hamish created the game of tossing a small stick for Toothless to incinerate as he hovered; the boys had never been happier.

She couldn't see their faces, but the lords seemed reluctantly impressed by the display. "First one to train a dragon, the king said he was," MacGuffin remarked. "I wonder is it anything like breaking a wild horse."

"A wild horse that can fly and spit flame, sure," Macintosh snorted.

"It seems tame enough. Maybe he raised it from a baby."

"Egg," said Dingwall.

Macintosh stared down hard at the top of his head. "What?"

"Dragons come from eggs."

"What, like a chicken?"

"Aye."

"And how do you know that?" Macintosh demanded.

Dingwall scoffed, as if outraged by their ignorance. "Everyone knows that."

"What happened to his tail? That's what I'd like to know," MacGuffin said. What happened to Hiccup's leg, more like.

"I can tell you that," Fergus offered. "It's a grand story. Over lunch, eh? Hubert, Hamish, Harris, come eat."

They all shuffled around to head back into the hall, and Hiccup was about to join them when Toothless shook his head, pointing with his snout at Merida, standing at the door with her arms crossed and foot tapping. Did he think he was going to take everyone else on a ride and not her? Hiccup grinned and held out his hand. That was a good enough invitation for her; she ran to Toothless and leapt on his back, hugging Hiccup snugly about the middle.

He rose over the castle walls and then shot down, swooping under the bridge. Merida felt her stomach plummet within her, a more pleasant feeling than she would have expected, and squealed, tightening her grip around Hiccup, who laughed. Toothless flew over the surface of the loch, close enough for his wings to skim the water. As they flew Merida thought back to their previous flights: when Toothless had found the kidnappers, when they'd spent hours over the sea, when they'd hopped from island to island and over the treetops. This flight, easy and calm, with the wind in her face smelling of home, was by far the best of them. She was even almost able to forget what was waiting for them back at the castle. She rested her chin on Hiccup's shoulder and closed her eyes. No matter what happened, she'd keep this, the feeling of flying with him, forever.

This was it. Her father was solid next to her, a comforting presence; her mother radiated calm confidence. Her parents were there as the authorities; they would support her, if necessary, but the work was up to her. She could do this. The lords and their sons sat before them, the older men as always much more interested in what was going on than the younger ones; if Hiccup were one of them, he'd be paying attention to what was being said about his future. For a split second she wished that she were wherever he was right now, instead of here, about to fight the lords and her own stubborn nature.

"Your Highness, you can appreciate how recent events have made it imperative that you decide your fate," Lord MacGuffin said.

She nodded. "I do appreciate it. And I've learned many things recently that have better prepared me for what I must do."

"Oh, aye? What have you learned?" Dingwall asked.

"About patience and forgiveness and kindness. About hidden strength, and intelligence, and sacrifice." About dragons, she thought, and fire, and the sea. Words: when to use them, and when you don't have to use them.

Predictably, they were unswayed by her personal growth. "That's grand," Macintosh said dismissively. "And it's helped you come to a decision?"

"Not so much a decision as a proposal."

Dingwall squinted. "Isn't it all the same? Your decision will be a proposal."

"Not exactly. My lords, you have shown great patience in allowing us, your children, the time to find our own way in the world. I thank you for that. In this time I've learned that there are threats outside of our kingdom, people who wish to take from us. Like you, I've realized that the bonds we have are among our most important defenses. Our strength comes from our unity. Divided, we are weakened; alone, we are vulnerable. My lords, if I chose one of your sons now, would it not cause jealousy and division among you?"

As much as they would like to deny it, it would, at least a little. Their sideways glances at each other confirmed that. They weren't really spiteful, she knew, but each had his pride to protect. "What are you suggesting?" Lord MacGuffin asked gruffly as the other lords eyed her suspiciously.

"Perhaps there might be another option." She swallowed, tried to keep her voice steady and confident. "A suitor not from any of the clans."

"And what good would that do us?" Dingwall asked. "The point of the marriage is to strengthen our alliance."

"Would you have me strengthen an alliance with one clan at the risk of alienating the others?" She shook her head. "That would serve DunBroch ill."

"I suppose you have someone in mind." Macintosh sounded sarcastic and disgruntled, and she quailed momentarily.

But before she could respond, one of the lads spoke up. "Dad, I'm dropping out," the younger Dingwall announced, mostly to the air over his father's ear. "I don't want to marry her."

"Aye, me as well. I've no chance."

"What?" Lord MacGuffin demanded.

"They're right," Young Macintosh said. "It's obvious. As long as he's here, none of us will ever win her."

"I am right here, you know," she reminded them. They ignored her. If I have to marry into one of these families, I may well murder my father-in-law, she thought. See how you like your alliance then.

"What're you talking about? That Viking boy?"

"That's the one. The princess is in love with him."

"It wouldn't be fair to ask her to marry one of us," Wee Dingwall said. She smiled at him, and he returned it.

"Is this true?" Lord Dingwall asked, none too pleased. Merida hid a gulp. This wasn't exactly how she had planned to tell the lords, but what's done was done.

"It's true," she answered, steadily as she could, hoping she wasn't blushing.

Lord Macintosh turned to Fergus. "And you allowed this?"

Her dad shrugged. "It's not exactly something I have any control over. Besides, it had already happened by the time he returned her to us."

"Oh, that's it, then. She just feels this way because he saved her. That's gratitude, Your Highness, not love," Macintosh explained condescendingly. Merida fought to control her temper.

"I think I know the difference between them."

"You don't owe him anything for bringing you back," Dingwall said. "A hearty thank you and maybe a bit of gold, but not marriage."

"I owe him my life," she shot back, letting her temper flare. "We owe him this at least, and more besides."

"I won't deny that he seems very impressive," Lord Macintosh said, "but—"

"He's a Viking. He's not one of us."

Merida took a deep breath. "My lords, you agreed that you would let us choose our own destinies."

"Aye, but we thought one of our own would be your destiny."

"And so did I. So did we all. But things have changed. I would not even suggest such a change—such a break with tradition if I didn't believe that he was the best choice for me, and a good choice for the kingdom."

"We know nothing about him!" Macintosh protested.

"We know he was the first of his people to train a dragon, even designing the saddle and mechanism to help him fly again," Wee Dingwall said.

"And that he brought the princess back home safely," Young Macintosh added. His father glared at him.

"And that he lost his foot battling against the giant dragon who was threatening his people, and that the dragon Toothless saved his life then," said Young MacGuffin. At least, that's what it seemed like he said.

The support of the young lords buoyed her confidence. If their fathers wanted to know about Hiccup, she was more than willing to tell them.

"He's the firstborn son of a chieftain," she pointed out. "And he's more than proved his worth, in strength and in intelligence. If you like, he'll do it again." She grinned suddenly, wild and fierce, her blood pulsing quicker. "But remember, the princess gets to pick the challenge."

It took just a little more convincing—surely, she suggested mildly, they saw the wisdom in not pushing the future queen into doing something she didn't want to do—before the lords agreed to consider Hiccup as a suitor of equal rank. And when Lord Macintosh put forward a proposal that she be allowed time alone, without the influence of any of the suitors, to consider her choice, she agreed readily, and not just because it showed her open to compromise. Even though the glint in Macintosh's eye made it clear that she wouldn't really be left alone, it was a sensible idea: the lords would feel they were all on an equal footing (even as they bent the rules to their best advantage), she would be able to see if there was more than just infatuation between the two of them, and Hiccup would have time to decide what he wanted to do—if she was worth giving up his life in Berk for.

It would give her time to accept the possibility that he might not return, whether by choice or by chance, and time to prepare to become someone's wife. Heaven knew she would need the whole year for that. That had been Elinor's contribution; when Lord MacGuffin had asked how long they were to wait, she had said "A year and a day" like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Though they'd frowned, none of the chieftains had protested. Then Mum had written the compact, draft after draft in her flowing hand as the lords talked over each other, until finally she read out a version they all agreed on, and each of the four leaders put his name down, formally agreeing. That done, Elinor had gone through the laborious task of translating it so Hiccup would understand, producing both a copy in runes and a phonetic version for Fergus to proclaim.

He peeked in just as the servants had cleared lunch. "Hiccup," her mum called before he could withdraw, and he walked in, hair damp and pants speckled with something green; he must have been at the loch with the boys. He took in the papers and the dictionary curiously, then looked at Fergus as he read. Merida watched his face tense; at the end he nodded, looking from the lords to her parents, gauging their reactions, and finally to her.

There was wariness in his expression, like he worried about what she thought of all of this, and she smiled, slow and proud. The year would pass all too slowly as she waited; without him there it would drag on like the longest winter, like the last week before a birthday when you knew there were sweets and presents waiting and so every minute seemed like an hour. This would be worse. But there would be plenty to fill the time—her mother would see to that, give her things to learn and practice during the long days, and at night she would have time to remember what she was working for, what she was looking forward to. Whatever the year brought she would face it, meet it, fight it, overcome it; no challenge would best her, not when he was the goal. And as she met his eyes, saw the crooked quirk of his mouth, the tilt of his head, she knew that the reward would be worth a year, ten years, a hundred. A year and a day didn't last forever, but what came at the end of it would.