Fanfic: The Tale of the First Bear King
I wrote Brave fic! You know how it goes: attempt to finish half-done backlog of fanfics, go to see awesome film, get attacked by plotbunny for that, too. XD
Title: The Tale of the First Bear King
Fandom: Brave (Disney/Pixar)
Characters: Mor’du, the Witch, Merida, Elinor
Rating: PG
Warnings: spoilers for the whole film, some non-explicit violent imagery, canonical character death.
Word count: 3947
Disclaimer: Brave belongs to Disney and Pixar, not to me.
Summary: One man cannot possess the strength of ten men without paying a terrible price for it.
Comments: Mor’du backstory, playing about with some ideas me and my sister talked about after we saw the film. I thought his story was something that could have come straight out of Celtic mythology, and I wanted to explore it a bit.
Re: names. I’m assuming that “Mor’du” is a name given to him by the humans, so for the four princes, I’ve raided names from the Pictish king-lists. I made up a name for the old kingdom, too (DunMathan). Guess what mathan is Gaelic for! My nomenclature is so inspired lololol. :P
I decided not to write dialect into the characters’ speech. It wouldn’t go with the pseudo-archaic tone I was going for, or the overall tone of the thing. Also the reason why I never tried to address the question of whatever became of the mahogany cheeseboard. (Seriously, Pixar, I NEED TO KNOW. XD)
-
Before Mor’du there was Maelchon, firstborn son of Clan DunMathan. Renowned from sea to sea as the fiercest warrior living, he led the warriors of the clan against invaders and rival clans alike, fortifying what his father had first built, until DunMathan stood high above the rest. So mighty was he that there were none who could best him in single combat, and indeed, there were tales that whole warbands would flee before him rather than face his axe.
But tales are just that, and no warrior, no matter how mighty, can possess the strength of ten men.
As the years passed and his father, the king, grew old and sickened, it seemed certain that Maelchon would succeed him. But as his life neared its end, the king decreed that the rule of the kingdom should pass, not only to his firstborn, but to all his sons. So when it came to pass that the old king died, DunMathan had four rulers: Maelchon the strongest, Talorcan the wisest, Bridei the kindest, and Drustan the best speaker. And for a time it seemed that the four brothers ruled in harmony.
But in secret, Maelchon brooded. He resented sharing the throne with his brothers. It was not their wisdom, nor their kindness, nor their pretty words, which had made DunMathan strong, but his own sword-arm. He, who since boyhood had endeavoured to follow in his father’s footsteps as a warrior. He, who had spent long years perfecting the art of war by axe and sword and bow, who had scaled the Crone’s Tooth and quenched his thirst from the waters of the Firefalls. And all this whilst his three brothers had spent their boyhood running riot through the castle and scaring the servants with their tricks. Day by day, the resentment built within him, festering like a wound, until in time it seemed that he stood on one side of a wide chasm, and his three brothers on the other. DunMathan was his by right, and he would make it his.
And one day, as the four brothers gathered around the council table in the great hall, he told them of his intent.
“But brother,” said Bridei, uncomprehending, “it was Father’s wish that we should rule DunMathan together.”
“The throne should have gone to the most deserving,” Maelchon declared. “I am the firstborn heir, and it is I who have earned the right to rule, by the strength of my sword-arm.”
“Not all strength is found in the sword-arm, brother,” said Talorcan mildly. “Father desired us to rule together, so that our best qualities might balance each other, united against all enemies.”
“Enough!” Maelchon cried, and brought his fist down upon the table. “Strength in battle is what matters in these times. I have fought our enemies and defeated them, where the three of you would have treated in empty words and alliances, and lost everything that our clan has built! I have earned that throne with every drop of blood that I have spilled, whilst you were content to sit in council. It belongs to me!”
“Brother,” said Drustan, “we love you well, and we honour your strength. But strength alone is not enough to make a king. Unchecked, it can be the path to ruin. Strength without balance is but savagery.”
For a moment, Maelchon was silent, rage beating like a red mist behind his eyes. When he found his voice again, his voice was little more than a growl. “You will not cede the throne?”
They sat across the table from him, stony and silent, and shook their heads. And with that, Maelchon’s fury erupted.
“Then if you will not give it to me, I will take it by force!”
As one, they stood, as if they would resist him, but they knew as well as he that they could not match him.
“You would fight your own brothers?” whispered Bridei.
“Aye, to claim what is mine!”
“The throne was entrusted to us all,” said Talorcan. “It is only your pride, Maelchon, that makes you believe it is yours alone. And we will not let you ruin this kingdom for the sake of your arrogance.”
“We cast you out,” Drustan proclaimed, “never to set foot again in this kingdom.”
At first, Maelchon could say nothing, stunned by their audacity. Then he cried, “Very well. I will leave you. But I promise you now, I will return, and I will claim my rightful place as king of DunMathan.”
“You may be the greatest warrior of us all, Maelchon,” said Drustan, “but even you have not the strength to do battle against an entire kingdom on your own. Accept your fate, brother, and go in peace.”
“Brother!” Maelchon echoed, scoffing. “You call me brother? I am no longer your brother.”
He cast his gaze about the hall, until it came to rest on the stone carving depicting the four of them as kings, sitting side by side in apparent unity. A false image. He stared at it until his gaze swam. Then, he hefted his axe and brought it down. Sparks flew and, with a single blow, the stone cracked and the carving fell, broken into two pieces. On one, the images of his brothers together, and on the other, hewn away from the rest, the image of himself.
Breathing hard, Maelchon looked up. His brothers stared back at him, the same look of horror in their countenance. Without another word, Maelchon strode forth from the hall.
He left DunMathan that night, saddling his horse and riding out as a storm broke over the glen, the wind shrieking over the loch and the rain driving in his eyes. He rode hard and long, away from the castle, through the mountains and deep into the woods. And with every pound of his horse’s hooves, he cursed his brothers, and cursed the fate to which they had driven him. But he would not accept it. He would return, and he would claim what was his. He had not the strength to take DunMathan alone, but his fame as a warrior was unparalleled. There would be hundreds, thousands, who would flock to his sword...
Suddenly, his horse reared, screaming, and he clung to its mane and dug his heels hard into its flanks to keep from being thrown. With a curse, he settled the beast, and looked up to see what had scared it.
Just ahead of him, the thick press of trees opened into a clearing where the mist gathered, thick and swirling. So thick, it seemed to smother all sound. No birds cried, no wind rustled the crowns of the trees; even the noise of the storm seemed distant. And, black against the white shrouds of mist, thrust the looming shapes of standing stones.
The horse shied again, and Maelchon dismounted, pacing alone into the centre of the clearing. As he looked around, he realised that the stones formed a wide ring around him, tall and stark and brooding, jutting from the earth like the broken teeth of a giant.
Maelchon had seen such stones before, raised so long ago that even their builders were forgotten and they were now left alone, in dark forests and on high moors, to guard their ancient secrets in silence. But though he had ridden the length and breadth of this kingdom, hunted beasts and foes alike through the woods and the hills, he had no memory of ever seeing this circle before.
That was when he heard it, a sound that penetrated the heavy silence of the circle. Faint and soft, almost like a sigh. At once, Maelchon’s head turned in the direction from where it had come, and he saw it. A shimmer of blue, like the heart of a flame, suspended in the air just a few paces away.
A will-o’-the-wisp. Maelchon had heard tell of them often enough, said by some to guide a person to their fate. He smiled. Perhaps this was why he had found the stones.
He advanced on the wisp, reaching out to snatch it, but it suddenly disappeared. For a moment, Maelchon felt a flaring of thwarted rage. Did fate itself mock him, by taunting him with a promise, only for it to disappear before he could take hold of it? The wisp flickered into life again, a little farther off, and he leapt forward to seize it again, only for it to disappear and reappear once more, even farther away. Biting down on his frustration, Maelchon realised that it was a trail, a pathway of blue lights leading him deeper into the woods.
That was how he found the cottage. A small shack nearly hidden beneath the mossy bank that overhung it, and the dwelling of a bent old crone who insisted that she was a simple woodcarver, though he knew her at once for what she really was: a witch. And with that realisation came a sudden, cold sense of satisfaction. This was where the wisps had led him. This witch would give him means to make DunMathan his.
He demanded a spell of her. She protested at first, insisting her only wares were the wood carvings that filled her cottage. But when he agreed to buy one of her wares as well as a spell, she relented.
“And how will you pay for that, lad?” she asked.
Maelchon considered. He had left DunMathan with little more than the clothes on his back; he had not much to barter with. But then he looked down, and saw on his finger the ring he wore - an heirloom of Clan DunMathan, bearing the clan’s sigil of two crossed axes. It was all he had that was of any worth, and it was a fitting exchange.
The witch accepted his price, and asked him what spell he desired. Before Maelchon had even an instant to think it over, his brothers’ words returned to him, full of their scorn, and his mind was made up. With this witch’s power, he would take DunMathan alone, one man against an entire kingdom, and his brothers would feel the fury of his revenge.
“A spell to give me the strength of ten men.”
With that, the witch led him outside, then inside again, where he found the inside of her cottage changed from woodcarver’s hut to witch’s den, and he watched as she and her crow familiar brewed a noisome green potion. And at the end of it, she put in his hand a cake. At first, he was tempted to curse her for a trickster, but she assured him that if he ate it, he would have what he had asked for.
“You have until the second sunrise to reverse it,” she told him, “then the effects of the spell will be permanent.”
Maelchon smiled. “Good.”
“But should you change your mind, remember these words: Fate be changed, look inside. Mend the bond torn by pride.”
“I thank you for your help, crone, but I have no wish to break the spell.”
He left the cottage and somehow, he was not sure how, found himself back at the stone circle. Not wishing to waste any more time, he took the cake and bit into it. At first, he felt nothing. Then, suddenly, his gorge rose, and his head began to reel. He felt sick, terribly sick, and in a moment of dazed horror, he realised that the crone must have poisoned him. Cursing her, he fell into darkness.
When he awoke, his head ached, and he felt utterly unlike himself. He stood, then staggered. His whole body felt cumbersome, as if it were carrying a great weight. It was only when he looked down that he realised what had happened. Where his hands should be were now great black-furred paws, edged with huge, wicked claws. Weapons capable of tearing out a man’s insides with one slash.
Unbelieving, he ran to find a burn or a loch, a place where he could see himself, his gait unsteady, his body unused to its new shape. Before long, he found a swift-flowing river, and when he peered into the water, his wavering reflection showed the face of a bear, formed in hard, savage lines, with small, glinting dark eyes, his mouth filled with huge teeth as deadly as his claws.
For one incredulous moment, he stared at his reflection, but when he was finally able to accept the truth of what he was seeing, he was seized by a fierce, terrible joy, as wild as the spirit of the bear. He could feel it brushing against his own human mind, filling him with its strength. The crone had kept her word, after all.
He reared back on his hind legs, opened his jaws - but where once a man’s voice might have bellowed a laugh, a bear’s roar echoed off the mountainsides.
DunMathan fell helplessly beneath his fury. The great gates, so impregnable to human foes, fell open against his attack, and the courtyard ran red with blood. Man, woman, or child: he spared none of them. They fell with every tear of his claws, every rend of his teeth. Spears and arrows flew at him, only to glance harmlessly off his hide, before he tore apart the guards who had thrown them. Up and up he went, through the courtyards, where he felled the last defenders where they gathered before the doors, and burst into the great hall where his brothers were.
He slew them where they stood, their bodies rent by tooth and claw. His human self turned away as the bear’s fury consumed him. It had tasted blood, and it would be satisfied. But in the last instant before the bear took him completely, Talorcan looked up, and maybe he saw something in the dark eyes of the bear, something he recognised, for the last thing he cried before he fell was, “Maelchon!”
Then it was done, and he stood over the bodies of the men who had been his brothers, king alone and undisputed.
But when the man clawed back mastery of his mind, it was only then, in the stark light of the setting sun, that he realised his deed. With a terrible clarity, he looked upon the bodies of his brothers through human eyes, rent as utterly as the carving, which lay where he had left it, cleft in two. And it was only then that the witch’s words came drifting back to him:
Fate be changed, look inside. Mend the bond torn by pride.
Only now did he realise the terrible price that the spell exacted. In his pride, he had sought to put himself above his brothers, and severed the bond between them beyond repair. In his pride, he had slain his own brothers, and cursed himself to this monstrous form forever. Too late, he realised that he had become ensnared in a trap of his own making. The second sunrise of his enchantment approached, and there was nothing he could do now to mend what had been broken. His brothers lay dead by his own hand, and already he could feel the dark presence of the bear looming over him, a shadow to swallow him whole.
With what remained of his human mind, he raged and stormed, dashing his claws against the stone walls in powerless rage. He saw the carving of his human self, and tore at its face until it was gone, chipped away, lost as he himself soon would be.
And as the harsh light of the rising sun broke through the ruined doorway of the hall to flood over him, he let out a bellow that made the very stones of DunMathan tremble, as the man screamed in despair and the bear roared in triumph.
King alone he was now, king of an empty hall and slaughtered subjects. Men shunned DunMathan, having heard what had made its lair within its walls, and in time, it fell to ruin. The great stone ramparts crumbled, the great round tower sagged in, and the roof gaped open to the sky. Where once had been heard the music of the harp and the laughter of warriors, now the only sounds were the moan of the wind and the whisper of crumbling stone. And alone he roamed the borders of his kingdom, through mountain and glen and forest, dark and fell, the scent of blood ever in his nostrils. He took them in the forest: travellers who strayed from the path, hunters who thought they stalked an ordinary bear; and at length, he emerged from the trees to the open ground, the farmsteads and bothies, snatching babies from their cradles, shepherds’ boys on the hills. Whole warbands mustered against him, to defend their children and end his dread reign. Few returned to tell the tale.
The years wore on, on without number, and the land changed. With the fall of DunMathan, the unity that the old king had sought to forge crumbled, and without leadership, the clans set to warring amongst themselves. The kingdom was torn apart, and the glory of DunMathan faded, until even its name was forgotten.
And as the name of DunMathan was forgotten, so too were the names of its rulers. In time, there was no one left to remember the name of Maelchon. Maelchon was no more, and in his place had come an aberration, a monster born of arrogance and bloodlust and rage and despair. The soul of the bear bound with the soul of the man, somewhere deep down in the darkness, forgotten even to himself, two forces of fury merged together into one savage beast, bent wholly on ruin.
In time, they made their own name for him. “Mor’du”, they called him, the great, black bear who stalked the forests and reared out of the mists to slaughter their children, his hide scarred, bristling with the shafts of spears and swords from the uncounted warriors who had hunted him and fallen in the attempt. He was the scourge of the clans, the nightmare told by mothers to their children, the terror of all who ventured abroad in the wilds.
And so it went, the ages marching on. Often he returned to the stone circle, hoping to catch a glimpse of something. Something which had been important once, long ago, but was now forgotten to him. But though he searched high and low, he never found it.
Until one day, as he prowled the forest, he heard a sound he had heard once, so long since that it was some time until he realised what it was. A soft, ghostly sigh. And with that noise, some long-forgotten part of him stirred, deep in the darkness of his heart, and he turned to see the blue wisps lighting a path through the shadows.
They did not lead him to the cottage, but to the very edge of the forest. And there, barely a leap away, he saw a human child, a young lass with curling, flame-red hair. He bristled in anticipation of a kill, but some part of him held back, watching as the child pulled an arrow from a tree. Then she turned, and he thought he saw a glimmer of blue between the trees. Just then, a human voice called from beyond the trees and she left the wisps to return to it. Now he did follow her, watching as she met with her mother, who took her up in her arms. In that moment, the bear gained mastery once more, and burst from the trees. But the kill he anticipated never came: the child’s scream warned her mother, who fled with her as a man - the father - rushed to their defence, as so many fathers had done so futilely so many times before. But though he succeeded tearing off the man’s leg, he left him and disappeared into the shadows of the wood, wondering why the wisps should have brought him there.
It was some years before he saw the red-haired girl again, when she fell through the rotting roof of the tower and into the hall - his hall - but he recognised her at once, even as he leapt forward for the kill. No helpless child now, she nocked an arrow on her bow and shot at him. It glanced off him without effect, but she was not alone: accompanied by a she-bear who pulled her out of the hall and stopped him in his tracks long enough for them to make their escape.
When he recovered, he knew that there must have been some reason that the wisps had first led him to the girl. He knew, too, that there was something unnatural about the she-bear. Apart from the fact that she had saved the girl, there had been something human about her eyes.
Could it be that the witch’s spell had claimed another victim? Once, the wisps had led him to the girl; now it seemed that she had somehow been led to him. And she had seen the ruined carving. Was there some other bond that needed mending now? Was that why the wisps had led him to the child all those years ago? Suddenly, it seemed to the man that he was awakening from a long, dark sleep, even as the bear snarled around him, and for the first time, something within him began to to hope that the curse might be lifted after all.
He followed them from what had once been DunMathan, seeking their trail over the mountains and into the woods. All day he sought them, and long into the night, as the clouds gathered and thunder growled over the mountains. But no trace could he find of them, until, as night lengthened on toward morning, the wisps appeared to him once more. Following them over a rise, he finally saw her, the girl, riding a horse and following her own trail. Through the trees, he could see the red light of fire, and hear the baying of hounds and shouts of men, as on a hunt. But even as the long-dormant spirit of the man yearned toward freedom, the bear returned and bared his teeth, salivating, and he raced through the trees after his quarry as she led him to the stones.
The warriors fell as easily as they had ever done. Just one sweep of his paws sent them flying aside by the dozen, including the one-legged man. But though the girl stood to face him, in the end, it was the she-bear who sealed his fate. Where once he had used the strength of the bear to slay his own kin, she used it now to defend hers, fighting him though he raked and bit at her, knocking him back into the great standing stone until it shuddered. Only when he dealt one great, glancing blow to her jaw did she fall away; but then, even as he stalked forward to finish both her and her child, he felt the shadow loom over him, heard the groan, and before he could escape it, the stone fell over him, crushing the bear’s body beneath it. With one last growl, the fury of the bear prince was extinguished, and with only gratitude now, the spirit of the man sought his rest.
So it was that a mother’s love proved greater even than the strength of ten men. With the breaking of one curse came the end of another, and as Mor’du died, so Maelchon of DunMathan was set free at last.
Title: The Tale of the First Bear King
Fandom: Brave (Disney/Pixar)
Characters: Mor’du, the Witch, Merida, Elinor
Rating: PG
Warnings: spoilers for the whole film, some non-explicit violent imagery, canonical character death.
Word count: 3947
Disclaimer: Brave belongs to Disney and Pixar, not to me.
Summary: One man cannot possess the strength of ten men without paying a terrible price for it.
Comments: Mor’du backstory, playing about with some ideas me and my sister talked about after we saw the film. I thought his story was something that could have come straight out of Celtic mythology, and I wanted to explore it a bit.
Re: names. I’m assuming that “Mor’du” is a name given to him by the humans, so for the four princes, I’ve raided names from the Pictish king-lists. I made up a name for the old kingdom, too (DunMathan). Guess what mathan is Gaelic for! My nomenclature is so inspired lololol. :P
I decided not to write dialect into the characters’ speech. It wouldn’t go with the pseudo-archaic tone I was going for, or the overall tone of the thing. Also the reason why I never tried to address the question of whatever became of the mahogany cheeseboard. (Seriously, Pixar, I NEED TO KNOW. XD)
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Before Mor’du there was Maelchon, firstborn son of Clan DunMathan. Renowned from sea to sea as the fiercest warrior living, he led the warriors of the clan against invaders and rival clans alike, fortifying what his father had first built, until DunMathan stood high above the rest. So mighty was he that there were none who could best him in single combat, and indeed, there were tales that whole warbands would flee before him rather than face his axe.
But tales are just that, and no warrior, no matter how mighty, can possess the strength of ten men.
As the years passed and his father, the king, grew old and sickened, it seemed certain that Maelchon would succeed him. But as his life neared its end, the king decreed that the rule of the kingdom should pass, not only to his firstborn, but to all his sons. So when it came to pass that the old king died, DunMathan had four rulers: Maelchon the strongest, Talorcan the wisest, Bridei the kindest, and Drustan the best speaker. And for a time it seemed that the four brothers ruled in harmony.
But in secret, Maelchon brooded. He resented sharing the throne with his brothers. It was not their wisdom, nor their kindness, nor their pretty words, which had made DunMathan strong, but his own sword-arm. He, who since boyhood had endeavoured to follow in his father’s footsteps as a warrior. He, who had spent long years perfecting the art of war by axe and sword and bow, who had scaled the Crone’s Tooth and quenched his thirst from the waters of the Firefalls. And all this whilst his three brothers had spent their boyhood running riot through the castle and scaring the servants with their tricks. Day by day, the resentment built within him, festering like a wound, until in time it seemed that he stood on one side of a wide chasm, and his three brothers on the other. DunMathan was his by right, and he would make it his.
And one day, as the four brothers gathered around the council table in the great hall, he told them of his intent.
“But brother,” said Bridei, uncomprehending, “it was Father’s wish that we should rule DunMathan together.”
“The throne should have gone to the most deserving,” Maelchon declared. “I am the firstborn heir, and it is I who have earned the right to rule, by the strength of my sword-arm.”
“Not all strength is found in the sword-arm, brother,” said Talorcan mildly. “Father desired us to rule together, so that our best qualities might balance each other, united against all enemies.”
“Enough!” Maelchon cried, and brought his fist down upon the table. “Strength in battle is what matters in these times. I have fought our enemies and defeated them, where the three of you would have treated in empty words and alliances, and lost everything that our clan has built! I have earned that throne with every drop of blood that I have spilled, whilst you were content to sit in council. It belongs to me!”
“Brother,” said Drustan, “we love you well, and we honour your strength. But strength alone is not enough to make a king. Unchecked, it can be the path to ruin. Strength without balance is but savagery.”
For a moment, Maelchon was silent, rage beating like a red mist behind his eyes. When he found his voice again, his voice was little more than a growl. “You will not cede the throne?”
They sat across the table from him, stony and silent, and shook their heads. And with that, Maelchon’s fury erupted.
“Then if you will not give it to me, I will take it by force!”
As one, they stood, as if they would resist him, but they knew as well as he that they could not match him.
“You would fight your own brothers?” whispered Bridei.
“Aye, to claim what is mine!”
“The throne was entrusted to us all,” said Talorcan. “It is only your pride, Maelchon, that makes you believe it is yours alone. And we will not let you ruin this kingdom for the sake of your arrogance.”
“We cast you out,” Drustan proclaimed, “never to set foot again in this kingdom.”
At first, Maelchon could say nothing, stunned by their audacity. Then he cried, “Very well. I will leave you. But I promise you now, I will return, and I will claim my rightful place as king of DunMathan.”
“You may be the greatest warrior of us all, Maelchon,” said Drustan, “but even you have not the strength to do battle against an entire kingdom on your own. Accept your fate, brother, and go in peace.”
“Brother!” Maelchon echoed, scoffing. “You call me brother? I am no longer your brother.”
He cast his gaze about the hall, until it came to rest on the stone carving depicting the four of them as kings, sitting side by side in apparent unity. A false image. He stared at it until his gaze swam. Then, he hefted his axe and brought it down. Sparks flew and, with a single blow, the stone cracked and the carving fell, broken into two pieces. On one, the images of his brothers together, and on the other, hewn away from the rest, the image of himself.
Breathing hard, Maelchon looked up. His brothers stared back at him, the same look of horror in their countenance. Without another word, Maelchon strode forth from the hall.
He left DunMathan that night, saddling his horse and riding out as a storm broke over the glen, the wind shrieking over the loch and the rain driving in his eyes. He rode hard and long, away from the castle, through the mountains and deep into the woods. And with every pound of his horse’s hooves, he cursed his brothers, and cursed the fate to which they had driven him. But he would not accept it. He would return, and he would claim what was his. He had not the strength to take DunMathan alone, but his fame as a warrior was unparalleled. There would be hundreds, thousands, who would flock to his sword...
Suddenly, his horse reared, screaming, and he clung to its mane and dug his heels hard into its flanks to keep from being thrown. With a curse, he settled the beast, and looked up to see what had scared it.
Just ahead of him, the thick press of trees opened into a clearing where the mist gathered, thick and swirling. So thick, it seemed to smother all sound. No birds cried, no wind rustled the crowns of the trees; even the noise of the storm seemed distant. And, black against the white shrouds of mist, thrust the looming shapes of standing stones.
The horse shied again, and Maelchon dismounted, pacing alone into the centre of the clearing. As he looked around, he realised that the stones formed a wide ring around him, tall and stark and brooding, jutting from the earth like the broken teeth of a giant.
Maelchon had seen such stones before, raised so long ago that even their builders were forgotten and they were now left alone, in dark forests and on high moors, to guard their ancient secrets in silence. But though he had ridden the length and breadth of this kingdom, hunted beasts and foes alike through the woods and the hills, he had no memory of ever seeing this circle before.
That was when he heard it, a sound that penetrated the heavy silence of the circle. Faint and soft, almost like a sigh. At once, Maelchon’s head turned in the direction from where it had come, and he saw it. A shimmer of blue, like the heart of a flame, suspended in the air just a few paces away.
A will-o’-the-wisp. Maelchon had heard tell of them often enough, said by some to guide a person to their fate. He smiled. Perhaps this was why he had found the stones.
He advanced on the wisp, reaching out to snatch it, but it suddenly disappeared. For a moment, Maelchon felt a flaring of thwarted rage. Did fate itself mock him, by taunting him with a promise, only for it to disappear before he could take hold of it? The wisp flickered into life again, a little farther off, and he leapt forward to seize it again, only for it to disappear and reappear once more, even farther away. Biting down on his frustration, Maelchon realised that it was a trail, a pathway of blue lights leading him deeper into the woods.
That was how he found the cottage. A small shack nearly hidden beneath the mossy bank that overhung it, and the dwelling of a bent old crone who insisted that she was a simple woodcarver, though he knew her at once for what she really was: a witch. And with that realisation came a sudden, cold sense of satisfaction. This was where the wisps had led him. This witch would give him means to make DunMathan his.
He demanded a spell of her. She protested at first, insisting her only wares were the wood carvings that filled her cottage. But when he agreed to buy one of her wares as well as a spell, she relented.
“And how will you pay for that, lad?” she asked.
Maelchon considered. He had left DunMathan with little more than the clothes on his back; he had not much to barter with. But then he looked down, and saw on his finger the ring he wore - an heirloom of Clan DunMathan, bearing the clan’s sigil of two crossed axes. It was all he had that was of any worth, and it was a fitting exchange.
The witch accepted his price, and asked him what spell he desired. Before Maelchon had even an instant to think it over, his brothers’ words returned to him, full of their scorn, and his mind was made up. With this witch’s power, he would take DunMathan alone, one man against an entire kingdom, and his brothers would feel the fury of his revenge.
“A spell to give me the strength of ten men.”
With that, the witch led him outside, then inside again, where he found the inside of her cottage changed from woodcarver’s hut to witch’s den, and he watched as she and her crow familiar brewed a noisome green potion. And at the end of it, she put in his hand a cake. At first, he was tempted to curse her for a trickster, but she assured him that if he ate it, he would have what he had asked for.
“You have until the second sunrise to reverse it,” she told him, “then the effects of the spell will be permanent.”
Maelchon smiled. “Good.”
“But should you change your mind, remember these words: Fate be changed, look inside. Mend the bond torn by pride.”
“I thank you for your help, crone, but I have no wish to break the spell.”
He left the cottage and somehow, he was not sure how, found himself back at the stone circle. Not wishing to waste any more time, he took the cake and bit into it. At first, he felt nothing. Then, suddenly, his gorge rose, and his head began to reel. He felt sick, terribly sick, and in a moment of dazed horror, he realised that the crone must have poisoned him. Cursing her, he fell into darkness.
When he awoke, his head ached, and he felt utterly unlike himself. He stood, then staggered. His whole body felt cumbersome, as if it were carrying a great weight. It was only when he looked down that he realised what had happened. Where his hands should be were now great black-furred paws, edged with huge, wicked claws. Weapons capable of tearing out a man’s insides with one slash.
Unbelieving, he ran to find a burn or a loch, a place where he could see himself, his gait unsteady, his body unused to its new shape. Before long, he found a swift-flowing river, and when he peered into the water, his wavering reflection showed the face of a bear, formed in hard, savage lines, with small, glinting dark eyes, his mouth filled with huge teeth as deadly as his claws.
For one incredulous moment, he stared at his reflection, but when he was finally able to accept the truth of what he was seeing, he was seized by a fierce, terrible joy, as wild as the spirit of the bear. He could feel it brushing against his own human mind, filling him with its strength. The crone had kept her word, after all.
He reared back on his hind legs, opened his jaws - but where once a man’s voice might have bellowed a laugh, a bear’s roar echoed off the mountainsides.
DunMathan fell helplessly beneath his fury. The great gates, so impregnable to human foes, fell open against his attack, and the courtyard ran red with blood. Man, woman, or child: he spared none of them. They fell with every tear of his claws, every rend of his teeth. Spears and arrows flew at him, only to glance harmlessly off his hide, before he tore apart the guards who had thrown them. Up and up he went, through the courtyards, where he felled the last defenders where they gathered before the doors, and burst into the great hall where his brothers were.
He slew them where they stood, their bodies rent by tooth and claw. His human self turned away as the bear’s fury consumed him. It had tasted blood, and it would be satisfied. But in the last instant before the bear took him completely, Talorcan looked up, and maybe he saw something in the dark eyes of the bear, something he recognised, for the last thing he cried before he fell was, “Maelchon!”
Then it was done, and he stood over the bodies of the men who had been his brothers, king alone and undisputed.
But when the man clawed back mastery of his mind, it was only then, in the stark light of the setting sun, that he realised his deed. With a terrible clarity, he looked upon the bodies of his brothers through human eyes, rent as utterly as the carving, which lay where he had left it, cleft in two. And it was only then that the witch’s words came drifting back to him:
Fate be changed, look inside. Mend the bond torn by pride.
Only now did he realise the terrible price that the spell exacted. In his pride, he had sought to put himself above his brothers, and severed the bond between them beyond repair. In his pride, he had slain his own brothers, and cursed himself to this monstrous form forever. Too late, he realised that he had become ensnared in a trap of his own making. The second sunrise of his enchantment approached, and there was nothing he could do now to mend what had been broken. His brothers lay dead by his own hand, and already he could feel the dark presence of the bear looming over him, a shadow to swallow him whole.
With what remained of his human mind, he raged and stormed, dashing his claws against the stone walls in powerless rage. He saw the carving of his human self, and tore at its face until it was gone, chipped away, lost as he himself soon would be.
And as the harsh light of the rising sun broke through the ruined doorway of the hall to flood over him, he let out a bellow that made the very stones of DunMathan tremble, as the man screamed in despair and the bear roared in triumph.
King alone he was now, king of an empty hall and slaughtered subjects. Men shunned DunMathan, having heard what had made its lair within its walls, and in time, it fell to ruin. The great stone ramparts crumbled, the great round tower sagged in, and the roof gaped open to the sky. Where once had been heard the music of the harp and the laughter of warriors, now the only sounds were the moan of the wind and the whisper of crumbling stone. And alone he roamed the borders of his kingdom, through mountain and glen and forest, dark and fell, the scent of blood ever in his nostrils. He took them in the forest: travellers who strayed from the path, hunters who thought they stalked an ordinary bear; and at length, he emerged from the trees to the open ground, the farmsteads and bothies, snatching babies from their cradles, shepherds’ boys on the hills. Whole warbands mustered against him, to defend their children and end his dread reign. Few returned to tell the tale.
The years wore on, on without number, and the land changed. With the fall of DunMathan, the unity that the old king had sought to forge crumbled, and without leadership, the clans set to warring amongst themselves. The kingdom was torn apart, and the glory of DunMathan faded, until even its name was forgotten.
And as the name of DunMathan was forgotten, so too were the names of its rulers. In time, there was no one left to remember the name of Maelchon. Maelchon was no more, and in his place had come an aberration, a monster born of arrogance and bloodlust and rage and despair. The soul of the bear bound with the soul of the man, somewhere deep down in the darkness, forgotten even to himself, two forces of fury merged together into one savage beast, bent wholly on ruin.
In time, they made their own name for him. “Mor’du”, they called him, the great, black bear who stalked the forests and reared out of the mists to slaughter their children, his hide scarred, bristling with the shafts of spears and swords from the uncounted warriors who had hunted him and fallen in the attempt. He was the scourge of the clans, the nightmare told by mothers to their children, the terror of all who ventured abroad in the wilds.
And so it went, the ages marching on. Often he returned to the stone circle, hoping to catch a glimpse of something. Something which had been important once, long ago, but was now forgotten to him. But though he searched high and low, he never found it.
Until one day, as he prowled the forest, he heard a sound he had heard once, so long since that it was some time until he realised what it was. A soft, ghostly sigh. And with that noise, some long-forgotten part of him stirred, deep in the darkness of his heart, and he turned to see the blue wisps lighting a path through the shadows.
They did not lead him to the cottage, but to the very edge of the forest. And there, barely a leap away, he saw a human child, a young lass with curling, flame-red hair. He bristled in anticipation of a kill, but some part of him held back, watching as the child pulled an arrow from a tree. Then she turned, and he thought he saw a glimmer of blue between the trees. Just then, a human voice called from beyond the trees and she left the wisps to return to it. Now he did follow her, watching as she met with her mother, who took her up in her arms. In that moment, the bear gained mastery once more, and burst from the trees. But the kill he anticipated never came: the child’s scream warned her mother, who fled with her as a man - the father - rushed to their defence, as so many fathers had done so futilely so many times before. But though he succeeded tearing off the man’s leg, he left him and disappeared into the shadows of the wood, wondering why the wisps should have brought him there.
It was some years before he saw the red-haired girl again, when she fell through the rotting roof of the tower and into the hall - his hall - but he recognised her at once, even as he leapt forward for the kill. No helpless child now, she nocked an arrow on her bow and shot at him. It glanced off him without effect, but she was not alone: accompanied by a she-bear who pulled her out of the hall and stopped him in his tracks long enough for them to make their escape.
When he recovered, he knew that there must have been some reason that the wisps had first led him to the girl. He knew, too, that there was something unnatural about the she-bear. Apart from the fact that she had saved the girl, there had been something human about her eyes.
Could it be that the witch’s spell had claimed another victim? Once, the wisps had led him to the girl; now it seemed that she had somehow been led to him. And she had seen the ruined carving. Was there some other bond that needed mending now? Was that why the wisps had led him to the child all those years ago? Suddenly, it seemed to the man that he was awakening from a long, dark sleep, even as the bear snarled around him, and for the first time, something within him began to to hope that the curse might be lifted after all.
He followed them from what had once been DunMathan, seeking their trail over the mountains and into the woods. All day he sought them, and long into the night, as the clouds gathered and thunder growled over the mountains. But no trace could he find of them, until, as night lengthened on toward morning, the wisps appeared to him once more. Following them over a rise, he finally saw her, the girl, riding a horse and following her own trail. Through the trees, he could see the red light of fire, and hear the baying of hounds and shouts of men, as on a hunt. But even as the long-dormant spirit of the man yearned toward freedom, the bear returned and bared his teeth, salivating, and he raced through the trees after his quarry as she led him to the stones.
The warriors fell as easily as they had ever done. Just one sweep of his paws sent them flying aside by the dozen, including the one-legged man. But though the girl stood to face him, in the end, it was the she-bear who sealed his fate. Where once he had used the strength of the bear to slay his own kin, she used it now to defend hers, fighting him though he raked and bit at her, knocking him back into the great standing stone until it shuddered. Only when he dealt one great, glancing blow to her jaw did she fall away; but then, even as he stalked forward to finish both her and her child, he felt the shadow loom over him, heard the groan, and before he could escape it, the stone fell over him, crushing the bear’s body beneath it. With one last growl, the fury of the bear prince was extinguished, and with only gratitude now, the spirit of the man sought his rest.
So it was that a mother’s love proved greater even than the strength of ten men. With the breaking of one curse came the end of another, and as Mor’du died, so Maelchon of DunMathan was set free at last.