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Chapter Text

The snowflakes are large, maybe about the width of his thumbnail - large enough to see the intricate detail of it, and notice that each one really is unique. It may be that somewhere in the world it has a twin, but in this relatively small sample size, he wouldn't be able to say for certain.

With a breath, he blows the snowflake off his coat, sending it twirling towards the ground. He doesn't have an issue with the snow in and of itself, but he'd still rather not have more of it on him than necessary.

"Lord and Lady Rasmussen!" the head groom calls from the entrance to the stables. The horses, a matched set of handsome chestnuts, whicker as he collects their reins. The head groom doesn't even cast a glance at him, and it doesn't sting as much as it used to. It means, over a year later, he's finally settled in here, that he's blending in. Seventeen months ago, not being noticed would have been the worst thing he could imagine. Unnoticed, unloved, unremarkable. Now, he'll gladly take anonymity over the sneers and snide comments he'd gotten before.

He leads the horses back to one of the stables and gets them settled in. One of the horses huffs and nudges against his arm, and he gathers an armload of hay and drops it into the food trough. Immediately, the horses dismiss him and go for the hay.

"I'll be back with some sugar later," he tells them. They ignore him, but he knows they'll be happy enough to see the sugar cubes.

He steps back out into the uncovered courtyard and looks up, squinting against the snowflakes to the warm yellow glow of the window up above. A couple is silhouetted against the glass, and he watches the man brush some hair behind the woman's ear.

I should be there, he thinks, and feels a pinch of anger that he is out here in the cold, when by all rights, he should be inside where it is warm -

He shakes the thought away. His father had made it quite clear that he no longer had any rights to anything, and that it was only due to the accident of his birth that he wasn't moldering in a cell or rotting in the ground. At least he is alive. At least he has fresh air and the sun. At least he has the company of the horses, who keep his clamoring thoughts from overwhelming him. The process has been grueling but he is, slowly, learning to be grateful for these things.

"Lord Dahl!" the head groom calls, and he goes to collect Lord Dahl's palomino. Lord Dahl is a frequent visitor, and Pia recognizes him, lowering her head so he can pet her.

"Evening, pretty Pia," he coos to her. She snuffles at his jacket, seeking out his sugar cubes. "You're impatient tonight, hmm? Come on, let's get you settled in first."

This time, as he passes under the windows of the ballroom, he doesn't glance up again. He may always feel that anger when he thinks about how things used to be, but tonight he has the work of his hands and the horses to see to, and for now, that is enough.

Chapter Text

"Your Royal Highness?" The young man offers a tray of finger foods, head bowed respectfully.

"Thank you," Prince Jacob of the Southern Isles says, taking one of the shrimps with a nod in return. He turns back to the window, watching the snow tumble down. It also affords him a reflected view of the ballroom, the brightly decorated trees that surround the room, the whirl of people as they dance. In the crowd, he sees his mother and father, gliding note-perfect through the steps but never looking at each other. King Niels' robes strain slightly at the belly, not quite equal to the task of containing the bulk of a powerfully-built man gone to seed. Queen Julia looks as beautiful as ever, though the corners of her lips seem to be permanently tilted downwards.

One by one by one, Jacob seeks out each of his brothers, watching as they talk, and dance, and drink, and laugh. They are unmistakable throughout the crowd - broad-shouldered and handsome, hair running the gamut from straw-blond to dark brown, all of them with the same inborn confidence that comes of being absolutely assured of one's place in the world.
He counts each of them, to twelve, then turns to look out the window. There is movement visible from the stables, but through the snow, he can't be completely sure who it is.

Thirteen.

If there is one thing the king has made it clear he will not abide, it's failure. There are no partial points for trying. The bigger the failure, the more devastating the fall.

Not that any of them had ever dreamed of failing as badly as Hans had.

"Where are you, my love?" Katerina murmurs, leaning her chin on his shoulder. She looks up at him, her eyes emerald pools in her pale face. "You are so far away from me."

"I was just thinking," Jacob replies. He turns, catching his wife's hands in his own. "Not so far away at all."

Katerina takes the chance to glance out the window as well, catching the view of the stables below.

"Your brother?"

"My brother," he echoes.

"You don't pity him."

"Never." King Niels also does not abide weakness. Failure is a natural extension of weakness. "I thought Father was going to exile him. Even that - " a gesture towards the stables - "is more than he deserves."

Katerina hums in agreement. She moves to the window, resting her hands on the sill, leaning forward to look through the snow. "Do you think he feels sorry for himself tonight?" she asks over her shoulder. "It is Christmas Eve, after all."

"He may," Jacob replies. "If he does, I hope he also thinks about why he's out there instead of in here."

This is the most thought he's dedicated to his youngest brother in years. Although he is the third from the end, only older than Hans by four years, there had always been that barrier between himself and the bottom - first Michael, then lucky number thirteen. Michael, in particular, had always taken a vicious sort of pleasure in tormenting Hans, like he knew how narrowly he'd escaped the same fate and was desperate to prove he didn't deserve it.

"Shall we dance?" Katerina asks, turning from the window. "Thinking about your brother so much is - " She gestures, sort of encapsulating 'too much' and 'depressing' all in one.

"Whatever you want, Kitty," Jacob tells her. He takes a moment to brush a strand of dark hair back behind her ear, and her smile is warm. He takes her hand and leads her out into the crowd.

It is not until that night that the subject crops up again. Katerina takes out her earrings, gazing contemplatively at her reflection, and says, "Do you think it would have worked, if he hadn't been alone?"

"Hm?" Jacob asks.

She sets the earrings down on the vanity. "Your brother's plan for Arendelle. Do you think it would have worked with support?"

"What more support did he need?" Jacob scoffs. "Our father said yes and provided him with a ship. That should have been enough."

Katerina shakes her head, though it's not a 'no'. "For what he initially planned, perhaps. But for what it turned into ... "

"A failure?" Jacob asks.

"No - once the queen vanished into the mountains and the princess followed her. If there had been ships, men, arms waiting for him - the little fools could have been easily disposed of and Arendelle would have been taken."

"You forget one thing," Jacob says, settling into bed. "With my little brother at the head, it could have only failed."

Katerina acknowledges this with a tilt of her head. "Perhaps next time he shouldn't be." She releases the last pin from her updo and dark curls spill over her shoulders.

"Next time?"

"It's still there for the taking, isn't it?"

She looks at her husband in the mirror. His expression is thoughtful, dark brows pulled together. Sensing her eyes on him, he looks up, and when their eyes meet, she smiles.

"You know, my dove," he murmurs, "you're right. It is."

Chapter Text

The royal library is vast and well-stocked, books lining every wall, ladders scattered throughout to make getting to the out-of-reach books easier. With thirteen boys, and a responsibility to make each of them ideal princes and future leaders, King Niels had emphasized the importance of independent research and never closed off any part of the library.

"We'll need to have a plan," Jacob tells Katerina as they go into the library the next day. "An idea is not enough."

King Niels preferred to have the work done for him in most cases, especially when the idea came from his sons. They had to work twice as hard for him to even consider their proposals. This was, he had said, to show them the necessity of negotiation, creativity, and study - skills valuable to a king or any leader.

He wasn't wrong, but all of them knew only one of them could be king.

"Where do we begin?" Katerina asks.

"First we learn about Arendelle," Jacob replies. "Then we study kingdoms geographically similar to it, and then how they were conquered. It's not enough to just have ships and guns - "

"You have to know what to do with them," Katerina finishes.

"This way," says Jacob. He takes Katerina's hand and leads her into the library.

It is several hours later that they are rudely interrupted.

A hand slaps down on Jacob's book, and he startles back before he can stop himself.

"You're reading, little brother," Anders marvels, using his hand on the book to turn it towards himself. "I didn't even know you could read."

Anders is five years older than Jacob, the eighth son, one of the sons caught in the nebulous 'middle.' He leans over the book, skimming its contents. "A history of Arendelle? Again with that place? What do you want there?"

"Why do you think I want anything?" Jacob says, scowling. He takes the book back.

"Because, little brother, I know you, and you're not just hungry for knowledge." He looks over at Katerina, returned from the stacks, clutching her book to her chest. He smirks. "And what does he have you reading, Kitty?"

"I hardly see - " Jacob splutters, but Katerina looks at Anders thoughtfully, then holds her book out.

"Norwegian naval victories," Anders reads the title aloud, and his eyes light. "Planning a little naval excursion?"

"Kitty!" Jacob cries, unable to believe her. He doesn't trust any of his brothers as far as he can throw them, so letting Anders figure out their plan is tantamount to giving him the idea, and the credit.

Katerina plucks the book from Anders, taking her seat. "We can't do this alone, Jacob. Anders served in the royal navy."

"I served!" Jacob protests.

"You served in the army," Katerina corrects him. "Your experience is useful, but his will be more so."

"She's pretty and smart," Anders remarks. "But, little brother, all of this is moot. You realize that, don't you?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Arendelle has an ice witch for a queen, or did you forget that?"

It had taken time for the full story of the eternal winter in Arendelle to make its way to the Southern Isles' newspapers, but the artist's rendering of the fjords, completely frozen over in the middle of July, had been striking.

"We didn't forget," Jacob immediately defends himself, "we - "

"We thought if we went in with a powerful enough force up front," Katerina interrupts, "we could do enough damage before the witch could come in."

"Sensible," Anders says, "But stupid. You need something that can match the ice witch blow for blow so you don't end up with your entire militia frozen in place."

"Right, so we'll just find someone else with those kind of powers," Jacob says. "I'm sure that won't be impossible." He rolls his eyes and pointedly returns to his book.

"I wouldn't be so sure," Anders says. "You should talk to my wife."

"Why are you helping us, Anders? What's your price?" Jacob demands.

Anders raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. "It's a sad day when a man can't help his little brother without being accused of opportunism." His smile, then, is whip-fast and just as welcoming. "But since you brought it up, we can discuss the price later. Just talk to Emilia for now." He puts his hands in his pockets and saunters off, whistling.

Katerina looks after him, frowning slightly.

"Kitty, you're not considering listening to him!" Jacob says. "Emilia is insane."

"Emilia is a genius," Katerina corrects him. "Besides, what's the harm in talk? If we don't like what she has to say, we can disregard it."

Jacob frowns. This gift has a price, he's sure - and he doesn't want to pay any part of it.

Chapter Text

Despite her husband's misgivings, the next day, Katerina goes to the highest tower of the castle. She pauses just outside of the door, leaning in to listen. Inside, she hears glass shattering and a sharp, bright shriek of laughter.

She knocks.

The door swings open a few moments later, opened by unseen hands.

"Come in!" Emilia calls.

It takes Katerina a second to locate the other woman among the forest of glass and instruments surrounding them. She is bent over a table, scribbling furiously onto a sheaf of papers, occasionally glancing at the remains of a beaker next to her. Something black and oily is spreading over the tabletop, and when a drop hits the floor, it hisses.

"Success?" Katerina asks, not sure how to take this scene, but certain she doesn't want any of that on her shoes.

"Middling," Emilia replies. She puts her goggles on top of her head. "Better than it has been, at least."

"Is the beaker supposed to break?"

"It's been breaking later in the process." Finally, Emilia looks at her guest. "Anders said you'd be by. Come."

Without waiting for a response, Emilia marches deeper into her laboratory. Katerina delicately steps over the widening puddle of black ooze, then hurries on, following the blonde updo bobbing ahead.

At the back of the laboratory is another door, which Emilia unlocks with a key from the chatelaine clipped at her waist. Behind it is another library - not quite equal to the one downstairs, but impressive.

"Sit," Emilia says, pointing at a chair, already on to the task of finding what she needs. Although she's itching to look around and see what Emilia keeps back here, Katerina also recognizes that she is a guest. She sits, though she takes the opportunity to see what is around her. Immediately at eye level are at least fifteen books about alchemy, and those are just the ones in English. There are others in Latin, German, French, but they all seem to be in the same vein. The next shelf up appears to be compendiums - butterflies, animals, sort of thing. She shifts to get a look at the shelf below, but Emilia's brief 'ha!' of triumph interrupts. Turning to look at her instead, Katerina sees her flipping through a small, rather rough-looking volume.

"Here," she says, indicating for Katerina to join her. As Katerina leans over the book next to her, she notices Emilia smells of sharp chemical odors and something burnt. Katerina tries not to breathe in too deeply.

The blonde woman taps the page near an illustration of a flower. It is delicately colored, and the artist has taken the time to highlight parts of the flower with gold.

"It's lovely," Katerina offers.

"It is. It can also heal people." Emilia turns the page, showing a series of images: a man with a bleeding arm, another man with the flower holding it against the wound, the wound now surrounded by the same gold, the man with no injury. "Drinking tea brewed with one of the flower's petals will temporarily grant the drinker rapidly accelerated healing capabilities, and there have been stories that if it somehow becomes part of a person - in her blood, in her being - that person will have the same powers as the flower."

"A healing touch?" Katerina asks, wondering where this is going. As nice as that sounds, one person with healing capabilities can't heal an entire navy, and while a fighting force with accelerated healing sounds useful, there's no way to know how long 'temporary' actually is.

"Yes. But the genesis flower is only the beginning." Emilia flips ahead in the book. "What we are looking at is this." She taps another illustration - a flower, bright crimson, streaked with the same gold as the genesis flower. "The phoenix flower."

Katerina leans in closer to get a better look at it. The flower is beautiful, but there is something that is somehow . . . unsettling about it. It makes her uncomfortable to look at.

"The phoenix flower," Emilia continues, "works in a similar way to the genesis flower. Drinking tea brewed with its petals will also bestow powers on the drinker."

She turns the page. A man sips from a teacup, golden steam coming off in swirls. He clutches his chest, gold radiating out from his heart. He collapses. When he rises, his hands glow golden, and in the final picture, fire burns around the man, but he stands, golden and untouched.

"Fire powers," Katerina whispers.

"Fire powers," Emilia echoes. "The powers from the tea are temporary, but there are theories that if the flower is somehow integrated into a person's being, they could be granted permanently. Only ..."

"Only?"

"Are you familiar with the story of the phoenix, Kitty?"

"It lives for centuries, then it dies ... and comes back to life. Rising from the ashes." Katerina looks up at Emilia. "They would have to die."

"On the verge of death, yes." Emilia's eyes light. "The theory is, then, that the phoenix flower would latch on to the shreds of the dying man's life and bring him back, just like the phoenix."

It ought to make Katerina's stomach turn. She knows that by all rights, she ought to chastise Emilia for even considering such an awful plan. Such powers, she ought to say, are not worth nearly killing someone. What if your theory is wrong? What about the cost to your soul?

But what if she's right? What if this flower does have the ability to bring a fiery warrior back from the ashes, a monster to match the ice witch of Arendelle?

"Well?"

"I need to talk to Jacob first," Katerina replies. She doesn't look at Emilia, because if she does, she knows the other woman will read her desires like a book and any advantage they may have will be lost. She knows that by not looking, she may be giving up the advantage anyway, but at least Emilia won't have anything concrete to work from. "May I borrow this?" She touches the book, then allows herself to glance at Emilia.

"Of course," Emilia replies. "Be careful with it."

"Naturally," Katerina promises. She gathers up the book and smiles at Emilia. "Thank you. I'll have this back to you shortly."

Chapter Text

"Absolutely not," Jacob says before Katerina even closes the door behind her. "Whatever that mad woman suggested - I won't have it."

"You haven't even heard anything," Katerina replies. She walks forward and sets the book down on his desk with a little more force than necessary.

"I don't have to. I know I don't want Anders getting his sticky fingers all over this. He'll take all the credit when I did all the work." Jacob looks pointedly away from the book, refusing to even acknowledge its existence.

"Don't be such an ass, Jacob," Katerina snaps. She steps next to him at the desk and flips the book open to the pages on the phoenix flower. Without another word, she leaves the room, closing the door behind her with a forceful click.

Jacob refuses to look at it... for about thirty seconds. Then he sets upon it, desperately curious to see what Emilia suggested.

"Fire," he breathes. He sees himself at the head of an armada, opening his hands, fire blazing out. The ice witch's frozen defenses melt before them, and she is helpless against them.

He turns the page. There, the author has helpfully detailed the theoretical process in which the phoenix flower would grant permanent powers. There are illustrations.

Jacob rears back. There are things he is willing to do for the Southern Isles, but this is too much to ask. If it doesn't work, if the powers don't take, if the process drives the bearer mad - He cannot run the risk if he wants to rule Arendelle. All the same, the idea of a fire monster on their side is attractive to him. A subject, though...

He stands, goes to the window, head turning towards the stables, though he can't see them from here.

After a moment, he smiles.

Katerina is outside in the gardens when Jacob finally tracks her down. The natural flora of the Southern Isles are scrubby and low to the ground, suited to the poor quality soil and high winds. The king's gardens, though, are filled with flowers found nowhere else on the islands, maintained by a staff whose only job is to make flowers flourish instead of wither. Katerina pins him with a cold look, then turns her back on him, tracing the edges of a rose.

"Kitty," he says, placing gentle hands on her arms. She attempts to shake him off, but he doesn't let go.

"What is it?"

"You're right."

She turns a little, green meeting grey. "I beg your pardon?"

"You are right, my love. These powers are..." He breathes in. "We can't just leave them on the table. I don't like Anders and Emilia being involved, but having those powers on our side is necessary."

"The only issue, then, is a subject." Katerina lets her fingers drift over Jacob's arm. "I was thinking - "

"My brother."

"Your brother."

They speak at the same moment. Katerina turns more fully in her husband's arms.

"You agree?"

"He's perfect. Think about it. He works in the stables. He's nothing. This is his chance to be a hero, to take down the kingdom that took everything from him."

"And if he says no?" Katerina asks.

Jacob's face gleams with satisfaction. "I feel sure he won't."

Anders is entirely too happy when Katerina and Jacob come to him and Emilia to accept their offer of help. He smiles, thanks them for their trust. Jacob decides not to point out that this is not trust, but necessity. He knows he will trip up Anders at the first opportune moment and he doesn't harbor any delusions that Anders will do any different. These are the games played in the Southern Isles - you win, or you are weak. To be weak is to be discarded, worse than death. If this plan fails, Jacob will see that it is entirely on Anders' shoulders. If it succeeds ...

Heavy may be the head that wears the crown, but what a welcome burden.

"I will need to start experimenting," Emilia says, either willfully or genuinely oblivious to the tension snapping between the brothers. "We need to be sure the theory is sound. I will need an assistant."

"Why is that?" Jacob asks. The last thing they need is more people brought in on this. They already have two too many.

"To record results and assist me, as is the function of an assistant. I already have a candidate in mind, if she will agree to it." She looks at Katerina, who seems surprised but pleased.

"My dear sister, if you would like me to help, I would be honored."

"How convenient, Jacob, that leaves me to assist you with the naval assault." When Anders smiles this time, all of his teeth show.

"Convenient indeed," Jacob says, fighting back a scowl. "We begin tomorrow." He offers his arm to Katerina, who takes it with a smile, and leads her off.

"You are willing to assist her?" he hisses when they are out of earshot. "Kitty, she will - "

"She will be supervised," Katerina cuts him off. "She will know that I am watching, and recording what she does. She will show me her secrets and in time, she will realize that she has made herself disposable." A wicked smirk twists her mouth. "And should this experiment fail and your brother die at her hands, I will have only been her assistant, helpless to stop her."

Jacob stops in the middle of the hallway and tugs Katerina towards him, then kisses her.

"I made the right call when I married you, my love," he says. Katerina beams, resting her head on his shoulder for a moment.

"I have been saying that for years, my dear."

Mucking out the stables has always been his least favorite chore. In addition to the smell, he always gets a cold feeling on the back of his neck and shoulders whenever he can't keep an eye on the sky, like a huge snowball is going to come out of the blue and knock him into a full wheelbarrow. He very much doubts it was any sort of coordinated, purposeful attack, but it wouldn't have changed much. Even if there had been a note that said "we are making the stupidest possible assassination attempts on your son," the king likely would just be grateful someone else was making the effort so he didn't have to.

He glances over his shoulder again, taking in the cold, clear blue sky, then returns to his task, digging his pitchfork into the muck and tossing it into the wheelbarrow. Once this is full, he'll have to dispose of it, then he's got one or two more ahead of him. Then the horses will need to be fed, and then perhaps he will have a free evening. He considers this with some pleasure, thinking of the new book he has, the holes in his shirt that need to be stitched. . A quiet night, certainly nothing compared to the nights he used to know, but not a bad one.

"Hans?"

He turns, careful to set the pitchfork tines down so it can't be construed as a threat. "Katerina." Unlike the rest of his family, he hasn't taken to calling her by her nickname. He likes cats - which is more than can be said for his feelings for his sister-in-law.

Katerina smiles at him. It doesn't even come close to her eyes. "It's a beautiful day, isn't it?"

"I find it agreeable." She wants something - and whatever it is, he's not interested in any part of it. If she's looking for an affair or some other game, he's not going to play. As though sensing his thoughts, she comes closer to him, until they're only a few feet apart - just about the length of a pitchfork, in fact. His grip tightens on it, knuckles white.

"I have a proposition for you."

"I'm not interested." There. Now, whatever else happens, he has his insurance.

Katerina's brows pucker, creating small furrows in her forehead. "You haven't even heard what I have to say."

"I don't want to. Whatever it is, I'm not interested."

"Hm. Not even if I told you that what I'm offering could redeem you in the eyes of your father, and revenge you on Arendelle? All at once?"

Arendelle. In his mind's eye, he is there again, the frozen fjord spread out beneath them, Elsa before him on the ice, sobbing. He feels his sword in his hand, bloodlust roaring in his veins, the intoxicating reel of victory in his grasp. Then, the freezing wind of Anna's act of true love, and, in the seconds before his head hit the ice and he blacked out, the sick realization of abject failure.

"I'm not interested." Perhaps the third time will be the charm. "Excuse me." He makes sure his back is to her before starting to lift the pitchfork, so she can't use it against him later.

"Hans, wait." Her hand on his wrist, grip surprisingly strong. He tugs at her to extricate himself, and turns to look at her. In her other hand is a white handkerchief, and this close, it's impossible to miss the sweet scent of ether.

"You wouldn't dare - "

She smiles, sympathetic. "I told Jacob this wouldn't work, but he insisted you be given a choice." Faster than he can follow, she presses the hankie to his nose and mouth. Although he sucks in a deep breath and holds it, the scent makes him dizzy, and when his lungs feel like they'll explode, his body takes one traitorous breath.

The last thing he sees is Katerina's smile as the world goes black.

Chapter Text

When Hans comes to, his head is throbbing and his mouth feels like it's full of cotton. He tries to swallow, to wet his mouth, but it's like trying to convince water out of a stone.

"Subject is awake," a female voice says. "Kitty, the time?"

"Just after eleven," he hears Katerina reply. "Eleven-oh-six."

"Subject has been unconscious for approximately seven hours," the woman continues. Hans finally gets his eyes open to see his sister-in-law Emilia over him, frowning down at him. There is a light over her head, haloing her, and shining directly into his face, causing a particularly vicious throb behind his eyes. He winces away, squinting up at it. "He also displays light sensitivity."

"You have a light shining directly into my eyes," he says, voice hoarse. "That's not light sensitivity."

She acknowledges his words but doesn't move the light. "I would prefer to continue the experiment with the subject sedated, but all of my literature states that the phoenix flower will not take hold unless the subject is conscious up to the point of death."

As she speaks, Hans realizes his hands are bound. Straps at his wrists, ankles, and one thick one across his torso. Panic flares in his chest and he struggles against the restraints.

"What is the meaning of this? What are you doing? The king - "

"The king," Katerina interrupts, "has approved Emilia's experiment." She smiles, sharp and smug. "All of it."

No help to be found there. The restraints are thick and well-made, and just this struggle has tired him out, left his wrists and chest aching and likely bruised.

"What is this experiment?" He's sick to hear the panic edging his voice. "What are you doing to me?"

"Do you know the story of the phoenix?" Emilia asks.

"The phoenix?" Hans echoes. "It's a mythological bird that ... " His eyes widen as his brain skips several steps ahead of his mouth, and he presses against the table, trying to get as far away from Emilia as possible.

"Unholy work," he finishes, spitting the words.

"Murder is just as unholy, Hans," Katerina points out. She offers Emilia a vial, and the other woman takes it, handling it with utmost care. "You seem to have less of an issue with that."

"Resurrection?" Hans says, finally putting words around the concept. "You are playing God!" He is seized with the desire to knock the vial out of Emilia's hands, into her face if he can, and he thrashes against the restraints again.

"Don't be foolish," Emilia says. "True resurrection is impossible. You will dance on the edge of death, but we will shepherd you back." She seems pleased, like this is a very reassuring thing to say.

"Vipers," Hans says. "Why?"

Emilia looks at Katerina, who considers for a moment before replying, "You'll find out when we're done."

Emilia nods, then turns back to Hans. "Kitty, note the time," she says. Hans takes in a breath to demand more answers, and Emilia dumps the vial into his mouth. He swallows before he can stop it, and he stares up at the two women.

"What - " he begins, but before he can say another word, pain flares throughout him, bright and blinding. Someone is screaming, screaming like they're being flayed alive, and it's only when the pain fades and the screaming stops that he realizes it was him. Emilia nods, and Katerina makes a note.

"Next," Emilia says, and Katerina hands her another vial.

Days pass, or at least Hans thinks they do. Although Emilia's laboratory has a window that overlooks the sea, she's hung a heavy black fabric over it. It's impossible to tell the difference between sunrise and sunset, midnight and mid-day. There are times that Emilia and Katerina leave - maybe to eat, to sleep; they don't confide in him - and during those times, they sedate him. It's not enough of a dose for any true rest, just enough for him to sleep, restless, caught in the grip of troubling dreams. He startles awake often, semi-conscious, not sure of what has startled him, if anything at all. They feed him, just enough. If they are dragging him to the point of death, it doesn't seem they plan doing so by starvation.

Otherwise, he marks the time in bursts of agony, tears he didn't think he had the energy to cry, and screams without breath behind them, punctuated by Emilia's crisp voice and the scratching of Katerina's pen.

One day, Heaven knows how many later, someone touches his shoulder.

"Hans?" The voice is gentle, kind, but still recognizably Katerina's, so he winces away on instinct. No pain comes, but he doesn't relax.

"You poor thing," she says. He slowly opens his eyes to see her sitting next to him, green eyes wide in her pale face.

Stay away, stay away, stay away, his brain chants, and he moves as far as the restraints will let him. It gives him an inch, maybe less, but any distance at all is a little relief.

"I'm not here to hurt you," she says, and Hans laughs.

"That's new," he says. His voice is rough with disuse, throat raw from screaming.

Katerina frowns slightly. "Do you know why we have to do this, Hans?"

"Because you're both mad."

"No, you don't understand. Emilia and I are being driven to do this."

He makes a noise that's trying to be a laugh. "Driven? By what, a desire for scientific progress?" It's probably dangerous to needle her like this, but honestly, what's the worst they can do to him? Emilia says they're not going to kill him, but he has no reason to believe her.

Katerina shakes her head. "I thought you would understand, Hans." She lowers her voice, almost conspiratorial. "It's because of Queen Elsa."

"Queen Elsa?" Hans repeats.

"Yes. All of this is because of her. It's her fault. Don't you see? If it weren't for her, none of this would be happening right now."

Hans supposes this is true in the broadest sense of the words, but if they're assigning blame, why not King Niels and Queen Julia? Why not the long-ago ancestor who discovered the Southern Isles? If it hadn't been for them, none of this would be happening right now either.

In any case, he sees a much more immediate source of his ills.

"Look," Katerina says. She holds up a small portrait, just about the size of her hand. It is a good likeness of Queen Elsa, dressed in her coronation gown, looking regal and composed.

Anna's hand in his, razor-sharp icicles spraying in front of him, the terror in Elsa's eyes -

"You see, don't you?" Katerina says. She looks away for a moment, and nods. Hans feels a lancing pain up his leg, something wet spilling over it, and then a hand pressing to the cut. Moments later, a burning sensation racks his leg, and he howls, ragged.

"Don't look away!" Katerina cries out. "It's her fault! See who has done this to you!"

His vision blurs, and his head feels heavy, like it weighs a hundred pounds.

"What," he gasps, "what have you - "

Katerina pushes the portrait at him again, and he gasps. Through his wavering vision, he can clearly see that the little portrait is moving. The slightly anxious look on Elsa's face has changed to a wicked grin, and she laughs, silent, but clearly at him.

"Witchcraft," he whispers. Even so, he is riveted by the movement. She gestures to her crown, smirking, and begins to laugh again.

"Do you see her?" Katerina whispers. "What is she doing?"

"Mocking me," Hans says. He hears his words slurring together at the edges, but he can't focus on that. All he can see is Elsa, laughing, her eyes bright, her smile cruel.

You thought you could win, he thinks he can hear her say. Against me? You? You are weak. She lifts a hand to her mouth, silently giggling, shaking her head.

"Is she saying anything?" Katerina again, her voice hushed.

"She's saying I'm weak," Hans reports. He feels a familiar coil of anger through his chest, slow like molasses, moving sluggishly but with no less heat. "That I had no chance of beating her."

"She's wrong?" Katerina's voice lilts slightly at the end, leaving her tone somewhere between a question and a statement.

"She's wrong, of course she's wrong," Hans says, hardly aware of what he's saying. He can't stop staring at the tiny painted figure in front of him, still laughing, not afraid, mocking him, not seeing that everything that went wrong was out of his control, that he could have won -

The restraints at his waist and wrists catch him as he lunges for the portrait, cutting deep into him, probably bruising. He's heedless of the pain, only aware that something is stopping him, in his way, something is always in his way and that's why he was never enough, never good enough as a brother or son, he can't kill her why can't he kill her?

Then she's gone, replaced by Katerina, who, despite the situation, seems to be smiling.

"You see now, don't you, Hans?" she says. "You understand that it's all Elsa's fault. She did this to you."

Hans nods, slowly, though his head still feels like a thousand pounds. He is beginning to see.

Chapter Text

Lise hums to herself as she filters the sand through her fingers, watching for the tiny, glittering pieces of sea glass. She loves how smooth they are in her hand, how something as tempest-tossed as the sea can make something so lovely.

Soon enough, the men of the village will come out to their boats, striking out for today's fish. Right now, though, no one else is outside, leaving Lise alone with the waves, the gulls, and the mist.

A piece of sea glass falls to the beach and Lise picks it up, lifting it to the pre-dawn light to get a better look at it. It's a cloudy blue, edges smoothed by sand and water, and it's nearly a perfect oval. Pleased, she tucks it into her bag.

A splash catches her attention, and she turns to the sea. Out in the water, a ship with black sails has dropped its anchor. She sees figures crawling over the sides, boats landing on the water.

Black sails, she thinks. What do black sails mean?

Plague ship. Death ship. Whatever it is, it's nothing good.

The boats have started moving towards the beach, and Lise knows that if she tries to run home, she'll be exposed, and if she's exposed, she won't make it home. She sweeps the beach and spots a gathering of boulders nearby. Hoping they haven't noticed her yet, she runs for the outcropping and hides herself in it.

The boats land with soft scraping noises against the sand. The men are tall and broadly built, all dressed in black. Lise hardly dares to breathe. Why are they here? What do they want?

They stand, perfectly still, with military precision, and they wait. One more boat comes ashore, and Lise claps her hand over her mouth to keep from screaming.

They've brought a demon.

Slowly, the demon steps out of the boat. His skin is blood-red, shot through with gold, and he doesn't have a face, just a smooth blank plane where a face should be. He moves to the center of the formation.

His hands fist, and he lets out an inhuman roar. It's so loud, so angry, it seems like it must have come from hell itself. Lise covers her ears, and when she blinks, tears fall down her cheeks.

Then he brings his hands up, and fire blasts out of them, lighting the sea grass. Flanked by the burning grass and the men in black, the demon roars again, and takes off into the village at a run.

Lise hiccups a sob, and she whispers to herself, desperate, "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want - "

She keeps reciting, but her heart pounds against her chest, and she hears the crackling of flames, and screaming. She pushes out from behind the boulders and runs, stopping short at the sight before her.

It's hell.

No building is untouched by fire, and people are running, screaming, as the men in black loot and rout them out with military ruthlessness. With a thrill of horror, she sees bodies amongst the wreckage, lying far too still.

Where is the demon?

Hands grab her shoulders, and Lise screams, trying to fight it off.

"Shh," whispers the demon. One hand stays on her shoulder, the other claps over her mouth, stifling her.

He has a man's hands, she thinks, her skin crawling at his touch. They are surprisingly soft but far too warm.

"Shh," he repeats. He radiates heat just behind her, and sweat prickles along her spine. "Tell everyone about this. Tell everyone what you saw, what we did." His hand tightens on her arm and she sobs against his hand, trying to break his iron grip. "And tell Queen Elsa I am coming for her."

Then he's gone, roaring, vanished back into the destruction, flames bursting from his hands to lay waste to the town. Lise, breathless with fear, gingerly touches her arm, feeling the tender skin. It will bruise, and she wonders, wildly, if a demon's touch will mark her permanently, if she will always have that handprint on her arm.

It seems like hours later, but the sun has barely risen by the time the masked invaders have gone back to their ship with black sails and disappeared over the horizon.

Lise looks over the village, eyes stinging with smoke and tears, seeing the burned-out shells of houses, the melted remains of people's lives, the moans of the hurt and dying.

"It was a demon," she whispers. Then, louder, she repeats, "It was a demon!"

She runs into the village to assist where she can as the mist vanishes against the sun.

Hear the whispers go, watch the rumors grow...

The stories pass from town to town, of a ship with black sails, black-clad and masked men, and a demon all in red that screams like hell has ripped open and leaves a trail of scorched earth in his wake. There doesn't seem to be a pattern to the timing. Sometimes two days will elapse between attacks, sometimes three, sometimes even a week.

However, once it begins, it always unfolds the same way. The ship appears early in the morning, the invaders wait until the demon has arrived, and then they lay waste to whatever gets in their way. Even as word spreads and port and coastal towns begin assembling forces to fight them off, the demon seems unstoppable. He shrugs off bullets, arrows, fists. One man swears he saw the demon shot in the heart, and the demon just roared again and burnt the man who had dared shoot him before moving on as though he'd never been hurt.

Every time, he picks one person in the village, and tells them the same thing.

"Tell Queen Elsa I am coming for her."

Of course the rumors reach the capital city, carried on the backs of worried citizens who love their queen and want her to be safe. They come to her in court, warning her of the demon, of his fire, his rage, and the fatally efficient men with him.

"Thank you," Elsa says to the most recent harbinger, a man in his forties with wicked, shiny burns on both arms. "Please see the treasurer for remuneration. I hope your daughter heals quickly."

"Your Majesty," the man says. He bows to her and leaves the throne room.

"Is that the last of them?" she asks Kai, who consults his list.

"It appears so, ma'am. Can I get you something?"

"Some tea, please." She waits until Kai is gone and she's alone in the throne room to bow her head and massage her temples. These attacks by - pirates? Ninjas? whatever they call themselves - are a serious drain on the royal coffers, and while Elsa would never begrudge money to repair a life, she hates the idea of having to raise taxes to ensure they'll have the money for the next time disaster hits. The other effect of the attacks has been a little more personal. The constant drumbeat of the threat against Elsa has terrified Anna, and she's even clingier than usual. Elsa loves her sister dearly, and it's not that she doesn't appreciate that Anna's worry is coming from a place of love, but ....

"Your tea, Your Majesty."

"Thank you, Kai." Elsa takes the delicate cup with an appreciative smile. "When will dinner be served?"

"About half an hour, ma'am. The princess is in the library if you would like to join her in the meantime."

"I'll remember that." Elsa stands from her throne, still holding her tea. "I think I'll stop by my room first." Kai bows to her as she leaves the throne room, and she lifts her tea cup to her lips, feeling it warm her from the inside.

She wanders the halls back to her room, taking sips of her tea as she does. While her feet sound against the floor of the castle, her mind is miles away, cresting waves out on the sea, pondering the ship with black sails. Whoever it is, they've got a fine sense of showmanship. That's all this is, she's sure of it - someone putting on the best show possible in an attempt to scare her. Black sails, masked assailants, a man claiming to be a demon. Maybe whoever it is is hoping she'll just give up before they get to her and leave without a fight.

Of course it's her throne. It's always her throne. She's too young to rule, too dangerous, too unstable.

This demon thing, though, is new. There's never been someone with similar powers before - although it's much more likely that it's more clever trickery; flints hidden in sleeves or carefully thrown combustion devices.

Elsa stops by a window overlooking the harbor and takes another sip of her tea, watching the sun as it dips into the ocean.

A man with fire powers facing a woman with ice powers. It's almost cliche. Too bad it's all likely to be fake.

She quickly and precisely quashes the throb of disappointment that she is still alone in her powers.

Chapter Text

"Your Majesty! Your Majesty! Get up, get up, you need to go!"

Gerda is red-faced and panting as she runs to Elsa's closet, grabbing clothes. Elsa blinks owlishly at her, not quite awake.

"Gerda, what in the world - "

"Black sails, ma'am!" Gerda turns, clutching Elsa's things to her in a white-knuckled grip. "The ship with black sails is here! They've come for you!"

It's like someone threw cold water on her. Elsa scrambles out of bed and Gerda hurries to help her dress.

"Go see to Anna. Get her and Kristoff out of here. Have someone take them up to the North Mountain."

"What about you?" Gerda asks.

Elsa sets her jaw. "This 'demon' has spent weeks telling everyone who'd listen that he's coming for me. I'm not going to disappoint him."

She sweeps out of the room and down the stairs into chaos. People are everywhere, running, shouting, getting in each other's way. As Elsa crosses through, the crowd silences and parts for a moment, murmurs of "Your Majesty" following her. She pushes the front doors open and stands atop the stairs for a long moment, looking out to sea as the breeze stirs her braid and skirts.

It had looked so peaceful yesterday, flat and shining like glass. Now, the blemish of a ship with black sails mars the harbor.

She frowns, hands curling against ice pressing through her fingers. Demon they may have, but they made a mistake coming here.

"Your Majesty!" Admiral Christensen calls for her. "What are you doing here?" he asks as she draws closer. "You should go with the princess to the North Mountain."

"It's me they want," Elsa says. "I'm not letting them go an inch further than I have to."

They look up at a splash out in the water, and a single boat dropping off the one in the harbor. Men swarm over the side like ants, and as soon as one is full, the next one launches. From this far away, Elsa can't make much out, but they do appear to be uniformly dressed in black. Elsa lifts a hand to freeze the water, but General Berg touches her wrist to stop her.

"Wait," he says. "If you freeze it now, their demon will just melt it. Wait until he's distracted."

Footsteps behind her let her know that Arendelle's army has arrived, lining up, silent, armed.

Admiral Christensen turns to the troops. "They make the first move!" he calls. "I repeat - they make the first move! Arendelle will not be the aggressor!"

The black-clad men move in silent precision, beaching their boats and running up the docks. Elsa allows herself a glance over her shoulder to gauge the evacuation of the town. People are moving, guided by soldiers. They'll just have to do their job and keep these invaders away.

The men in black line up, standing, waiting. Military precision, Elsa thinks. Not new military training, either. They were already soldiers.

There are so many of them.

"I'm going to try to resolve this peaceably," Elsa says. "We have to give them the option."

"It's your prerogative, Your Majesty," Berg says, but it almost seems like he said it's your funeral instead.

The men are still lining up, and all Elsa can see is black, no red anywhere. The reports of the demon had all been the same: red and gold, a bloody shot of color in a sea of black.

The last small boat pulls to shore, disgorging its load.

"Your Majesty," Christensen murmurs.

Elsa nods. She steps forward, folding her hands demurely in front of her to hide their tremors. Behind her, she hears the soft shift of guns moving, preparing to act if the invaders make a move.

"Welcome to Arendelle," she says. Her voice is steady, and she clenches her hands more tightly. "If you surrender now, you will be treated with kindness and dignity. We have no desire for unnecessary bloodshed. However, I feel it only fair to warn you: if you choose to ignore my warning, you will lose. Please think of the riches I'm sure you've been promised and consider if those are worth your freedom ... or your life."

She hears General Berg give a soft grunt of agreement at her words, and she steps back. One way or the other, it's their choice now.

The men in black shift, and for a moment, Elsa thinks that it worked, that they're going to go.

Instead, a demon appears.

Elsa gasps. The demon is tall, broad-shouldered, all in blood red and gold, and -

He doesn't have a face, why doesn't he have a face?!

After the moment of initial shock, Elsa realizes what she's seeing. A man, of course, dressed in an outfit like a fencer's - tight through the legs and hips to allow for ease of movement, with protective padding around the chest and shoulders. What Elsa had taken for the lack of a face is a fencer's mask, still in that same blood red, golden accents along the sides.

He roars. It's like an animal, deep and loud, filled with rage. His shoulders heave, and then he roars again, lifting his hands. Fire blasts out on either side, and Elsa realizes this is no clever trick. These are powers like her own.

"Leave her to me!" the man in red yells, and he points at Elsa. Like a signal, the other man start running towards Arendelle.

"Keep them back!" Admiral Christensen commands the troops. "Your Majesty, you must - "

"I'm not going anywhere," Elsa replies. "He's here for me, and he'll tear this country apart looking for me. I'm not risking it."

Elsa gathers up her skirts and, without a backwards glance, takes off towards the red-suited figure. She can hear the men calling for her, but she ignores them. If this demon wants a fight, he's going to get it - and he's going to lose.

He roars again, loosing a blast of fire at her. Elsa dodges out of the way, throwing a protective wall of ice behind her to keep the entire deck from lighting up. She curls her hand around the air and forms a huge snowball, flinging it at his chest. If she can knock him off balance and immobilize him -

He swats the snowball aside, melting it with a wave of his hand. Then he shoots a stream of fireballs back at her. Elsa avoids most of them, but one skates along her shoulder, leaving an angry red mark in its wake, melting her dress just a little. She repairs it with a thought, but it's left her shaken. A dress made of ice has never felt like a liability before.

Her best offense is going to be a good defense. If she can keep him on the offensive, he'll tire himself out and she can swoop in and incapacitate him. So thinking, she blasts a series of small, razor sharp icicles at him. She hits - she can tell she does, because they're sticking out of his arms - but he doesn't even seem to notice. He howls, shaking them off, and it's impossible to tell if he's even bleeding. Elsa wonders for a moment if her opponent is even human. Logically, she realizes he must be, and his outfit is likely that color to hide the bleeding. Even so -

He rushes forward, pulling together a huge fireball, and as he hurls it at her, Elsa lifts a thick wall of ice between them. The fireball hits, and a crack appears in the ice at the impact.

Elsa loses track of time after a while, only focused on her opponent and the flames he wields. There isn't any sort of rhyme or reason to his attacks - he seems to be acting purely on instinct and rage. Playing defense to an offense with no pattern is exhausting, and it takes more and more effort to keep up the same level of power.

At one point, she sinks a large icicle into his shoulder, and there isn't a question that he feels it this time. Blood clearly soaks into the fabric of his uniform now, and his scream is edged with pain this time.

"ELSA!"

It's the last thing she expected - or wanted - to hear. She whirls, platinum hair escaping from her braid and whipping across her face, eyes wide.

As soon as she turns, she knows she's made a mistake. There's searing heat at her back, and she stumbles forward, falling to her hands and knees.

"ANNA, GET BACK!" Her voice is reedy with pain.

Her sister, blocked by two guards and restrained by Kristoff, fights against her boyfriend's arms, sobbing.

"No, she's hurt, let me get to her, ELSA! ELSA!"

Elsa repairs her dress again - the ice should stop the burn from getting too bad - and scrambles to her feet, hands lifted for another block.

But the demon is standing still, staring just past Elsa, hands limp and still at his sides.

"Anna," he says, and Elsa feels a thrill of horror.

She recognizes that voice.

"Take off that mask!" she demands, while her hand twirls in the air, creating a larger and larger snowball. Just as he turns to her, she pitches it at his face, and it's a direct hit. It cracks, and he staggers back. Before he can recover, Elsa hits the mask again, and this time, part of the mask breaks off. He cries out in frustration and throws the now-useless mask to the ground.

Elsa gasps. Behind her, she hears Anna scream.

It's him.

He seems taller somehow, more menacing, green eyes wild, mouth twisted into a snarl. When he looks at her, there's no hint of the debonair prince who had swept Anna off her feet. That's all burned away, leaving nothing behind but hate and rage. Elsa feels it like another blow to the stomach.

"What have you done?"

He roars, sending another blast of fire at her, but it goes wild.

"What have I done?" He laughs, manic. "What have I done?”

Elsa's mind starts rapidly assembling pieces until the stomach-turning picture appears before her.

Hans did not have fire powers the last time he came to Arendelle, otherwise he would have used them. His handling of them now is amateurish, focusing on brute force instead of any sort of skill. They’re new. What’s unclear now is whether he sought them out - or had them forced upon him.

She feels ill.

"Hans, I'm sorry," she says, and to her surprise, she means it. He looks just as surprised, and so he doesn't react at first when she brings up her hand and flicks something at him. Her aim is true, and the needle-thin shard of ice hits his throat. A small trickle of blood drips down his neck, and he stares at her with a look of stunned betrayal before he starts shivering uncontrollably, then collapses.

Elsa gets to her feet. One of her heels snapped during the fight, and she repairs it with a wave of her hand.

"Elsa!" Anna breaks free of Kristoff's grip and comes running. Around them, the black-clad men are dropping their weapons, seeing that their figurehead is downed. The soldiers of Arendelle move in, and the invaders offer no resistance.

When Anna goes in to hug her, Elsa has to hold up her hands to stop her.

"My back," she explains, though it kills her to refuse her sister's affections. "It hurts."

Anna looks at Hans, prone on the ground, her lip curling in distaste. "Is he dead?"

"He's not dead." She walks towards the prone figure, kneeling to press her fingers to his throat. His skin is ice cold to the touch, but his pulse is strong under it. "He's got ice in his blood."

"Meaning?"

"It means he'll be unconscious for a day or two, and he'll have a nasty headache when he wakes up."

"It's more than what he deserves." Anna frowns down at him. "Are you going to send him back to the Southern Isles? I'm sure they'll be happy to hear he tried to take your throne ... again."

"No."

"What?" Anna stares at her sister like she's grown another head. "What do you mean, 'no?'"

"No, he's not going back to the Southern Isles." Elsa exhales and brushes her bangs back. "Not yet, anyway. He had magic, Anna, like mine. Fire powers. But I don't know if he chose them."

"You're not suggesting we keep him here," Anna says, aghast.

"He's hardly going to be an honored guest," Elsa points out. "He'll still be a prisoner. But I can't in good conscience send him back."

"Let the record show that I think this is a really bad idea," Anna says.

"Your concerns are noted," Elsa replies. She grabs the arm of a passing soldier. "Get him to one of the maximum security cells and watch him when he gets there. Don't let anyone take him."

The soldier salutes, then he and another soldier hoist Hans up and carry him to the castle.

"Your Majesty," says Admiral Christensen, "we believe we've found the ringleader. You'll want to see this."

"Coming, Admiral." Elsa steps after the admiral, leaving Anna behind. Anna turns and watches the two guards take Hans away. His feet drag on the ground, and his head bounces with every movement. A sudden sick feeling grips her stomach, and in that moment she knows that however this ends, it won't be well.

Chapter Text

The pain has been so omnipresent for so long that he almost doesn't notice it at first. He's woken, immobile and aching, so many times that this is just another morning, another opportunity for Katerina and Emilia to torment him.

As awareness filters in, more pain makes itself known: a deep ache in his arm that throbs with the beating of his heart, and slowly, a pain behind his eyes that grows and grows until it feels like his head will explode with it. He can't move for the pain, can barely breathe. Even shallow, thin breaths hurt, and he's afraid to open his mouth for fear of vomiting. If he does, there's no end to what they might visit on him.

Slowly, he opens his eyes. A blade of sunlight from the barred window above slants across his face, and he can't stop it, but he does manage to get on his side first. There's nothing in his stomach, at least, leaving him retching and choking on the bitter taste of bile. Drawing in a shaky breath, he tries to lift his hand to wipe his mouth, but his hands stop abruptly at about his waist.

Wait.

Sunlight.

Emilia never allowed for sunlight in her laboratory. She claimed it could affect the delicate composition of her experiments, or something like that. She'd always kept the window covered.

Memories flood in to crowd alongside the headache. The costume, the mask. A voyage by boat, hands bound so he didn't accidentally set anything on fire. A series of attacks on the beaches of Arendelle, a whisper campaign against the queen, and a battle with Elsa - one that he'd lost, decisively. The memories have a foggy, dreamlike quality - if he tries to focus on details, or figure a specific amount of time, he can't do it.

Prepared for the sunlight this time, he carefully opens his eyes again and takes in his surroundings. Of course, he immediately recognizes it. He'd laugh at the irony if he was in any mood to laugh.
It's the same prison cell beneath the castle that, once upon a time, he had locked Queen Elsa herself into. After the guards had secured the special cuffs over her hands, he had stayed behind and, for some reason, placed a blanket over her. He moves his head just enough to look at his hands, and the domed cuffs are secured in place. Strange that she got them fixed.

He stands, but his legs don't seem inclined to support his weight, and he sits back down, hard. The nausea and vertigo sweep up again, overwhelming, and he closes his eyes tightly, trying to fight it down. It feels unpleasantly like the time his brothers had forced him to drink the bottle they'd found in the kitchen when he was eleven. It had turned out to be a raspberry cordial, and he hadn't even made it halfway through the bottle. The next day, he'd felt exactly like this - his first hangover.

The nausea recedes enough for him to open his eyes, and he swallows before he tries to speak.

"Hello?" His voice is ragged, weak. He clears his throat. "Hello?"

Footsteps down the corridor. Two guards appear, eyeing him like he's something they scraped off of their impeccably polished boots.

"Do you think we still call him Prince Hans?" one of them says. "Or is 'you' sufficient?"

"You can't keep me here," Hans says. He doesn't dare stand, so he tries to project all of his authority in his voice. "I am a prince of the Southern Isles, and you are committing an act of war by - "

"Oh, because you didn't," the other guard says. "Blazing in here with your ships and trying to assassinate the queen. You're lucky she had mercy on you and locked you up instead of executing you on the spot."

"My brothers - " Hans tries instead.

"The queen wanted to know when you woke up," the first guard interrupts. "I don't know why."

They step away from the cell, and as they leave, Hans can hear their conversation echoing.

"He screams for two days straight and then he's got the nerve to make demands?"

"You know those Southern Islanders, they always want what isn't theirs."

Hans exhales, letting his shoulders sink. He can't know for sure, but he suspects his brothers turned tail and ran as soon as possible. Maybe they threw some of the more expendable soldiers in Elsa's way to keep her from getting them. He'll be very surprised if any of this ever links back to Jacob and Anders, much less Emilia or Katerina. Which, as usual, leaves him to take the fall.

There is the small mercy that she kept him here.

If he'd been sent back to the Southern Isles, he doubts his father would have kept him in even the lowest dungeon. A bit lower, maybe; say about six feet. Here, perhaps, he can work something out. He can never go back to the Southern Isles, and he doesn't want to, but there is a whole wide world out there.

He hears footsteps and looks up as Elsa, flanked by guards and a young woman with paper and a quill, steps in front of his cell. Despite himself, his breath catches.

Queen Elsa of Arendelle had always been beautiful. But now, she is radiant in her confidence and power, and it seems to make her glow. Her eyes are cool as she takes him in, and Hans is suddenly very aware of how he must look. Bruised and bloodied, cuffed, brought to his personal nadir.

"Hans."

"Your Majesty." He bows to her as best he can from his seated position.

"Explain yourself."

Hans laughs, and it makes his head throb, and he winces. "You won't believe me."

"Why not?"

They both know why, but he goes ahead and says it anyway. "Because I'm a liar, Elsa. You have no reason to. And because if someone came to me and told me what I would tell you, I wouldn't believe them either."

Elsa acknowledges this with a slight tilt of her head.

"I would much prefer to make that decision myself. Explain yourself."

Hans shrugs, and the chains on his cuffs rattle.

"You're aware that I have twelve older brothers, of course, and each of them have a wife. My brother Anders is married to a German duchess, Emilia. Are you familiar with the phoenix flower, Your Majesty?"

Elsa shakes her head, and the scribe's quill scratches against the paper.

"Allow me to enlighten you." With a remarkable efficiency of words, he tells her precisely what happened, and finishes with,

"Before we docked, my brother forced me to ingest some sort of mushroom, and I don't remember much after that." Impressions of sea and sky and fire, waking up with a raw throat and injuries he didn't remember getting. "It happened again and again, until we docked at Arendelle. You saw what happened there."

Elsa nods, then turns to the scribe still scribbling away next to her. "Tora?"

"Nearly there, ma'am," Tora replies. A few more moments of writing, and she hands the papers to Elsa. Elsa turns back to Hans.

"Thank you," she says. "You will remain here for now."

Hans nods. "Thank you, Your Majesty. And -"

Elsa waits for him to finish, but he hesitates and says, "I hope you'll have compassion."

She's sure it's not what he was going to say, so she sweeps away from the cell, her guards and Tora following. She keeps her face schooled into neutrality until after she dismisses her entourage at the doors of her study.

"The princess and I will be fine, thank you," she says. "I will summon you if I need you."

"Your Majesty," the soldiers say, and Tora echoes them. Once Elsa turns away from them, closing the door, she lets her face collapse into the frown she's been fighting.

"How'd it go?" Anna asks, setting her book aside. Her eyes narrow. "Did he try anything?"

Elsa goes to the desk, pressing her hand to one of the drawers. The ice securing the drawer melts, and she pulls it open, revealing another sheaf of paper covered in Tora's neat, precise writing. Lifting it out, she sets it on the desk next to Hans' confession.

"One of them is lying," she says, "but I have no idea which one."

"Probably Hans," Anna says without hesitation. She gets up to peer over Elsa's shoulder, reading the papers along with her.

"Maybe." Elsa turns her attention back to the confession from the ringleader - as it turned out, Hans' older brother, Jacob. His story had had many of the same details of his brother's, but there had been a few notable differences.

"He was never the same when he came back from Arendelle. He was bitter, angry, dead-set on revenge. Our father had him working in the stables, hoping that would be therapeutic - that the work would put him off his revenge. But I think the isolation and the time to think just made him worse, because he came to our sister-in-law, Emilia, just after Christmas. He knew Emilia was a scientist, and that she liked to experiment. He demanded that she make him strong enough to fight you and take you down for good. He said he didn't care what it cost him.

"From what I understand, the process was horrific - very painful. He went mad from it. After Emilia had managed to give him the fire powers, he was a danger to himself and everyone else. So when we heard he was trying to get a boat and men to go after you, I knew that I had to try and talk him out of it, or else we'd end up with him and a lot of good Southern Islanders on the bottom of the ocean. I couldn't have that. Instead, he ... He threatened to burn my wife alive if I didn't captain his crew. I didn't have a choice.

"I know that we did wrong, Your Majesty, and I am so sorry for the hurt we caused your people. I hope you'll understand that we were all acting under threat to our lives. Hans is deeply damaged, and I pray that this doesn't drive him completely over the edge.

"I mean," Anna says, "it doesn't sound entirely out of character for him. Remember what he was willing to do the first time."

Elsa's neck aches for a moment, an echo from a phantom blade. She presses her hand to her neck, trying to consider it rationally. One of them is lying, but enough of the details match that it's impossible to tell who. It almost wouldn't surprise her if they were both lying, placing the blame squarely on the other.

"I think I'll have my advisors look over these," she says. "Maybe they'll be able to make more sense of them."

Chapter Text

The report from the court physician arrives the same day as the letters from the Southern Isles, one for Jacob, and one for the queen. In short, Elsa's demands the return of the captive Southern Islanders, but also makes it clear that Hans will be executed if he returns, and that if Arendelle doesn't send him back, the Southern Isles won't fight too hard. Elsa folds it up and sets it aside. She'll respond to King Niels' grandstanding later. Frankly, she doesn't want them in Arendelle any longer, but it's clear that sending them back to the Southern Isles is not the deterrent they thought it was. As long as King Niels has sons, will Arendelle be looking over its shoulder, guarding the throne from young men with grand ambitions? Some kind of consequence must be dealt out to keep them on their side of the sea, and it's clear that keeping Hans isn't it.

She picks up the physician's report instead, turning it over and over in her hands. She'd asked Dr. Jensen to examine Hans, thinking that perhaps it would give her some much-needed clarification. Surely if something matched up with Jacob's story but not Hans', it would help her see who was telling the truth. Finally, she slips a finger beneath the top flap of the envelope, breaking the seal and sliding the paper out.

Subject is twenty-four years old, male, in overall good physical health, the report begins. It goes on to say that there is extensive surface bruising and incision wounds all over his body, and that each of the cuts have been precisely made and then correctly and expertly bandaged so they would heal with minimal scarring. He also notes Hans has battle wounds all over, including a particularly deep stab wound near the heart the subject claims not to remember receiving.

Elsa touches her own heart, then pushes the paper away. It doesn't help. Jacob and Hans had both said that one of the wives - Emilia - was a scientist and had cut him open. Nothing in the report indicated whether he had forced her to do it or if he had been forced. The only thing that might support Hans over Jacob is the stab wound he didn't remember getting...or claimed he didn't, anyway.
She picks up the letter from King Niels again. If nothing else, this shows Hans has nothing to lose.

Footsteps catch Anna's attention, and she looks up through the doorway to see a pair of guards escorting Hans' older brother - Jacob, she thinks - down the corridor, towards the dungeon.

What are they doing with him? she wonders, going to the door and peering out after them. From behind, the family resemblance is unmistakable: the same broad shoulders and proud carriage, auburn hair a few shades darker than Hans'. The same slimy tendencies too, probably. Of the two brothers, Anna is more inclined to believe Jacob is telling the truth, but she still wouldn't trust him as far as she could throw him.

Why are they taking him to the dungeon, though?

Impulsively, Anna hurries out into the hallway and follows the guards. She stays far enough behind to make sure they don't notice her, and she has to wait at the top of the dungeon stairs for thirty agonizing seconds before she can slip down after them.

"Visitor," one of the guards says to Hans, his voice echoing off the stone corridors. Anna finds a niche to tuck herself in, close enough to hear and sort of see, but no one will see her.

"Can you leave my brother and I alone for a moment?" Jacob asks. His voice is deeper than Hans', but less smooth. He rattles his wrists, showing they are still manacled. "It's family business, and I assure you, neither of us are going anywhere quickly."

The guards look at each other, and one of them nods.

"Five minutes," he says, and they come down the corridor towards Anna. They stop a few feet away from her.

"Why did you allow it?" the younger guard asks. "Won't they try something?"

"I doubt it," the other guard replies. "As he said, they're not going anywhere fast. And we have ears everywhere." His eyes flick to Anna's niche, and she flushes. Guess she hadn't been as sneaky as she'd thought.

"I received a letter from Father today," Jacob says to Hans.

"It's unseemly to brag about correspondence," Hans returns.

"He says he's spoken to Emilia and Kitty and they've both pinned it on you. When we go back to the Southern Isles, you'll be executed." To Anna's horror, she hears a chuckle under Jacob's words.

"I will be executed because you decided to use me as a science experiment?" Hans huffs out a breath. "I suppose I should have expected that. You make me into a freak and then I hang for it."

"I'm glad you've come to terms with it so easily," Jacob says. He leans closer to the bars. "All of us will blame you for this, Hans. Father will never believe you. He’ll think it was just too bad you let your ambition get the best of you again."

"And that's that?" Hans asks. "You get off scot-free?"

"I told you, brother, it's us against you. You've got delusions of grandeur and now it'll get you killed. Meanwhile, that harmful influence you wielded - " Jacob laughs - "will be gone from the Southern Isles, finally for good, and we'll go back to being the model children our father actually wanted."

"I'll tell Father - "

"You'll tell him nothing. I don't think you get it. Your word means nothing. You're damned and damaged, half-mad from your last excursion and completely broken from this failure. Who will he believe, Hans?"

Jacob steps away from the bars and goes down the hallway, holding his manacled hands in front of him meekly.

"I'm ready to go back," he says, and everything in his face and voice drips with sadness, disappointment that things didn't work the way he'd been sure they would, that he didn't reach his poor, mad brother.

"Come on, then," the older guard says, and they guide him ahead and down the hall. Anna stays pressed into her niche, hardly able to breathe. If she hadn't just heard it for herself, she wouldn't believe it. It's the whole family - all of them plotting and lying and all too happy to sacrifice each other.

She almost doesn't recognize what she's hearing at first. There's a soft, gasping noise echoing off the stone walls, followed by a quiet but unmistakable sniffle.

He's crying. He doesn't know she's here, and he's crying. Without thinking, she stands, taking one, two steps towards his cell. She stops, then draws in a breath and continues forward.

He looks up when she appears, face wet with tears he can't wipe away. Their eyes meet, his shocked, hers dismayed. He huffs another sob, unable to stop it, tears slipping down his cheeks. Without another word, she gathers up her skirts and runs, her footfalls almost masking the sound of his tears behind her.

Chapter Text

"...which brings us, inevitably, to the question of the Southern Isles," Elsa says. Her advisors all nod and make noises of assent, and she's about to continue when the door to the meeting room swings open. Anna stands there, out of breath, ginger hair escaping her plaits, face flushed.

"Elsa, we - oh, uh - your Majesty, hi, I, um-" Anna fumbles a curtsy. "Can we talk? Alone? It's important."

"Of course." Elsa turns to her advisors. "We'll finish this later. Thank you for your time."

The gentlemen file out, bowing to the sisters as they leave, Anna clutching her skirts in a white-knuckled grip as she waits. Once the door closes, Elsa looks at her sister, taking in the messy hair, the flush, the anxiety.

"Anna, what's wrong? Did something happen?"

"You can't send Hans back to the Southern Isles," Anna bursts out. "They're going to kill him."

"What makes you say that?"

"I saw the guards taking Jacob down to the dungeon, and I was wondering why the heck they were taking him down there, you're not keeping him there, and so I followed them down and they were taking him to see Hans. Jacob said that some people at home had all pinned it on Hans and no one would believe him, and then he said Hans would be executed, and he laughed." She shudders. "He said Hans was damaged and when Hans said that they'd made him into a freak and now he'd hang for it, Jacob said he was glad he'd come to terms with it so easily!" Finally, she pauses for a breath. Elsa is silent, hands curled into fists against the table.

"You can't send him back," Anna repeats. "I don't... I don't think this is his fault."

"They didn't know you were there?" Elsa asks, because she has to know. She doesn't trust these brothers an inch, and she wouldn't put it past Hans to put on some show to prove his innocence to Anna.

Anna shakes her head. "The guards did, but I don't think Jacob would have said what he did if he'd known I was there. He'd want me to think he was the innocent one, right? And..." She pauses, biting her lip. "Hans started crying after Jacob left. Like, really crying. Not showy or anything. I don't think he would have done that if he'd thought he wasn't alone."

Elsa moves around the table and hugs her sister, wrapping her in as tight an embrace as she can.

"They're brothers," Anna whispers against her shoulder. "How could you do that to your own family?"

Elsa shakes her head. "I don't know. But it makes me very glad I've got you."

"Me too." A pause. "You know what I mean."

"Of course I do."

The ship with black sails is still in the dock. Although Hans has had no communication with his brother, or the outside world at all, since Jacob's pronouncement the week before, that sight gives him hope. It means, at least, that Jacob is still here, and every day in Arendelle is one more day he's not at the end of a rope. No, he's not sure what the next step is, but anything is preferable to nothing.

Footsteps down the corridor. Hans steps away from the window overlooking the docks and waits. Guards appear moments later. One unlocks the door of his cell, and the other two come in to grab his arms.

"What is the meaning of this?" Hans demands. He doubts they'll answer him, but he'll still ask.

"The queen wants to see you," one of the guards replies.

"Why?"

That doesn't get an answer, and he hadn't really expected one. Instead, he's marched up out of the dungeon and into the wide hallways of the castle proper. It still looks the same, but there's an openness about it that was missing the night of Elsa's coronation. The building seems... happier, almost.

There are memories tucked in every nook and cranny here, too. That's where he and Anna slid in their socks. There's the door she took him through to get to the clock tower. Here is the hallway he paced, waiting for her to come home. This is the room where he announced Anna's death.

The leading guard pushes open the door to the throne room, and Hans is brought in, pushed roughly to his knees in front of the throne.

"Queen Elsa of Arendelle!"

There is a general shifting as people move into bows and curtsies ahead of Elsa's entrance. Shoved down as he is, he can't see her, just hear the click of her shoes against the floor, and catch a glimpse of the glittering train of her gown as she passes by. He sees her climb the stairs to the throne, then turn and sit.

"Thank you." Her voice carries easily, and Hans hears people straightening up and relaxing.

"Today, Prince Jacob of the Southern Isles and Prince Hans of the Southern Isles will be sentenced," Elsa continues. Hans dares a glance to his side and sees Jacob in a similar position, though his hands are in regular cuffs. "Please let the prisoners rise."

Hans' guards pull him to his feet, and he gets a good look at the scene for the first time. The throne room is packed with people, and ranged along the front are Anna and that ice harvester, some staff, and Elsa herself, regal on her throne. Their eyes meet, and Hans can't help but wonder what she must be thinking. Does she pity him? Hate him? Most importantly, does she believe him?

Her face gives nothing away, and she looks away, towards a man with a scroll.

"Go ahead, Elias."

The man shakes out the scroll.

"Prince Jacob of the Southern Isles, you are charged with the crimes of robbery, assault against the people of Arendelle, and piracy. As your punishment, your ship and its assets have been seized, and what can be returned to its rightful owners will be. You and your crew will be returned to the Southern Isles."

Out of the corner of his eye, Hans sees Jacob nod, but Hans can't believe it. Jacob masterminded this whole thing, and he gets a slap on the wrist and then runs home to Daddy.

Elias clears his throat to silence the wave of whispers following his pronouncement.

"Additionally, for the crime of piracy, you will be flogged, at a minimum of fifty strokes.”

Jacob freezes mid-obeisance.

"Your Majesty, if I may speak in my own defense, that's -"

"That is the law of Arendelle," Elsa cuts him off.

"Our father will not stand for this," Jacob says.

Elsa ignores him, turning back to the man with the scroll. "Please continue."

Elias examines the scroll, going on, "Prince Hans of the Southern Isles, you are charged with the crimes of robbery, violent assault against the people of Arendelle, piracy, and attempted regicide."

Here it comes. The blade or the rope. Hans refuses to close his eyes, though there is a cold grip around his stomach so tight he can't breathe.

"You will be imprisoned for life in Arendelle."

Hans waits for the other shoe to drop, but Elias rolls his scroll up and tucks it under his arm.

The words jangle in his head, louder, louder, louder. Imprisoned for life in Arendelle. Imprisoned for life. What does he do next? There was never supposed to be a next, just a short drop and a sharp stop. He looks at Elsa, and her face is impassive. No sly smile, no wink, no twinkle of "fooled you, huh?" He looks at Anna, always worse at keeping a poker face than her sister, and she blushes and looks away.

The queen steps forward. "Take the prisoners back to their cells. We will begin the sentences tomorrow."

Two guards step forward and grab Hans' arms again, and he looks up, meets Jacob's eyes. Instead of fear, or resentment, or acceptance, there is nothing but pitch-black hatred.

Then, he's dragged out of the room, and he realizes he'll never see his brother again.

Chapter Text

The next morning, three guards appear at Hans' cell. One opens the door and the other two stride in, grabbing his arms and hoisting him to his feet.

"If I ask where I'm being taken," he starts, but his words fall on deaf ears.

He's led up the stairs into the castle proper, past the throne room and the dining room, to a set of spiraling stairs in the corner. They prod him up the stairs ahead of them. The spiral grows tighter as they go higher, and he doesn't dare look back down. There's no guardrail, and he's certain none of the guards would even make a token effort at rescuing him if he fell.

Finally, they arrive at a single stone door at the top of the tower, and one of the guards steps ahead to unlock it.

Inside is ... a room. It's small, circular, with a bed and a washstand. There's even a bookshelf with a couple of forlorn-looking books on it. The walls are stone, and there is one arched window with thick bars.

"The queen wanted you in more comfortable quarters since you're here for the long haul," says one of the guards, though he sounds like he disagrees. His lip curls, and he pulls a key out of his pocket. Hans watches it, unsure, and the guard reaches down and unlocks the domed cuffs with one smooth movement. The metal cuffs clatter to the floor, and another guard scoops them up. For the first time in weeks, Hans can spread his fingers, shake his hands out. There are marks on his wrists from the cuffs, and he rubs feeling back into them, quietly shocked at the feel of his own skin.

"Here's the deal. You burn, break, or sabotage any of this, you don't get a replacement, ever. Think it'd be clever to burn the bed to make the queen listen to you? Have fun sleeping on the floor for the rest of your life. Any attempt at escape, a coup, rebellion, a single toe out of line - " He mimes being hanged. "Queen Elsa is being very generous allowing you to live in this castle." He leans in closer to Hans, but Hans refuses to lean back. "We all know you'll screw this up. It's just a question of when."

With that, they turn in neat precision and march out of the room. The door swings shut behind them, the key scrapes, and the lock clicks.

Hans stands, exactly where they left him, and takes it all in again. A bed, a washstand, a bookshelf, and a window. He goes to the window, peering in between the bars. It's a sheer drop straight down into the water.

Maybe it's a deterrent, but right now it feels more like an invitation.

He turns, lifting his hands to look at them. They look pale from their time in the cuffs, fingers held too closely together, not yet used to freedom. Slowly, he spreads his fingers, staring at the palm of his hand, and he thinks fire. He pictures sparks running down his spine, along his shoulder, into his arm, and bursting into existence -

- nothing happens.

Hans closes his hand, then reopens it, focusing harder this time. He pictures fire engulfing his hand, imagines warmth blooming in his chest ... and nothing happens.

"That's it?" he says, out loud, alone. "This is it?"

This is it, he realizes, and it hits him like a ton of bricks. This is it. All of his grand ambitions, his schemes, the torture and misuse he suffered at the hands of others - all of it led here, to a tiny circular room at the very top of a tower in Arendelle, for the rest of his life.

Suddenly the room feels far too tiny, stifling, and he collapses onto the bed, trying to catch his breath.

Everything. Everything. Everything in his life brought him right here, and the worst part is, he can't blame anyone else for it. Not really. Ultimately, he put himself here, and now he doesn't even have the fire powers he was tortured for to show for it.

Though his eyes are full and his hand is only a flesh-colored blob, he stares at it, putting all of his focus on it, praying, begging, pleading for a spark. Something, anything.

He blinks. The tears spill. Nothing happens.

The room at the top of the tower is silent, although the door is thick enough that Elsa wouldn't be able to hear anything anyway. She nods to the guard, who knocks on the door with two perfunctory raps before unlocking it. It only seems right to give Hans some warning before they burst in on him, even if the guards don't like it.

Hans is sitting on the bed, and he doesn't look up as the door opens. Elsa takes a moment to take it all in while he's not looking at her, making sure everything is to her specifications. She'd wanted him comfortable, but not too comfortable. Only the necessities. As she'd told Anna, he is a prisoner, not an honored guest.

She can tell the moment Hans realizes she is among his guests, because he is suddenly on his feet. The guards step in front of her protectively, but all Hans does is bow before straightening, hands behind his back, a soldier before his dismissal.

"Good morning," she says.

"Good morning, Your Majesty," he replies. "May I ask why I have been graced with your presence this morning?"

"I wanted to see how you were settling in," Elsa replies. She looks around again, making more of a show of it this time. Something on the ceiling. She takes a closer look, and realizes it's a scorch mark
directly above the bed. It looks like something exploded up there.
"
I see you've made it through the night without setting the bed on fire." She had been concerned. With no proper training and a modicum of freedom, she'd been almost sure she would come to a smouldering wreck of a prison cell. Yet apart from the scorch marks, the cell is unmarked.

"The guards made your conditions very clear," Hans replies. He pauses. "That, and I don't seem to have my powers anymore."

"What?" There's an immediate shock, followed by a sick feeling of disbelief. He's lying to her, right to her face. So much for change. "What do you mean?"

Hans looks at the guards. "I am going to hold my hand out. Queen Elsa is in no danger." So saying, he does, extending his hand, palm up. He inhales, curls his hand closed, then exhales, uncurls his fingers. Elsa tries not to flinch back.

Nothing happens.

Hans stares at his hand, but nothing happens.

"The powers are gone?" Elsa asks.

"It seems so." He lowers his hand. "I don't know if there was some sort of additive or ingredient in whatever Jacob was giving me, but I don't have the powers anymore."

"An interesting development." Elsa lets the silence spin out between them for a moment, two. "Especially since it's clear you're lying to me." She points to the scorch marks, then stares at him, waiting for an explanation.

"What?" He seems genuinely surprised, but Elsa has no reason to believe him. She wonders if she ever should have believed anything he said.

"As soon as I give you a second chance, you throw it away. I can't believe your nerve." Without another word, she turns her back on him and walks out. Her guards exit behind her, and she closes the door with a gust of icy wind. Behind her, she hears pounding on the door, and Hans calling "Queen Elsa! Elsa, wait!"

She ignores him and sweeps down the stairs, hands curled into fists to keep her fury contained.

Chapter Text

Anna catches Elsa at the bottom of the stairs, and she looks her sister up and down.

"Interview didn't go well?" she asks.

Elsa shakes her head, and they fall into step together towards the back gardens. "He lied to my face. There were scorch marks on the ceiling and he told me that he didn't have the powers anymore. With scorch marks!"

"Once a liar, always a liar," Anna says, casting a disgusted look behind them. "He'll never change."

"I had hoped - he told the truth about the phoenix flower. I thought it marked a change."

"He didn't have to lie about that. Telling the truth put him at an advantage, because he knew Jacob wouldn't be."

They step out into the sunshine, and Elsa closes her eyes, inhaling the scent of the flowers. Out here, the tiny room at the top of the tallest tower seems like it's a million miles away, and its infuriating resident just as far.

"Let's forget about him for now," Anna says. "It's such a pretty day out." She hooks her arm through Elsa's. "Come on!"

Laughing, Elsa lets herself be led out amongst the flowers.

Through the ensuing week, the guards report to Elsa about the state of the prisoner. He eats what is presented to him, and thanks whoever brings it, but isn't interested in socializing otherwise. The books by his bed change, so he is probably reading them. He doesn't seem to be sleeping well, and the overnight guards sometimes report screaming from the cell.

"It's just like it was when he was in the regular cells, ma'am," the guard finishes. "He screamed like the devil was after him then, too."

"Thank you, Arvid. You are dismissed." She waits until the door closes behind him, then rubs her temple. Is it normal to receive status updates on a prisoner? Is it normal to be this worried about, and this upset with, one? She's never had a long-term one before, and it's not like there's a book on prisoner etiquette.

The smart thing would be to let him stew in his cell for a while, leave him be, eventually force out the truth out of his desire for human contact. But that feels cruel.

She shakes her head. He tried to kill her twice, and he's proven that if given an inch, he'll take a mile. It might feel cruel, but it's the punishment he deserves.

Still -

She gets up, goes to the door. "Arvid?"

The guard, halfway down the hall, stops and bows to her. "Your Majesty?"

"The next time you hear the prisoner screaming like that, please get me."

"Yes, ma'am."

Two nights later, Elsa is startled out of a light slumber by a knocking on her chamber door. She hurries to the door, gathering her robe around her, raking her fingers through her hair so it's in some semblance of order. Her mind flashes to Anna, to Kristoff, to a huge storm bearing down on a helpless Arendelle. She creates and stores away strategy after strategy, so she's ready for anything. When she opens the door, Arvid salutes to her.

"You asked me to come get you when the prisoner started screaming again, Your Majesty. I apologize for disrupting your rest."

"No, thank you, Arvid. I'm glad you did. Let me get dressed." She closes the door and sheds her robe, quickly creating a new gown out of ice, then opens the door to follow Arvid out.

They go up the winding stairs to the top of the tallest tower, to the thick door of the cell. She can hear something, quiet, as they approach the door, but once they are next to the door, it is clearly screaming. Muffled, yes, but unmistakable.

Elsa looks at Arvid. "Open the door." She has to know if it's real. He knows his guards are out here, that there are certainly witnesses to his performance if he acts like he's plagued by nightmares.

Most people wouldn't fake screaming nightmares, wouldn't even think to do so. But most people also wouldn't lie about losing their deadly fire powers or about someone's sister dying. Hans has already proven over and over that he has no problem manipulating circumstances and setting the truth aside when it's the slightest bit inconvenient. She wouldn't be even a little surprised if he was faking this, too.

"Your Majesty, I don't know if -"

"Please open the door." She keeps her voice even, though now edged with steel.

"Yes, ma'am." He unlocks the door, and steps in ahead of her.

The prisoner lies on his bed, arms thrown up over his face, and without the door between them, it's easy to make out the words.

No. Please. Stop. No. No. Stop, it hurts. No.

His voice grows increasingly wild with each word, and on a screamed "no!", he throws his hands forward and flames burst out, charring the ceiling.

Elsa stifles a gasp, not wanting to wake him. She taps Arvid on the shoulder, and they exit, lock clicking into place behind them.

Perhaps he subconsciously heard the lock, or perhaps he would have woken up then anyway. Either way, Hans shoots awake, gasping for air, face wet with tears and sweat. He scrubs at his eyes, sore and swollen, trying to get his breathing under control.

Slowly, he looks up at the ceiling. A new scorch mark. He looks back at his hands, and curls them into fists so tight his fingers ache.

Chapter Text

It almost becomes a ritual from that night, where Arvid comes to get her from her bedchamber, they go to the top of the tallest tower, and she gets a front-row seat to Hans' trauma. Although she tries not to keep secrets from Anna, she plays this one close to her chest. If Anna ever asked her, she'd tell her (and accept the attendant horrified lecture as her due), but Anna doesn't know to ask and Elsa doesn't bother to tell.

Every night is nearly the same, as he battles an enemy only he can see, and every night, he burns the ceiling in apparent self-defense. That's why she's here, Elsa tells herself. She's trying to figure out why he's able to access his powers at night and why they're blocked during the day.

Admittedly, it would probably help in her investigation if she also spoke to Hans while he was awake. But she avoids the cell during the day, out of some sense of guilt and shame. Hans wouldn't want anyone to see him at his most vulnerable, and using her position to do so is wrong.

Not that she stops.

One night is just like any other. He screams and cries, fighting against his dream tormentors, and he looses his fire on the ceiling. The scorch marks are growing larger and darker, and Elsa worries about it collapsing one night, crushing him. Some people might say that would solve their problems, but it frightens her. A life sentence isn't supposed to be just a few months in prison, then unintentionally bringing it all to an end at one's own hands.

The room is suddenly too too silent.

"Elsa?" Hans' voice is gravelly, wrecked with sleep and tears.

Their eyes meet. He is confused, half-awake, trying to determine reality from the monstrous visions in his head. She is frozen for a moment, pinned with the horror of being caught, then without a word, she sweeps out of the room. Arvid follows, locking the door behind them.

Maybe he'll think it was a dream.

She stays away for a week, then plucks up all of her courage and goes to his cell during the day. The two guards bow to her.

"Did you want to see the prisoner, Your Majesty?"

"Please." She breathes in to control her jangling nerves. "Alone. I'll leave the door open."

"Yes, ma'am."

As she enters, she takes him in, standing with his back to her, looking out the window overlooking the harbor. The breadth of his shoulders makes her feel that he could bring the cell down if he moved the wrong way.

He glances over his shoulder at her, and she has to stifle a gasp. There are dark circles under his eyes, purple as bruises.

"Your Majesty." He turns, leaning against the windowsill, arms crossed over his chest.

"Hans." Now that she's here, she isn't sure where to begin.

"You were here, weren't you." It's not really a question, but his voice does lift slightly at the end. "A week ago."

"Yes." Elsa resists the urge to cross her own arms, or fidget, or do anything that would indicate her anxiety. The queen doesn't fidget.

"I thought it was a dream." Hans looks down. "But you're never silent in my dreams."

He dreams about her. Somewhere in those nightmares, she's there. She wonders if she's one of the people making him scream like that.

Before she can ask, he continues, "Why were you here?"

She breathes in, taking a moment to formulate an answer. He looks back up, and it seems his eyes are even greener against his pale skin and the smears under his eyes.

"I had to know about the scorch marks. You lied to me."

"I never - "

"You did." She shifts, clasping her hands behind her back. "You told me that you didn't have the powers anymore, but you clearly did."

"I don't." He thrusts his hands out to her, and she takes a step back. He keeps his hands out. "I can't access them at all." They both look at the ceiling, and he lets out a noise that might be a laugh. "Except when I'm asleep, I suppose."

"But you do still have the powers. And that means you did lie to me."

"How can it be considered a lie if I didn't know about them?"

"A lie by omission is still a lie. Since I couldn't trust what you said, I had to see for myself."

"It's not - " Hans pauses, breathes in, and repeats himself in a lower tone. "It can't be a lie by omission if I didn't know I was omitting anything!"

She shakes her head. The smart thing to do would be to leave. She's just riling him up. All the same, she doesn't move.

"You don't know how disappointed I was in you," she continues. "I researched what you told me about the phoenix flower, and it was all true. What you said about Jacob, too, it was all backed up by the doctor and what we found on the ship. I thought you'd turned over a new leaf."

His hands are trembling, still thrust out to her in silent supplication. Elsa isn't even sure where any of this is coming from - she may have thought it, may have even voiced it in one form or another to Anna, but she'd never imagined telling Hans. But she can't bottle it up -

- no, she could. She could stop right now and walk away. But she doesn't want to. She still feels that ache of disappointment and rage from his first day in the tower, when he had looked her in the eye and lied to her, and she wants him to know exactly how she feels.

"But I suppose Anna was right. No one can change that much. What was it you said to me when you woke up? ' You won't believe me because I'm a liar.' It seems like even you can tell the truth occasionally."

His cheeks are flushed, a shot of color across his skin. "I never lied to you! I didn't know how that happened, and I still don't! I wish to God I did, because then I might be able to get some answers!" His hands curl into fists, veins standing out along the backs, shoulders tensed into a straight line. "All I wanted was to get out, and instead Emilia and Katerina made me into a monster! No one told me how any of it works, and now I'm a liar, too, because I couldn't get any answers when I was being tortured!"

He reels, pulling his arm back like he's about to punch the wall, but as he snaps his arm forward, a fireball bursts from his hand and smashes against the stone wall, spreading into a corona of flames before sputtering out against the stone.

The silence is like a living thing, hulking there between them. Hans stares at the new, circular scorch mark on the wall like he can't believe his eyes, and Elsa can't believe it herself as she realizes that's why she was baiting him. That was why she hadn't wanted to stop. Because she'd suspected, maybe she'd even known...

Their eyes meet.

"You're a danger to everyone in this kingdom, Hans. Especially yourself," Elsa whispers.

His arms pull tightly across his chest, like that might protect him.

"I know."

Chapter Text

If their situations were reversed, he knows exactly what he would have done. He is, as she said, a danger to everyone in Arendelle. Having him in the castle is like dropping a lit match near the oil stores. It won't go off immediately, but when it does...

Hans appreciates Elsa's mercy, but he knows - and now, he thinks, she does too - the threat he poses is simply too big of a risk. Even if he has no intention of hurting anyone, the ever-growing scorch mark over his bed, and the new one on the wall, make it clear that he doesn't always have a choice.

It's too bad. He would have liked to have seen America. A land of opportunity, even for a fallen prince.

He's waiting for the guards when they open the door the next morning, and he immediately extends his arms to them to be cuffed. One of the guards eyes him suspiciously, as though wondering about his willingness. Hans supposes it is unusual to be so accepting of one's own death, but he's had his time to make peace with it. It is, after all, the only sensible decision. It does seem a bit ironic that after all this struggle, he's going like a lamb instead of a lion.

They cuff him - the domed cuffs again - and gesture for him to precede them. He goes, and he wonders, suddenly, what his mother will think when she hears. Will she grieve for her wayward thirteenth boy, or will she feel a moment of relief?

The castle is nearly empty so early, and Hans supposes it's better that way. An execution shouldn't be a spectacle. Quiet, over and done with, so if anyone does think to ask about the prince in the tower, it's the truth to simply say "he died."

When they reach the front doors of the castle, one guard takes his arm and pulls him to the left.

Wait.

The gallows is -

There are horses waiting for them, saddled, their breath visible as puffs of fog in the air. The guard points to one of them, and they wait, and watch, while he attempts to get on the horse without the use of his hands. It takes a little bit, but when he does, the guard wraps the reins around the domed cuffs, then snaps a lead to the reins of Hans' horse, bringing it along to his own.

They begin to ride. Hans tries to puzzle out this new development. Has Elsa asked them to keep this quiet, so they'll take him somewhere secluded? That doesn't seem like something she would do. She would want to make sure everything was done by the book.

"Where are we going?" he asks finally.

One of the guards points ahead. Hans is about to ask for clarification, but his eyes follow the precise line of the guard's finger, and he suddenly realizes it.

The North Mountain.

This doesn't make any sense. Elsa would hardly want an execution in her sanctuary.

"Why are we going there?" he asks. He tries to keep his voice steady, but his carefully-constructed acceptance is starting to crumble around him. For the first time, the thought that she might not execute him, that there are worse things she could do in that isolated mountain castle, crosses his mind. His heart pounds against his chest, and despite the early morning chill, sweat begins to bead on his forehead.

No. No. Not her, too. It had been like that in his dreams, her bending over him next to Emilia and Katerina, her nails digging into his skin or a pale finger prodding a bruise, but he's almost convinced those "memories" were hallucinations. But now nothing is certain; maybe it is all true and she's waiting for him there, she's in league with them and now they won't stop, not until the last shred of humanity has been burned from him and there's nothing left except the monster.

The guard says something, but Hans can't hear it over the ringing in his ears. He's back in Emilia's laboratory, shackled and screaming, the only measure of time every beat of his tortured heart - it's so cold, even breathing hurts. Was it all a dream? The boat, the costume, the fire, Elsa, the cell ... could it all have been the fantasies of a fevered mind, trying to escape an inescapable situation?

He would have liked to think he'd imagine something a little kinder to himself than life imprisonment, but maybe that's what even his imagination thinks he deserves.

There's a sharp tug on his hands, and all of it - laboratory, shackles, knives and potions - vanishes, abruptly replaced with the stairs leading up to Elsa's ice castle on the North Mountain. In the sunshine, the glare off the stairs is blinding.

Hans looks around, confused. How - ? This isn't - What happened?

"Hey!" The irritation in the guard's voice implies this isn't the first time he's said this. "I said, get off the horse; we can't take them up to the castle. Get going!"

"I, right, sorry." He shakes his head in an attempt to clear it, then slides off the horse in an inelegant dismount. His legs buckle a little as they take his weight, but the snow crunches under his feet. He takes a few more steps to hear it again, to reassure himself of the reality of this moment.

The guards tie up the horses, then they gesture for him to go up the stairs.

"Why are we here?" Hans asks.

The guard tsks. "I told you, you're gonna have to ask the queen."

That's not comforting. Anything could be waiting behind those doors. Anything or anyone.

He finally, unwillingly, steps onto the stairs, beginning to climb them. This time, at least, there is no ice monster to claw at them, shatter the railing and nearly send him over the edge. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, focusing on one foot ahead of the next.

He stops at the top of the stairs, and one of the guards knocks at the large doors. The door swings open, and with surprise, Hans realizes it's been opened by three tiny, gleeful snowmen standing on top of each other. They giggle and scurry around his feet before zooming back into the castle.

Elsa appears at the top of the stairs, taking them in, composed, hands clasped in front of her.

This cannot be a dream. She is so much more beautiful than his nightmares ever remember her being.

"Take him out back, please," she says.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Hans doesn't move. The guards, eventually, hook their arms through his and half-drag, half-march him ahead. He doesn't fight it, but he also isn't about to help. Not when he's sure he knows what's coming, that they're waiting for him, and this time they'll finish the job.

The yard behind the castle is a shock: wide and white, snow glittering in the sunshine. It's an empty expanse, framed by a tall ice fence, with the royal family's tulip symbol atop each finial. It is remarkable work.

"Guards, uncuff him, please," Elsa says.

"Your Majesty," one of the guards says, not questioning exactly, but not certain either.

"Please uncuff him," Elsa repeats, and this time they don't hesitate. The domed cuffs come off and Hans shakes out his fingers. Elsa nods, and the guards step to the castle, ready to tackle Hans if necessary.

"The guards told me to ask you why I was here," Hans says.

"Training," Elsa replies.

Hans is certain he misheard her. "Training?"

"Yes." She steps forward, fingers cutting through the air, eyes narrowed slightly as she focuses. At the other end of the yard, ice builds and builds until it forms into what is recognizably a bullseye, then a second, then a third. Turning back to Hans, she continues, "I meant what I said, Hans. You're a danger to everyone in this kingdom unless you get your powers under control."

"You've got me locked in a stone room," Hans points out. "I'll hardly be ravaging the countryside."

"As monarch, that's not a risk I can take," Elsa replies. "If you can control your powers, it's much less likely that you end up self-immolating at night, and taking the castle with you."

Either way, he supposes, is going to be dangerous. A trained enemy with precision weapons, or an explosion waiting to go off. She can't win, but at least this way she may be able to postpone the explosion.

"How do you intend to train me?" he asks. "We've discovered I only have erratic control over them, even when I'm awake."

"We find out the trigger," Elsa replies. "You're able to use them when you're angry. We find out what it is that sets them off, then we can work from there."

"Does Anna know about this?" It seems that she would have a problem with this.

"Yes. She thinks I'm better off letting nature take its course."

Harsh, but unsurprising.

Hans looks at the targets and inhales, then nods to Elsa.

"Shall we begin?"

The first lesson is an abject failure. Although Hans does as Elsa says and digs down deep to find that spark of rage, the ice targets stay untouched until, finally, Elsa calls it a day.

"We'll train again next week," she says, and Hans wonders if he's imagining the trace of disappointment in her voice, and why that makes him more angry with himself than anything else he's worked with today.

Chapter Text

The nightmares continue, confused visions of blades and vials and fire, Katerina mopping his forehead with a cool handkerchief while Emilia forces another foul-tasting elixir down his throat. Sometimes Elsa is there too, either in her portrait or in person, always separate, but always laughing at this poor boy who thought he could be king.

One night, he wakes up as the fire is bursting from his hands, and he curls them into fists, trying to stop it from coming out. The fire stops, and he has a moment to celebrate this small victory before fiery agony races up his veins, like his blood is alight. He is aware of howling like an animal, and he must pass out, because the next thing he knows, he's lying on his side, curled up tight, hands fisted against his chest. Slowly, wincing as they ache in protest against the movement, he uncurls his fingers and sees the red half-moons pressed into his palms.

It's a victory, he decides, dropping his hands back to the bed, closing his eyes. Any control over it is better than none.

It has to be.

The training continues, too, as best it can.

"I know you're doing your best," Elsa says after yet another fruitless session, and the barely concealed condescension in her voice strikes against a flint inside of him.

"I'm sorry," he says, "that getting back into a frame of mind I barely remember is difficult." He's pleased that he almost doesn't sound sarcastic.

Elsa glances at him, face cold and haughty. "I said I knew you were doing your best. I didn't ask for an excuse."

"I wasn't giving you an excuse, I was providing an explanation."

"It sounds like an excuse to me."

"It's not an excuse!" His hands clench into fists. "This is impossible. The only time I was able to access these blasted powers was when I was drugged out of my mind."

"So it's someone else's fault?" Elsa nods. "Of course it is."

"This is - " Hans cuts himself off mid-sentence and turns towards one of the targets, hand extended, fingers trembling slightly. He focuses on the target, and he taps into the anger Elsa brought up, and he feels the warmth across his chest, heating up as it burns into his arm.

"THIS IS SOMEONE ELSE'S FAULT!"

A burst of fire blasts from his hand, and one of the ice targets melts.

He stares at the target for a moment. Every time, it shocks him that that came from him.

"I had been hoping we could find a healthier source than blind rage," Elsa says from behind him. He turns, and she's looking at the target as well, arms crossed over her chest. "A step is a step, though." She looks at him and smiles a little. It makes her blue eyes spark and Hans is sure that the fluttery feeling in his stomach is utterly unrelated. He manages a smile back at her, though the expression feels unfamiliar on his face.

"Let's head back to the castle."

Without thinking, Hans offers her his arm. Elsa looks at it, then aims her best are you serious? look at him before going ahead of him, letting the guards cuff him again.

"It was worth a shot," Hans murmurs. If the guards hear him, they ignore him, and lead him back to the horses.

She's there again, in the flesh this time, a smirk across her beautiful face, hands on her hips.

"Poor little boy," she coos, leaning over him. She's close enough that he can smell her, the scent of the mountains just after snowfall. "No one's ever cared about you. You could live or die and no one would be bothered either way. It would probably be better for everyone if you did just die, really. Emilia and Katerina are doing the rest of us a favor."

She laughs behind her hand, and he feels a spark inside of him. Laughing at him, always laughing - and how could she know? He can't bear to hear her list off his most secret fears, and he fights against the restraints, though he's so weakened from lack of food and sleep that all he can do is rattle the chains.

"Cute," she says. "But I'm right. You've thought it, haven't it? That you could have died in Arendelle, and your father would have been relieved? That even if you had taken my throne, it still wouldn't be enough. You'd still be last born and least loved, and even a crown wouldn't make you worthy in their eyes. Especially," she leans in closer, close enough that her cool breath ghosts over his cheek, "Since they would all know it was ill-gotten, and you didn't deserve it. If we're being honest, everyone knows that you would have been a weak leader anyway. You don't have what it takes. Arendelle would have fallen, and it would be all your fault. Back home, your father would just think, of course. Why did I expect anything different?"

"Stop it," he whispers, voice ragged from screaming.

"I can't stop telling the truth," she says. "It's not my fault if it hurts to hear it."

"I said stop!"

He lunges against the restraints, the cuffs tugging painfully at his shoulders and wrists, although his body is such a mess of bruises and cuts that he barely feels it. He's only able to arch a few inches off of the table, and she steps back gracefully, still laughing. The laughing echoes in his ears as he falls back, down, down, down -

He sees his hands above him, extended, and he clenches his fists tightly against the fire trying to burst out. At first, he doesn't feel anything - then it comes, hot and burning, like the fire denied by his hands will make itself known somehow. He cries out, fighting to stay conscious, and blackness threatens at the edges of his vision.

The pain vanishes from his arms, and he's breathless, shaking, sweat mingling with the tears on his face. Slowly, he lowers his arms, stretching out his fingers again.

He stopped it, and he didn't pass out again. Control is possible, and slowly but surely, he's getting it. Even if he never leaves Arendelle, never leaves this cell once he's mastered it, getting that last laugh over his brother will be worth it.

He gets out of bed, resting his fingers lightly on the windowsill overlooking the sea.

It's worth it, he reminds himself, although he can't seem to look away from that great wide world he's losing.

Chapter Text

With a roar, Hans thrusts his hands forward, and fire comes streaming out, obliterating the center ice target and melting the side of the one next to it. He closes his hands, but the anger and adrenaline are still hot under his skin, so he blasts the other ice target until it runs in icy rivulets along the ground. He pulls up for a third go at the final target, but this time there's only a thin stream of fire, carving out a chunk of the side. It peters out and he drops his hands to his side.

He looks at Elsa, watching him, hands folded in front of her.

"How do you keep from freezing the room in your sleep?" he asks.

"I wore gloves twenty-four hours a day when I was younger," Elsa replies. She looks at the targets. "But I didn't get true control over them until I accepted them as part of me."

"You were born with them," Hans points out. "It's easier when it's natural."

"I didn't ask for them," Elsa says. "They weren't thrust upon me, but I didn't seek them out." She sees him open his mouth to counter her, and holds up a hand to stop him. "Circumstances were different, of course, but I didn't have a choice, either."

Hans also looks at the targets, then his hands. Although he feels the heat pulsing in his hands with every blast of fire, sees the tongues of flame coming out, it still feels alien to him. The place of anger he has to go to, the half-formed memories of his time storming the seas - none of it feels like it's him. He hardly even remembers the time he had the best control over the powers, just pain, salt breezes, and so much rage.

"For the record," Elsa continues, "I'm not suggesting you go down the same route of self-discovery that I did."

He looks at her. She's smiling, a tiny curl of amusement to her lips.

"It wouldn't be as pretty as when you did it," Hans replies.

"I would have to execute you if you burned down the entire kingdom, anyway."

"I couldn't blame you."

They're still looking at each other, her with that small smile, him with a confused but pleased look, and his eyes flick, unthinkingly, to her mouth. Her lips, slightly parted, the pink of winter berries -

Coward.

Failure.

She's there in his head, her smile cruel now, those lips spitting out hateful words.

You're a prince so you think you're owed the world. But you're not owed anything and the only thing you ever earned was a tiny cell in Arendelle where you'll rot. Elsa laughs, and suddenly he realizes he's strapped down again, blades flashing in the candlelight, Emilia's voice dispassionately reviewing his reactions and the scratch of Katerina's pen. He tries to scream but his voice is so wrecked there's nothing left to make a sound.

"Hans!" Elsa again. It seems to be coming from two places now. He can't listen to her anymore, can't bear to hear another word of it. He fights against his restraints, wild. Maybe if he fights enough they'll just kill him -

"HANS!"

Birdsong.

Birdsong?

Slowly, as though coming out of a deep pool, he registers sunlight, the wet knees of his trousers, the ground against his hands. He looks down and sees two circles of melted snow, the grass scorched, his hands in the center of each one.

"Hans?" It's easy to identify where Elsa's voice is coming from now, and he looks at her. She looks frightened, but it seems different somehow.

"Are you all right? You went stiff, then you collapsed."

Hans nods. He can't seem to drag his eyes from Elsa's face, committing it to memory. Now, on the other side of it, he sees the tiny differences between the Elsa he just saw and the one here in front of him. The other Elsa has cruelty in her eyes and wickedness on her lips, but this one has gentle eyes and lips tight with worry. He reaches out and touches the line of her cheek, and her skin is cool and soft to the touch.

There's a spark of surprise in her blue eyes, but she doesn't pull back.

This is real. He still senses a touch of unreality around the edges, but he is almost sure this is the real one. In his head, he only feels pain. There is discomfort here: his knees ache from the impact with the ground and the fabric of his trousers over them is wet and cold. But he also feels the sun on his face and Elsa's skin under his hand, and he forces himself to focus on those.

He also realizes, belatedly, that he's still staring at Elsa, touching her, and he pulls back abruptly.

"My apologies," he says. He gets to his feet, and though he feels as shaky as a calf taking its first steps, he doesn't fall. Maybe it's his imagination, but he almost thinks he sees a jot of disappointment flash across her face.

"I think that's enough for today," Elsa says, getting to her feet as well. "We'll go back to the castle now. You look like you could use a rest."

Hans nods, and quietly holds out his hands for the cuffs. Their weight is almost comforting, different enough from the restraints in the laboratory that he can remember this is real, and this is the anchor holding him here.

That evening, there's a knock at the door. As usual, he's not given the chance to say "come in" or "not now," and the door opens. He doesn't turn towards it yet, finishing drying his face on a towel.
"Good evening, Hans."

"Good evening, Your Majesty."

He finally looks at her, sees her looking back at him, like she's watching to see if it'll happen again.

He smiles, gestures to the bed. "May I offer you a seat?"

Her eyes flick along his arm, and Hans is suddenly aware that his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and even that is more of his body than he's voluntarily showed in years. He has to resist the urge to put his hands behind his back.

"Thank you," Elsa says. She goes to the bed and perches on the edge, hands neatly folded in her lap. He stays standing, and she nods to the bed. "Please sit."

Even with the 'please,' it's hard to read it as a request. Hans sits on the other end of the bed. There's a decent amount of space between them, but it feels like far too far and much too close all at the same time. He is so aware of her, the weight of her body, the trace of her scent -

He looks down so he doesn't stare.

"What happened today?" she asks.

He inhales, and it's like she can sense his prevarication before he even speaks.

"You know what I mean. And the whole truth, please. Don't leave anything out."

Like before, it's not really a request.

Hans slowly exhales, then breathes in one more time.

"We were talking." He doesn't look at her, doesn't want it happening again. He looks at his hands, fingers curling and uncurling. "You said you'd have to execute me if I burned the whole kingdom down, and I said I wouldn't blame you. Then - " In his mind's eye, he sees the shift to her mouth, the soft pink of her lips. "I looked at your mouth." If she'd wanted the whole truth, she'd get it. "I thought about how pink your lips were. Then I heard you, but it wasn't you."

"I don't understand," Elsa says.

"It was - " He taps his temple in an attempt to explain. "I know it was in my head, but it all felt so real. You called me a coward and a failure. You told me - " Trying to remember it is like trying to piece together shattered glass, slicing at his hands, staining the razor-sharp edges with his blood. "I think . .. You told me that I thought I deserved the world, but all I earned was this cell."

"Hans, I would never say anything like that."

"I know. But that was part of Emilia's 'grand experiment.' She gave me something that made me hallucinate, then Katerina would show me a picture of you, and it was like you were there too." He has to stop there, closing his eyes against the memories trying to insinuate their way into the moment.

"That's what you meant." The shock in Elsa's voice makes Hans look over. She has one hand splayed across her chest, and a thin layer of ice is spreading across the bedspread from her other hand. "When you said I wasn't silent in your dreams. They brought me into it."

Hans reaches out and rests his hand on top of Elsa's. "Hey."

She looks at him, then at his hand on hers, and she realizes she's freezing the bedcovers. Her hand fists under his, but she doesn't move it.

"What happened next?"

"I realized I was back in the laboratory, and that I hadn't escaped at all. I was still restrained and they were torturing me again. I really only remember thinking that... that maybe if I fought enough they'd just kill me." He can't keep looking at her; it's all too jumbled up and makes his head hurt just behind his eyes. He looks at their hands instead, his on top of hers, the perfectly oval shape of her fingernails.

"It was scary," Elsa says, her voice hardly more than a breath. "We were talking, like you said, then you just froze. You were looking at me, but you didn't see me. It was like you were a million miles away. Then you fell to your knees, and it looked like you were screaming or crying - something. You looked like you couldn't breathe."

"I didn't have the voice to scream." He pauses. "At least, I thought I didn't."

"After I said your name, you seemed to wake up." She pauses, too. "You touched me."

Hans feels a surprising heat in his cheeks, and he chances a glance at Elsa to see if she noticed. Like him, she seems more interested in the far wall.

"In," he stops, trying to think of the best way to explain. Everything is going to make him sound mad, but how to at least make it sound understandable? "In my head, the only sensation I'm aware of is pain." Her hand jumps a little under his. "When I came out of it, I wasn't sure if you were the real Elsa or not. So when I touched you - I knew it was you. It didn't hurt, so I knew it was real."

"I'm glad I could help." She looks at him, and he looks back. She's so close.

Her portraits always present an idealized image of her, perfect, unattainable. He wishes they would include her freckles. It's just a light dusting of them across her nose, like a soft coating of frost across a window on a winter morning.

She's so close.

She smells like crisp winter breezes, like the hint on the wind that promises snow. There's something else, too, a gentle floral scent - it catches at the edges of his awareness, pulling him in, trying to identify it precisely.

She's so, so close.

Her lips are just as soft as they always looked, and she tastes like the first sip from a mountain stream.

Chapter Text

"Thank you, I'll be staying in here for the rest of the night," Elsa tells her guards at the doors to her bedroom. "Have a good night."

"You as well, Your Majesty." They bow to her and close the door, leaving her alone.

As soon as she hears the door click shut, Elsa runs to the middle of the room, flings her arm across her mouth, and screams into the crook of her elbow. She screams and screams, and then she collapses to the floor, dress puddling around her.

What has she done?

Anna will kill Hans. Kristoff will not hold her back. Anna might also kill her, and Elsa isn't sure she could count on Kristoff to stop her, either. She can hear it now:

"Did he use some kind of love potion on you? No - oh my gosh," she sees Anna's eyes widening, the shock flashing across them, then the anger flooding in. "Did he try something? Did he force himself on you?" The Anna in her head is working herself up into quite a head of steam. "He can't do that! Not to my sister, not to anyone! No one should act like that! I'm going to kill him! Or, well, I'm going to make him really sorry! Like 'he'll wish he'd never been born' sorry!"

But Anna, Elsa thinks, he didn't. He wanted it, and I...

It's hard to put words around, but she has to acknowledge it.

I wanted it, too.

Elsa puts her head in her hands. Everyone has a rebellious period, she supposes, but hers came about ten years too late and involves a political prisoner.

Who tried to kill you! another part of her, who sounds a lot like Anna, points out. And your sister! You know he doesn't have your best interests in mind! You've seen it yourself; all that family does is plot and scheme.

That much is true. The memory of an entire family without filial feeling is still a shock to her.

All the same ... this doesn't have the feeling of a plot. The Hans that had arrived at her coronation had had each step planned out, skillfully folding each circumstance into his pre-existing plan to ensure he wound up the hero of the story. Nothing had been done without consideration and how it would fit into his long game.

Her advisors, afterward, had told her that he'd cried when he announced Anna's death. Even that moment of vulnerability had been carefully staged and planned.

But this...

Maybe she's being foolish, thinking that Hans could have changed that much. But his fit, his flashback, whatever happened on top of the North Mountain this morning, doesn't feel deliberate. She's no expert on it, but she suspects that something like that is hard to fake. Tears are easy. That stillness, the hollow look in his eyes when he'd come out of it, had all seemed genuine.

Then there's the one-ton snowman in the room. For a moment, she closes her eyes, lets herself fall back into the memory. His lips, his hands - the slightly dazed look in his eyes when they'd broken apart, and the sheer hunger in his movements when he'd pulled her close again -

Although she's alone in her room, Elsa blushes.

Is she in love with him? That, thankfully, seems to be the only question that has a straightforward answer. Of course not. She's attracted to him, naturally. He's an attractive young man. But love? Absolutely not.

Not that that helps. The fact remains that a line has been crossed that cannot be uncrossed. Whether or not she loves him is almost irrelevant.

Anna. What is she going to say? She hates keeping secrets from her sister, but since Hans arrived, she feels like she's been tucking more and more things away, with the flimsy justification that if Anna ever asked, she'd tell her. Anna is never going to know to ask about her nocturnal visits to Hans' cell, or his nightmares, or ...

She can still feel the ghost of his mouth against hers.

She touches her mouth lightly, fingers pressing gently to the soft skin.

That was my first kiss, she realizes suddenly, and then she realizes her eyes are wet. That was my first kiss.

Her next breath comes out on a half-sob, and she presses her hand more firmly to her mouth.

Elsa had never been a romantic. Even as a little girl, while Anna had been planning fabulous weddings, Elsa had never spent time dreaming about what her first kiss would be like, or any of the trappings of romance. When she'd hit her teens, there had been some fevered imaginings, but they'd always been faceless, divorced from time or place. She'd had other things on her mind.

But nothing had even come close to the truth. A prison cell, with a prisoner - and not just any prisoner, but one that had taken an active hand in trying to wipe out the entire royal line of Arendelle - twice.

"What am I going to do?" she asks out loud. If she stops training him, they return to the initial problem of Hans collapsing the ceiling on himself, and Anna will think something bad happened to make Elsa stop training, meaning she'll ask questions, and she can't lie to her sister. But if she keeps training him, it might happen again. And again. And again ...

Elsa gets to her feet. She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. He's not worth her tears. It happened once, it was a mistake, and she'll make sure it doesn't happen again.

She avoids his cell for the rest of the week. This is not an entirely abnormal state of affairs - it would hardly be usual for a queen to visit a prisoner on a regular basis. But this week, instead of passing by the stairs to the tallest tower without giving a thought to the man at the top, she makes a point to ignore and walk past them. That feels like a decision; like a declaration. I will not let this control my life.

But by thinking about it so much, by making it a deliberate choice every time she walks past … it’s beginning to feel like it’s controlling her anyway.

The night before the next lesson, she is escorted to the castle on the North Mountain as always. The guards position themselves at the bottom of the stairs and at the doors, and Elsa goes into her bedroom. She pushes the double doors leading out to the balcony and steps out onto it. Pressing her hands against the railing, she stares out across the kingdom, her land spilling out below her.

This is what she's protecting, what she's fighting for. It's a big responsibility for one person, but it's also one she's been training for her entire life. She may have her very mixed feelings on how her father raised Anna and herself, but his kind, firm insistence that she learn everything she could about Arendelle, its history, and how to be a good ruler - she can't not be grateful for that.

Her heart stings a little at the memory of her parents. It's been nearly five years but the ache has only lessened slightly. Her father had been training her to become a monarch in her thirties or forties, not at twenty-one. She'd certainly felt too young to take it on at that age, and although she knew the kingdom had stood behind her, she wonders how many of them agreed.

The sunset paints the snow a soft pink, and the sky itself is streaked with red, orange, and purple.

Every person in Arendelle is seeing that same sunset now, she thinks. I'm protecting all of them. That's my duty.

She breathes in a lungful of brisk mountain air, and then turns to go back into the castle of ice. The best way to serve her people is to rest up well now. Tomorrow is bound to be a long, stressful day.

Chapter Text

The moment Elsa lays eyes on Hans the next morning, she immediately regrets this lesson, and wonders if she could send him back. She is the queen; it's unlikely anyone would question her.

But he would know why - know that when she looks at him, all she can think of is lips and hands and heat. Even if he didn't smirk outwardly, she'd know, and he'd know that she knew. Easier to just ignore it, push it aside, nod to him.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning, Your Majesty.” Hans waits until the guards have unlocked the cuffs before he bows to her.

“Guards,” Elsa says, “leave us.”

“Your Majesty?” one of the guards says uncertainly, glancing at Hans.

“I said leave us.” Elsa's voice is firm. “Your presence is detrimental to the prisoner's continued improvement. I do not wish for a repeat of last week's performance. Do not go far.”

“Ma'am, are you sure this is wise?”

Definitely not.

“I am able to defend myself if need be.” To demonstrate, she lets a tiny sliver of ice extend about three inches from her finger, and its deadly sharp point catches the sunlight. Hans winces back slightly. “As I said, I believe your presence is causing the prisoner unnecessary stress. You are dismissed.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Though they are clearly loath to do so, the guards draw back and out of the yard, into the ice castle. The door shuts behind them with a very final-sounding slam. Elsa wishes for just a moment that she’d let one of them stay behind.

“Unnecessary stress?” Hans asks. He sounds almost amused. “Since when have you cared about my stress levels?”

Elsa glances at him.

“Did you want to have another nervous breakdown in front of the guards? I’ll be happy to call them back, if so.”

“It’s nothing they haven’t seen before.” He considers her, head cocked slightly. “I suspect that there’s another reason, but if you don’t want to discuss it, I won’t make you.”

He knows exactly why she dismissed them, and he knows she knows he knows. She refuses to let his digging affect her, and shakes her head.

“You're welcome to think what you want,” she says. “I was trying to spare you a bit of humiliation in case - “ she hesitates, trying to think of a tactful way to put it. “In case it happened again.”

Hans laughs. “Thank you. I wish you'd sent everyone away before I showed up in a jumpsuit and tried to burn Arendelle down.”

Elsa smiles back. “No, I'm glad I let everyone see that.”

When Hans smiles back, it seems more genuine than any smile she's ever seen on his face, and even with the bruises under his eyes and the pallor from being locked up, he is breathtakingly handsome.

Elsa abruptly looks away. “Shall we begin?”

“All right.”

She hears his feet shift on the snow, and she looks back when she's certain he's not looking at her anymore. Now, he faces the target, mouth pulled into a line, and he closes his eyes. His chest rises and falls with his breath, and a halo of fire appears around his hand.

Elsa gasps.

Even that is enough to knock Hans out of his focus, and the flame vanishes as he opens his eyes and looks at her.

“What is it?”

“You had it,” she says. “But you didn't seem angry.”

He looks at his hands. “I wasn't.”

“What were you thinking about?” she asks, but as soon as the words leave her mouth, she realizes the one thing that's changed between last week and this moment.

Lips and hands and his eyes, dark and hungry…

“I think you know.”

Hans turns back to the target and breathes again, the fire appearing around his hand again. He steps forward with one foot, and thrusts his hand forward.

A thin stream of fire bursts from his hand, and it carves off part of the target. It lands in the snow with a soft puff.

Elsa can't breathe. Of course. Of course. What had it taken for her to finally get control of her powers?

“Since Friday?” she asks, but she already knows.

“Yes.” He curls his hand into a fist and the flame vanishes. “When you left, I felt an energy I’d never felt before. It - it tingled, like pins and needles all over my body. I looked at my hand and it burst into flame. When I closed my hand, it went away. I've never had that kind of control over these powers sober.”

“Maybe your breakdown was really a breakthrough,” Elsa offers, but there's no heart in it. They both know she's grasping at straws.

Hans barks a laugh. “If that were the case, I would have had control of these powers months ago.”

“The training could be paying off,” she suggests, one last-ditch effort at avoiding the inevitable.

“I don’t doubt that’s to thank for my aim,” Hans replies. “But I don’t think it’s the cause of the control.”

Elsa goes silent. She pushes down the urge to fidget with her dress or play with her braid, focusing her effort on keeping her hands perfectly still, although they’re clenched together so tightly her hands hurt.

“You don’t expect it to happen again.” It’s not a question.

“Of course not.” He presses his lips together, and Elsa’s eyes can’t help but go to them, drawn by the movement. “I would be lying, though, if I said I didn’t hope it would.”

Elsa flushes hot, enough that she half expects her dress to thaw a little. “What’s your angle?”

“Angle?” Hans echoes.

“Yes, what’s your endgame? I know you, Hans, and I’ve met enough of your family to know that when you give a compliment, it comes with a price. What’s the angle?”

“I know you won't believe me, but there is no angle. I want to kiss you again.” He stabs a finger in the air as though putting a period at the end of the sentence. “Full stop.”

“You're right, I don't believe you.”

Hans shrugs. “I can't stop you, but that's that. I -” He cuts himself off, shakes his head. “Never mind. You don't need to hear that.”

“Try me,” Elsa says, and when he looks at her, a bare smirk on his lips, she regrets the word choice.

“Fine.” The smirk fades, and he turns to the targets, as though he can't look at her and tell her what he's about to. “I'm sure you've figured out I didn't have the healthiest family situation growing up. Father had his favorite among us, Mother had hers, and I was neither. I ended up seeking out affection wherever I could, but none of it meant anything. Girls were ready and willing - until they found out the thirteenth in line gets a manor house in the worse end of the Southern Isles and nothing else. Then they dropped me like a bad habit, and frankly, I don't blame them.

“I'm not using any of this as an excuse. I know that there isn't one. I just want you to understand …” He looks at her, finally. “When we kissed, I actually felt something. Until then, I thought my brothers were lying when they said they had a reaction to kissing someone. I thought it was normal to feel nothing. Sure, the physical side felt good, but I watched them walk away and didn't care. I never wanted to kiss someone again.”

“And now you're saying?” Elsa asks, her heart in her throat.

“You're the first person I've wanted to kiss again.” He huffs a laugh. “And of course, you're the one person I can't kiss again, and the one person I can't maneuver circumstances around so that it might happen again.”

Hans goes back to the targets, and he looks at his hand, then the target. He breathes, then his hand lashes out and slices an ‘X’ across it, a thin stream of fire mirroring his movement. The target falls into four pieces, each with a quiet thud into the soft snow.

“I think this is what they call ‘irony.’”

Elsa looks at the target so she doesn’t have to look at Hans, so she has a moment to catch her breath.

“Your control is impressive,” she says, purposefully and pointedly ignoring the reindeer in the room.

“Thank you.”

They are silent for a moment, two, the tension stretching between them.

“Don’t end my training sessions,” Hans blurts out, suddenly. Elsa looks at him, startled by his outburst.

“I’m sorry?”

“I could tell - you were getting ready to tell me the training could end, because I can control my powers now. Please, don’t.” He exhales. “I know I have no room to ask for any favors or mercy. I know you can shut me up so I never see the sky again and I would have no recourse. I know I’m your prisoner. But, the sunshine, and the fresh air, and -”

He cuts himself off, hands clenching into fists by his sides. He doesn’t need to finish the sentence.

And you.

Is he in love with her?

Elsa had managed to convince herself that it was an act of lust, that it meant nothing beyond desire and physical attraction. But the way he talked about her, just now - thinking it was normal to feel nothing when he kissed someone until her, pleading not to stop the training sessions so he could spend time with her … The way he looked at her sometimes, like she was something precious and special -

She takes herself, mentally, and gives herself a hard shake.

Don’t romanticize him. Give him an inch and he will take a mile. It's his problem if he's fallen in love, not hers.

“I'll consider your request,” Elsa replies. “You must understand that it's a delicate security situation, coming to the North Mountain with a man who tried to kill me, twice. My guards don't like it, and it gives Anna fits. This was never a permanent solution.”

“And you?” He turns to her. “Anna doesn't like it, your guards don't like it. They're not here right now. What do you think?”

Elsa pauses, considering her answer. She should have expected him to ask something like this.

“I look on it as a necessity,” she replies. “While I may enjoy myself occasionally, I also recognize that my people must come first.Therefore, my security must be paramount, and I cannot be seen putting my safety at risk to satisfy any person's whims.”

Including, though she'd never tell him, her own. It was difficult being up here with him sometimes, when he got angry or frustrated, or when she saw that frightening blankness creep into his eyes. Sometimes, though, it could be fun. Sometimes they laughed. It wasn't exactly a hardship to be out in the sunshine and the fresh air, in her favorite place in the world.

“Of course, Your Majesty. Your safety is the most important thing, and I would never ask you to put yourself at unnecessary risk.” He seems disappointed in her answer, and she tries to ignore the sting. Nothing she said was untrue, and she is still a monarch running a country. She doesn't have time to indulge in - whatever this is, whatever it could be.

“We'll finish out this session,” Elsa tells him, “and then I'll take your request into consideration, as I said.”

“So that's not a no?” Hans asks. His mouth quirks up slightly at the corner.

“It's a ‘we'll see,’” Elsa answers. She turns and gestures at the target. It flies up from the ground, the four pieces sealing back together. They don't fit together quite right, but it's enough. “Let's finish this session first.”

Chapter Text

His hands are warm, surprisingly callused, and large enough that they can nearly span her entire back.

“Calluses?” she murmurs, taking his hand and sliding her fingers along his, feeling the rough skin catch on her own. He inhales softly.

“Stables,” he replies, grinning a little, crooked. “Even princes get them.”

She looks at him, so close that she can catch the scent of him - soap, the fresh mountain air, a little something burned, and she leans in to take a deep inhale, pressing their bodies together. His arm tightens around her, pulling her more firmly onto his lap. She gasps - this close, there’s no missing the effect this has had on him.

“I liked it when you touched my hands,” he purrs into her ear, and she starts a little at the fresh shot of arousal that bolts down her spine. His breath is hot and a little damp against her skin, and she can feel goosebumps all over her skin.

“I can do more than touch them,” she says, made bold by the desire in his eyes. He raises his eyebrows and she takes his hand, fingers curling around his palm to hold it in place.

His breath stutters, realizing what she’s going to do in the second before she does it, and when her mouth closes around his finger, he moans - soft, barely more than a sigh given voice.

“You’re quiet,” she says, the tip of his finger still trapped between her lips. He visibly has to gather his words before he answers,

“Twelve brothers. Locks meant nothing.” He takes her in, eyes sparking with want, and licks his lips. “Not that I want to think about them right now.”

She smirks, then takes his finger all the way down to where it joins to the hand, the tip of it brushing the back of her throat.

“Oh my God,” he says, voice tight. She looks up at him through her lashes, haloed in pale gold, and moves her mouth a little so her tongue can flick out to tease at the sensitive junction between his middle and ring fingers. He jerks against her a little, and she pulls back, though her tongue swirls around the tip of his finger once, twice, before she slides off entirely. He makes a noise that she’s certain he’ll deny later, something closer to a whimper than anything else.

“Are you okay?” she asks, voice softer, a little more ragged than she would have expected.

“God, your mouth.” He leans forward and captures said mouth with his, heated and hungry. His tongue prods at her lips for entrance, and she parts her lips, more than willing. It seems to be everywhere in her mouth all at once, and it’s sending shocks all over her body. She wraps one arm around his neck and presses her other hand through his thick hair. There’s another soft sound against her mouth, swallowed by the kiss, and she makes a mental note of that.

Fingers, she thinks hazily, and his hair - I wonder what else will set him off …

They kiss until they have to break apart to breathe, but even then, they don’t go far, faces mere inches apart.

“I could kiss you for hours,” he says, ragged. “Your mouth should be registered as a weapon.”

She smiles, though she doesn’t see the connection. “Why?”

“Because it could kill me,” he replies.

She’s about to respond, but then his hand wanders down, cupping her cheek, then brushing along her neck. He pauses at her shoulder, the strap of her nightgown like a barrier. His eyes flick to hers, a question. She nods, glad for the gesture but aching for what comes next. As soon as she does, his hand slides further down, finally touching her breast, her nipple, and she cries out, sharp, loud.

He laughs. “You’re loud.”

“No one ever came to bother me,” she points out, and he proceeds to discover just how loud she can get as his hands continue to explore, first here, now there, now further down and down and -

Elsa wakes up suddenly when she spasms, hands clenching against the sheets, her body writhing eagerly against nothing. She only has a second to realize what’s happening before her crisis hits her, and she cries out in shock and pleasure, gasping for air, knuckles white as her hands fist, nails digging into her palms. It recedes all at once, leaving her spent and hollow, chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath. It feels like all of her nerves are still firing, and when she shifts against the bed, a fresh aftershock rocks her. Her toes actually curl a little.

She stares up at the ceiling, her breathing slowly evening out, her nerves finally calming down.

That hasn’t happened in a while.

Of course a body has certain physiological needs, and no amount of ‘conceal, don’t feel’ can deny that, as inconvenient and embarrassing as that can be. But this was different from the other times.

He had a face.

Well, they all had faces, after a fashion. It wasn’t like any previous fantasies had had a smooth blank surface where a face should have been. But they’d all had generic faces - faces she’d seen in paintings or in illustrations, never a face she actually knew.

This had been a face she knew. A face she knew very well (and, a little part of her smirked, apparently wanted to get to know better).

She sits up, gathering the bedclothes around herself, drawing her knees close to her chest.

How in the world will she look Hans in the eye now, now that her subconscious has decided that that’s how she’s thinking about him? Now that she’ll look at him and wonder if she got it right, if he shudders like that when she touches his fingers, or if he likes it when someone runs their fingers through their hair? Her imagination has decided how broad his chest is, how the muscles in his shoulders move when he touches her - will she spend any future sessions wondering about it?

She has enough faith in her self-control to believe that she probably won’t go after finding out for real, but there’s part of her that acknowledges that the probably isn’t going anywhere.

The smarter, and safer, thing would be to cancel his training sessions. Hans is no longer in danger of immolation, so they've achieved their goal, and that's where it ends. Lock him back up and lose the key.

And yet …

She doesn't want to consider ‘and yet.’ ‘And yet’ is dangerous, inviting thoughts and futures she can't afford to think about. Of course he's going to beg her for time outside of his cell, and of course he's going to try to play on the unacknowledged but impossible to ignore chemistry between them. That's what he does. He's charming and handsome and ruthless.

There isn't any room for ‘and yet.’

But she wants to see him too.

With a small groan, she rests her head on her knees. For just a moment, she lets the metaphorical tiara fall off her head, and she wonders what it would be like if she were just a normal girl struggling with these feelings for a normal boy.

Except, of course, if either of them were ‘normal,’ none of this would have happened. Elsa isn’t sure how ‘normal’ people would deal with the situation. I think I like someone I’m not supposed to like. Will it cause an international incident if you kiss them? No? Just go for it, then.

How do people in her books deal with it? Of course, in a book, every action has the author’s invisible hand guiding it; nothing is truly left to chance, and any consequences are planned for. There are no wild cards.

Maybe she’ll feel better if she goes back to sleep.

I bet you will, part of her mind smirks. Elsa chases that thought away with a sharp shake of her head. No more of that, she tells herself. This time I’ll actually sleep.

She lies down, curling into her covers once more, but it’s a long time before she falls asleep again.

Chapter Text

“Didn’t sleep well?” Anna asks sympathetically the next morning. Elsa smiles, though it feels like it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Not really. Weird dreams.”

“Can I ask?” Anna’s eyes sparkle, clearly not aware how very loaded of a question she’s innocently asked.

Elsa feels her cheeks get hot and she abruptly grabs a bun, using the act of buttering it as a pretense to lower her head and not meet Anna’s eyes.

“Just - strange. I really don’t remember that much about them but they kept waking me up.” She focuses on her heartbeat, trying to slow it down and force the blood out of her cheeks.

“That’s fair. You know, the other night I had a dream that I turned into a snowman, and I had to figure out how to turn back? But before I did, I had to go to the village of snowmen and learn their ways …”

Elsa hums and nods, letting the soothing sound of her sister's words wash over her. Somehow, nothing ever seems quite so serious in the warm glow of the sunshine, Anna's happy voice detailing the ways of the snowmen.

She smiles at her sister and Anna beams back. For now, she can tuck away all the inconvenient things. They'll come back later, she knows. But even if she can never pretend to be a normal girl, she can at least pretend to be a queen with one less problem hanging over her.

As Friday approaches, Elsa does her best to focus on everything else. Heaven knows there's enough. Her official birthday celebration is approaching and there's thousands of details to approve. She wonders if her father ever took the time to review cupcakes and streamers - and if so, why he never asked her and Anna to help.

“The chocolate raspberry,” she tells the chef, and he nods approvingly.

Soon, though, it's Thursday evening, and if she's going to the North Mountain, she's going now.

Maybe the ice bed will hold off her dreams. She's been working herself to exhaustion each day, hoping that this time it'll be enough to hold the dreams at bay. So far, it hasn't.

“Your Majesty?” one of her guards says. “Are we departing for the North Mountain?”

“Yes,” Elsa says, decision made almost before she'd realized she made it. “We'll go now.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

The ice bed doesn't help. If anything, it seems to make things more intense and vivid than they were before, and when Elsa finally gives up on sleep for the night, she feels like she barely slept. She's actually shaking a little.

She goes to her vanity and sits, staring at her reflection. The woman gazing back at her is pale, though there are high spots of color on her cheeks, and her blue eyes are full of worry.

“What am I going to do?” she says aloud. “How will I look at him? He's - “

She cuts herself off abruptly, realizing she's still speaking out loud, and the walls may be thick, but there are still guards outside. They may be loyal and know when to keep their silence, but Elsa still doesn't want them to know the gory details of her dreams. Especially the dreams that make her shiver with the memory of them, even in the cool grey light before sunrise.

She will absolutely be a mess today.

Has he been having dreams, too? Is he tormented by the same visions she is, caught up in the same fantasies? Her mind helpfully provides a very detailed image of what he might look like if his dreams affect him the same way hers do.

Those light linen pajamas, the shirt rucked up, twisted around him in his sleep. He bites his lip hard, hard enough to turn it white, breathing heavily through his nose. His fingers clutch at the sheets, muscles in his arms cording with the effort. When it hits, it hits hard, and his mouth opens in a silent cry, back arching, his whole body caught in the moment.

Then she sees him collapse, breathless, face flushed. He curls onto his side, and it seems he can’t quite keep back the smile that crosses his face.

Elsa shakes her head, hard. Cold may not bother her but she’s going to take a cold bath before she sees Hans this morning. Goodness knows what she’d be liable to do in her current state.

The preparation, it seems, was pointless. Elsa flushes as soon as Hans walks into the yard, because her mind is merrily reminding her of just what they got up to her in her subconscious. When his cuffs are unlocked and he shakes out his fingers, she remembers - sort of - their touch.

She exhales, allowing herself to rake a hand through her hair, trying to gather her scattered wits.

“Good morning, Your Majesty.”

“Good morning, Hans.”

When she turns back to him, she thinks she's managed to regain a semblance of her usual facade, smiling placidly.

His brows draw together. “Are you all right? You look a little flushed.”

So much for normal.

“I'm fine, thank you,” she replies. She turns to the guards. “You're dismissed, gentlemen. Don't go far.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” they chorus, then troop out.

“Thank you for not ending these,” Hans offers after a moment of silence.

“You're welcome.” She looks down, realizing her hands are absently fiddling with her skirt, and she forcibly stills them, pressing them flat against her thighs.

“I thought we would track your progress through my official birthday celebration, and then I'll decide what to do from there. That's -”

“Four weeks,” he says, and she looks up in surprise.

“How did you know?”

Hans actually looks a little embarrassed. “I couldn't exactly forget when your birthday was. It was … momentous.”

That's the understatement of the century.

She nods. “Shall we get started?”

His control is excellent. Although he still has some small issues with the strength of the stream, whenever he aims for the target, he hits it. When he opens his hand to start the fire, it begins, and when he closes his hand, it vanishes instantly. Elsa recreates each target as he destroys it, and she’s surprised to find she’s actually growing a little tired. The energy expended on each target is small, but the repeated efforts are draining.

“Are you all right?” Hans asks when she hesitates for a moment before creating the target.

“Fine,” Elsa replies, abrupt. She doesn’t want to look at him when his face is no doubt soft and a little worried, his green eyes focused on her. Her self-control is great, but being around him is fracturing it, cracks appearing in her wall of ice. She doesn’t want to think about what might happen if it breaks.

“If you’re certain,” Hans says, and something in his voice makes her look over at him. His face is just as soft and concerned as she’d imagined it being, and - worse - it looks exactly like she imagined how it would in the moments after - gentle, warm.

Their eyes meet, crystalline blue to emerald green.

Elsa breathes.

Then, as though they are both following a silent command, Hans turns more fully to Elsa, and Elsa catches herself up in his arms. Their mouths meet, hard and hungry, and his arms are so tight around her waist that it feels like her hips must be bruising. Her hands hook behind his neck, holding herself tightly to him, pressing every inch of herself against him.

“Elsa,” he says, pulling away just enough to look at her, lips kiss-swollen, eyes dark with want. “Are you sure - ?”

“Kiss me,” she says, and the growl in her voice is a shock to her.

He looks surprised, and pleased, and leans back down. Acting on half-remembered dreams, she pushes a hand up into his hair, brushing her nails against the back of his head. With a thrill of pleasure, she feels him gasp into her mouth. It seems her dreams hadn’t been so far off after all.

Hans breaks the kiss again, breathless, and glances around. Elsa keens softly, arching towards him, but he leans back.

“Wait,” he bites out, and it’s a moment later that he’s got her pressed up against the icy fence surrounding the backyard. The heat of his body pressed against her front, with the cold of the fence against her back, is so much sensation. She stretches up and captures his lips again, and he seems only too pleased to reciprocate it. His hands roam over her sides, though they stay disappointingly there, not moving an inch elsewhere. Elsa, for her part, decides to continue taking advantage of his weakness of having his hair played with. He never gets louder than a half-voiced moan, and Elsa wonders dizzily what else her dreams got right.

She doesn’t know how long it is when they break apart, barely an inch separating them. Elsa’s heart is beating so fast she thinks it must be visible against her dress.

“Elsa,” Hans says, his voice rough, “Elsa, that was …” He trails off, clearly past putting words to what just happened.

“Surprising?” Elsa suggests.

Hans nods. “Can I - I mean, may I -?”

Elsa waits for him to get his words together, watching him, the way his jaw works, the copper of his lashes against his cheeks.

“Why?”

“Why?” she echoes.

“Yes, why now? What changed?”

Despite the fact that she is sandwiched between the wall and his body, the neckline of her dress melting slightly, and he’s kissed her very nearly senseless, Elsa blushes. Hans doesn’t miss it, and his eyebrows lift.

“I,” she says, and then stops, because somehow, admitting that she’s been having dreams about him is just a step too far. She goes silent, trying to think of something, anything that might excuse her behavior. Every second that ticks between them is a second that her excuse grows less believable, that anything other than “I wanted this” becomes an obvious lie. “I haven’t been sleeping well.”

That much is true, anyway.

“And?” Hans prompts when she doesn’t say anything further. “Is it just sleep deprivation?”

“Yes,” she says, latching onto this excuse like she’s drowning and it’s the only thing keeping her afloat. “It was a lapse in judgement caused by sleep deprivation.” Belatedly, it occurs to her that if she’s going to be decrying this as a lapse in judgement, she probably ought to move herself from between Hans and the wall. As long as she’s standing here with her arms around his neck and her fingers in his hair, it may indeed be a lapse in judgement, but it’s not one she’s fighting very hard to correct.

She drops her arms, pressing her hands to the wall behind her. Hans does the same, though he doesn't move away. She can still feel the pressure of his hands on her hips, his warmth.

“I wouldn't mind if that lapse in judgement happened again,” he says, and Elsa's eyes snap to his, startled. It's hardly a surprise to hear him say it - it's not the first time he's admitted to being attracted to her - but she is still shocked to hear him be so candid about it. She's never associated straightforward talk with Hans Westergaard (and part of her mind, even now, still wonders if she should).

She'd like to say “it won't.” She'd love to be able to say “don't count on it.” But she can't. She's already told him twice that it wouldn't happen again, and twice she's been wrong. The more she repeats it, the less he believes her - and the less she believes herself.

She hates him. She hates his smile, and his shoulders, and his arms, and his mouth. She hates the way he makes her feel and how he's infiltrated her dreams and that he's making her question herself and everything she holds dear.

More than anything, she hates that she wants him back, that he could press her up against this wall and kiss her and she wouldn't stop him.

She doesn't say anything, slipping out from the wall, putting safety and distance between them.

“That's enough for today.” Even as she says it, she winces, because that makes it sound like that's enough for today, but then there's the issue of the next week, and after that, and …

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

The guards re-enter the courtyard and cuff Hans. Elsa doesn't look at him, until she glances up and catches his eye. There is promise in those green eyes, such promise that it takes her breath away. She stares back, hands clasped, and listens to the rapid tattoo of her heart.

Chapter Text

Once again, Elsa finds herself living a double life. Where she once had to find balance between the perfect princess and the terrifying powers just below the surface, now she is the prim and proper queen of Arendelle six days and twenty-two hours a week, and for two hours every week, she is someone else entirely.

It's funny, though, how those two hours seem to overshadow the other hundred and sixty-six.

When she is approving decorations for the royal birthday celebration, she remembers his hands on her hips. While she meets with her advisors, she thinks about his mouth. At night, she dreams about him. If she thought giving into her desires would make the dreams go away, then she couldn't have been more wrong. If anything, now that her subconscious knows exactly how he sounds when she runs her nails against his scalp and the way his body feels against hers, the dreams are more graphic and detailed than ever. Cold baths don't help, and neither does reading until she's exhausted. Walking in the garden with Anna only makes her feel guilty, and she can only do so much around the castle before it becomes obvious that she's just looking for something, anything to distract herself.

For the good of the kingdom, and for her own well-being, Elsa knows she ought to lock Hans back into the tallest tower and lose the key. This is a dangerous game, and it's impossible to win. She is, quite literally, playing with fire.

What she should do and what she does, though, are two very different things. Every week, she tells herself that this time will be different, that this time she'll tell him no and they'll focus on his training, and every week, they end up tangled up in each other.

Every week, the voice of her good sense gets quieter.

It's the week of their penultimate “training session,” a week before her birthday, when something finally cracks.

It looks bad. It is bad. The queen of Arendelle sprawls on the lap of her prisoner, his hand sliding up the skin of her leg bared by the slit of her dress, her hands tangled into his hair. They're managing to keep quiet, mostly, but it's a significantly more difficult task for Elsa than for Hans.

His hand finds its way all the way under her dress, brushing against her thigh. Elsa's muscles twitch under his touch, and she can't seem to stop the gentle movement of her body in response. He inhales sharply and curls his arm more tightly around her, bringing their hips in closer proximity. A little gasping moan escapes her, and she repeats the movement.

“Elsa,” he growls, breaking the kiss to rest their foreheads together. His breath is hot on her cheek, and she imagines, delirious, of how warm the rest of his body must be if just his hand and breath are heating her up this much -

Then, to her complete disbelief, Hans pulls his hand out from her dress. Her thigh feels much colder than it did before.

“Hans?” It comes out as a whisper.

“Elsa, I can't -” He closes his eyes, shakes his head. It's a moment before he speaks again. “I can't keep doing this. Not like this. I need - certainty. I need answers.”

“Answers,” Elsa echoes. She doesn't fully understand what he means, but she's starting to get a sick feeling in her stomach.

“Yes. Answers.” His eyes are dark, serious. “Elsa, I -” He hesitates, looks away for a moment. “I'm in love with you.”

Elsa’s heart falls into her stomach. Of course. Of course that's what all of this has been leading to.

“Of course,” she breathes, sliding off his lap, getting to her feet. Her legs are still a little shaky, her body screaming at the interruption.

“No, you don't understand - ”

“Oh, no, I understand completely.” She stares at him, still seated on the grass, as though she's seeing him for the first time. She sees his handsome face, those green eyes - and she'd been so stupid, so blind. “This has all been part of your plan, hasn't it? You wait and you wait and you wait and you let me think that you've really changed, when in reality you're still just trying to get yours and you don't care about the destruction you leave in your path.”

“Elsa, no, it's not like that at all - ”

But she's shaking her head, feeling her rage boiling up inside of her.

“What was your endgame, Hans?” she snaps. “A kept man, my consort?” She can’t even look at him and she turns away, her fists clenching by her sides in an attempt to keep the ice from escaping. “Helping Elsa through her loneliness and getting a pardon and a promotion out of it?”

“That’s not it at all!” She can hear him behind her, his feet crunching on the layer of snow that always caps the North Mountain, even in July. “I really do -”

She doesn’t turn, but gives into the ice, gives into the rage, and blasts a wall between them. He gasps. She must have been close.

“Not another word out of you. You’ll return to your cell now.”

“Elsa -”

She turns, finally, to see him stepping to the side of the wall, keeping it between them but still wanting to be seen. The shock on his face is expected. The heartbreak and hurt is not. Elsa glares at him, unmoved. Crocodile tears, no doubt. She believes that there have been parts that he can’t control - his nightmares, the flashbacks - but he no doubt used that to his advantage, too. See how vulnerable I am. See how helpless. See how you’re the only thing that can soothe this savage breast.

More fool her for falling for it.

“Not another word,” she repeats, her voice as cold as the ice standing between them. She turns, cape catching the wind, and pitches her voice more loudly. “Guards! We’ve finished here. Please return the prisoner to his cell.”

If the guards are surprised to see a wall of ice separating the queen and the prisoner, or that the queen refuses to watch them go, they don’t show it. Hans, for his part, submits silently to the cuffing, led out of the walled back garden with his shoulders slumped and his head down, a man who’s lost his last fight.

“Really?” Anna’s eyes light up, and she sets down her soup spoon with a too-loud clack against the saucer. She winces and flashes an apologetic grin at the servant waiting to take their plates before turning back to her sister. “You’re really done meeting with him? Thank heavens! I hated it so much; I was always so worried about you.”

“Did you?” Elsa asks, a little ironic, smiling at her sister over her cup of tea. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Anna grins, cheeks pinking slightly. “I know, I hid it like a champ. But really! This is amazing! You’re really not going back up there?”

“Never again,” Elsa confirms, and despite herself, she still feels the slightest sting. It’s easy enough to wave that off, though; she just has to remember his words and the anger comes back, washing away any lingering regrets. “He has enough control over his powers that he doesn’t need any further training sessions. I’m not worried he’ll catch himself on fire and take the castle with it.”

Anna nods. “I mean, it sounds pretty easy, but I don’t think it would really solve all of our problems…”

“Anna!” It’s supposed to be chiding, but she still laughs. “You’ve got a bite after all.”

Anna pretends to bite the air. “Only when something, or someone, tries to hurt my sister.”

“You don’t have to worry about him anymore, at least,” Elsa promises her. “He’s staying in that cell where he belongs for a long, long time.”

“Good, so now we can focus on what’s important!” Anna bounces in her seat a little, and she raises her eyebrows at her sister when Elsa doesn’t immediately pick up what she means. “Your birthday, silly! It’s coming up in a week! What are you gonna wear? What am I gonna wear? Are you sure about the chocolate raspberry cupcakes?”

“You know I’m not going to turn down chocolate raspberry if it’s offered,” Elsa replies. “And we’ll figure something out for clothes, and you’ll look amazing, I’ll look amazing, and maybe even Sven will look amazing.”

“Ooh, you could make him an ice halter!” Anna says. “I bet Kristoff would go for some good ice clothes, too; he’d probably lose his mind, like ‘Ice is my life! Ice are my clothes!’”

Elsa laughs, and though the conversation winds and meanders through what feels like a hundred different subjects, the captive prince in the tallest tower, locked away behind thick wooden doors, doesn’t come up again.

He comes up one more time, two days before Elsa’s birthday.

“Will you be going up to the North Mountain tonight, Your Majesty?” a guard asks, around the time they would normally begin making the trek up to the ice palace.

“No,” Elsa replies, not looking up from her book. “You may inform the prisoner that he should not expect to return to the North Mountain for the duration.”

“The duration of?” the guard asks.

“His life.”

Chapter Text

It would not be an understatement to say that the kingdom of Arendelle was, metaphorically, holding its breath for the queen’s birthday celebration. After all, her twenty-first birthday had left Arendelle in an eternal winter, and though the queen and her sister were reconciled,her powers under much better control, and her birthday celebration had gone without a hitch the year before, there was still a precedent.

“Our Winterfest has begun!” Elsa cries. As the crowd watches, she crafts a snowflake between her hands, growing larger and larger, until she tosses it into the sky. It explodes into a gentle storm, covering the main square and freezing the fountains. There is applause and cheering, and Elsa curtsies, waving to her subjects. Slowly but surely, she is starting to feel more like a real queen, not just a pretender in a crown.

For her birthday celebration, she is resplendent in a white gown, covered with tiny ice crystals that catch the light in a rainbow of colors. Her hair, twisted in its signature braid, has white ribbons pulled through it, and an icy tiara sparkles atop her head. Anna stands next to her, grinning from ear to ear, her own pale blue gown twinkling and shimmering in the sunlight. Matching pale blue ribbons color her plaits, pinned into maiden braids, and she looks every inch a proper princess.

“You really outdid yourself!” she says, throwing her arms around Elsa. The crowd begins to disperse, going towards the tables groaning under their loads of food and wine, kids dragging their parents to the spots to build their own snowmen, or giggling couples hurrying to the ice rink for a romantic turn on the ice. “This is amazing!”

“It wasn’t a high bar to clear,” Elsa points out, hugging her sister in return. “I just had to not set off an eternal winter, and it’s already better.”

“Yeah, well.” Anna pulls away, and she touches her hair, almost subconsciously, as though making sure it’s still red, not still streaked with white. “You really did good, though.”

“Anna.” Elsa reaches out and grabs her sister’s hand. “I told the chef to set aside some wine and a plate of cupcakes just for us and Kristoff. What do you say?”

“I say why didn’t you tell me earlier?!” Anna tugs on Elsa’s hand. “Let’s go, let’s go!”

It is far, far too early the next morning when the doors to the royal suite burst open. Elsa starts up, fully awake, but Anna is groggy and grumpy next to her, pulling the pillow over her head.

“Tell them to go away,” she moans.

“It’s the prisoner,” the guard gasps. “Prince Hans. He’s gone.”

That wakes Anna, too.

“What?” Elsa says, wanting to be absolutely sure she heard correctly.

“Prince Hans is gone.”

“Escaped?” Anna asks.

The guard looks between them, then says, “Your Majesty, you need to see this.”

Still in their rumpled finery from the day before, Elsa and Anna follow the guard up to the tallest tower, and before they’re even halfway up the stairs, the heavy scent of smoke envelops them. Anna coughs, covering her mouth, and Elsa holds her arm in front of her face so the draping cloth of her sleeves forms a mask.

A guard waits for them at the top of the stairs, and he pushes the door open, gesturing for them to go in.

There is nothing left. The walls are charred and the furniture - the bed, the bookshelf, the stand of the washbasin - are reduced to ashes. The basin itself is in pieces, shattered amongst the soot and debris.

Elsa stares in horror, her eyes drawn to the window. Small, yes, and barred of course, but the bars are twisted and melted, enough for someone very determined to squeeze through. Something flutters from the edge of one of the bars, caught in a breeze off the water. As though in a dream, Elsa steps forward, pulling the fabric from the bar with hands that do not feel like her own.

A piece of linen, from an Arendelle prison uniform, stained with blood. A piece of linen attached to a bar, through a window that leads to a sixty-foot drop straight into the sea.

“There’s a note.” Anna’s voice cuts through her daze, and Elsa turns, clutching the scrap in her hands. Anna bends and picks it up, examining the front. “It’s addressed to you.”

“Open it.” Elsa’s voice cracks.

Carefully, Anna slides her finger under the flap of the envelope to open it, then pulls out the note from inside. Her hands, Elsa notices, are shaking as she unfolds it.

“My dearest,” she pauses, oddly, “Elsa.

“First of all, I want you to know that this is no one’s fault but my own, and I am the only one to blame for this drastic final action. I was happier here in Arendelle than I ever was in the Southern Isles, which may sound strange or unbelievable, but is entirely the truth. However, recent events have made my life unbearable, so I have made the decision to leave it.

“I apologize, of course, for the damage to the furnishings you so kindly provided to me; however, I was not - and, I fear, am still not - quite in my right mind.

“I end this, now, before I lose my nerve. I wish you nothing but the best, Elsa. Thank you for being kind when you had the power to be cruel, and for believing in me when no one else did. I hope you live a long, full, and happy life, and that if you do think of me, it is only briefly, and that it would be as a man who finally did the right thing, and took his fate into his own hands.

“With all my love, Hans.”

It must be the soot and the smoke. Elsa rubs at her eyes furiously, though they still burn, and she still feels the tears streaking down her cheeks.

“Elsa.” Anna’s voice is constricted. “He called you ‘my dearest.’”

“That’s just the salutation,” Elsa says, but Anna cuts her off.

“No, it’s not just the salutation. It says ‘my dearest,’ then a comma, then ‘Elsa.’”

Elsa shakes her head, lowering her eyes, willing back the tears. She’s had years to practice this; it won’t fail her now. “A misplaced stroke of ink.”

“He was in love with you, wasn’t he?”

Somehow, hearing it said out loud, from Anna, makes it so much worse, so much more real. “I can’t know how he felt.”

“But you,” Anna hesitates, as though fearful to broach the subject. “You weren’t. I mean. You weren’t.”

“No.” The sharpness in her voice catches even Elsa by surprise, but she has to make sure this is cut off before it can begin to bloom. “Never.”

“Here.” Anna presses the letter into her hands. Elsa glances down at it, and only has a second to take in the perfect, careful penmanship before it blurs again, and she turns her head to make sure the tears don’t fall onto the letter.

“Let’s go downstairs. The guards will need to clean this up.” When Anna’s back is turned, Elsa tucks the fabric into the envelope.

“Your Majesty,” says a guard, as they step out, “should we search the harbor?”

Search the harbor. To find a body and return it to the Southern Isles, the place Hans had fought so hard to escape. Elsa glances at the window again, the melted bars.

“No,” she says. “There’s no point.” He nods, and she follows Anna down the stairs, and out into the castle. At the foot of the stairs, she turns, gazing up them.

“Good-bye,” she whispers, barely audible, then turns away, drawing it all in and tucking it away, tightly, deeply enough down that even she won’t feel it anymore.

Chapter Text

The immigration official stamps the young man’s papers, barely even glancing up to make sure the information matches the person in front of him. “Welcome to America, Mr. West.”

“Thank you, sir.” His English is colored with a Danish accent, and the young man smiles as he gathers his things and steps out into the sea of humanity leaving the immigration office on Ellis Island. He glances over his shoulder, at the ship from Corona still bobbing in the water, and his smile drops for a moment.

No one would ever believe it, if he told them, but there wasn’t even a plan at first. He’d just told her he loved her, like a goddamned fool. As though there could be any other ending to that story. It hadn’t been until later, back in the tallest tower, his heart aching like she’d driven one of her icicles into his chest, that he’d gone to the window and looked out.

With everything to gain and nothing to lose, it had been so easy to connect point A to B to the sea. The guards didn’t bother him after a certain point at night as long as he was quiet, and he knew they’d be distracted by the queen’s birthday celebrations as well, so he had been able to write his note and then tie his sheets into a long enough rope to drop into the ocean without being hurt. Of course, that meant he’d had to torch the entire room, so no one would notice the sheets were missing from the bed. Catching his shoulder on the melted bars had been an accident, but one he hadn’t bothered to fix - nothing set a scene so well as a bit of blood.

Under the cover of the queen’s birthday celebration, he had swum around into the harbor proper, and snuck onto one of the ships docked there. Hidden, and able to dry himself off with his fire to keep from leaving a watery trail, he had waited for the ship to sail.

A miserable, dark, and cramped time later, the ship had docked again in Corona. His Arendelle prison uniform a pile of ashes, dressed in stolen clothes, it had been child’s play to find a ship bound to New York that needed one more strong young man on its crew.

Now, he’s here, and America is spread out before him.

Prince Hans Westergaard is dead. He was killed by a broken heart, fated to be little more than a tragic footnote in the history of the Southern Isles. John West, though, is alive, one more immigrant seeking a better life in the land of opportunity. He glances back at the ship, then adjusts his flat cap and shifts the bag of his scant belongings onto his back.

“Good riddance,” he mutters, and vanishes into the crowd.

the end.