If he tries very hard, Kristoff can almost remember before. A lot of it is dark and kind of confusing – almost like being halfway between sleep and full wakefulness – but it's there, and almost real.
To be honest, it's been years and years since he's even thought about the before, but Anna has asked him a couple of times if he remembers his life before the trolls, before the ice harvesters. He thinks he would like to remember, if he could. Kristoff is not typically what you would call a curious person – things are what they are, and that's just fine with him. On the other hand, Anna, who is inquisitive nearly without exception, has taken him through the Arendelle castle several times, recounting little bits of trivia and history and talking, talking, talking and suddenly he knows so much about her, and so very little about himself, and he wonders.
It's peak harvesting season, which means lots of time on the mountain (cold and white even in the middle of summer) hiking through the crags and valleys with Sven to reach the artic lakes and their bounty of ice. Sometimes they work with other harvesters, but often times they are alone and working a vigil of what Kristoff thinks of as 'mountain silence': the ringing, creaking, splintering sound of breaking ice, the swing of an axe and occasional reindeer grunts that echo across the frozen lakes before being swallowed by trees and snow.
Swing, crack, heave.
The work is hard, talking takes energy neither he nor Sven have to spare, and there's a lot more on his mind these days. In his solitude, he tries to remember.
He has the impression of something smoky –maybe a pipe – and of a woman's voice, and half of a melody that might have been a lullaby. They lived in a cabin; that he knows for sure. Mountain cabins are common among harvesters, ranging from little one-room shanties to larger log homes – Kristoff has one of the former, way away near a small lake. It's not much, but there's a hearth and a cot, and he hauls in hay for Sven. A stopping over point it may be, but it is his alone. In the before he can remember walking through snow – which came up nearly to his waist – and deeply felt relief at the sight of a painted wooden door nestled in spruce. He has felt that relief since, on many occasions; it is the memory that comes first, and easiest.
Split, hoist, push.
So he is sure then, at one time, there was a mother who sang, and a father who smoked a pipe (probably), and home with a green door long ago when he was very small.
There isn't much between the green door and the ice harvesters; Kristoff stops, stretches and catches his breath, but can't recall. Somewhere a long, long distance away, he hears a wolf calling and shudders. In summer the light lasts nearly forever – the North is never fully dark – but he can tell it's getting late by the position of the sun in the sky, and the ache in his shoulders. This time of year the best harvesting begins in the earliest morning hours – by the time Arendelle is waking up he will have sold his haul (then sent on its way to the morning markets) and hopefully be bathed and in bed.
The ride home they are quiet. Sven knows the way, so Kristoff doesn't need to pay too much attention to where they're going – the slats glide effortlessly along (to Anna's immense credit, it is a very nice sled) and the dawn is quiet around them.
Whisper, whoosh, swish.
Ice harvesters. Where they fit in this story, Kristoff still isn't quite sure. He's been around them most of his life, near as he can gather. Mountain men are gruff, focused, often rather dirty, and though not strictly unkind, it's a hard life, and acts of random gentleness are rare. Presumably they had found him, or taken him in – on this point, the memory is lost. He was simply there, and the before now has a middle, where he sleeps warm in a bed of straw, and is surrounded by tall men who rarely talk but sometimes sing.
Too small to help on the ice, he is first given a brush and a stool, and helps tend the animals. They need watering, brushing, and the stalls freshening. Draft horses are enormous but they get along fine, speaking a comforting language of nickers, snorts, and neighs. Clear as any memory he has, Kristoff knows the day he found a reindeer calf in his stable – shivering cold, thin and scratched by brambles and bush – they slept curled in the same mound of hay, and the harvesters turned no mind to them in the morning.
When he is a little older, someone gives him tools and shows him their use – they are now almost comically small, but he keeps them in his cabin anyway. Ice is his life. Even after he follows a speeding sleigh along a road of ice one night when the aurora is dancing overhead and magic is so thick in the woods he can feel it on his skin, he's returned. The before is over, the middle closed. He is Kristoff Bjorgman, son of trolls, companion of reindeer, harvester of ice.
Kristoff reaches over to pat Sven on the back fondly. Before them, Arendelle is peeking out of woods and the air is warming.
Before. There might not be much of one for him, but the after…it's working out just fine.