It was the middle of the night, but Hans was too furious to sleep. He lay on his cot, staring at the roof of his shipboard cell, waiting to be transported back to the Southern Isles to face "justice" for his "crimes". Men had conquered nations, or tried, through all of history. Command troops, and you're hailed as a hero. Use charm and guile, that somehow made him a monster.
"Ha!", he barked.
"Shh," came a whispered reply. A key rattled in the lock of his cell. He sat up and saw a boy in a blue-white hooded cloak opening the door. The boy tossed him a matching cloak. Hans put it on, pulling the hood forward to cover his face as the boy had done. It was a curious choice of disguise, as they glowed in the moonlight like spirits, but Hans was the proverbial beggar who could not be a chooser.
He waited until they were well away from the ship before he dared speak, and even then in a whisper. "Thank you, boy. You have done a great thing for your nation and mine. I will see that you are richly rewarded for this."
The figure made a small gesture and Hans' cloak bundled itself tightly around him and bound his arms as the hood wrapped around his face and muffled his mouth. A soft, familiar voice said, "I have my reward." A brief chuckle. "And I'm not a boy."
After a long walk through the silent streets, through unseen doorways and down rough steps, Hans was given a final shove. The cloak slid off him and disappeared in a puff of flakes. "I hope you're grateful, pretty boy," said Elsa. "This cell is much larger than your last one." It was larger than the closet-sized brig on the ship, and even a bit larger than an average dungeon cell, but it was still a small room with a locked, heavily barred door.
"You'll never get away with this! I'm a prince. My people will come looking for me."
"For you, pretty boy? You're not 'the heir or the spare'. You're the spare of a spare of a spare. One prince more or less can't make a difference. And when people find that pretty boy has fled in cowardice rather than face disgrace, who would look for him in the very castle he would run away from?"
"My name is Hans."
"Your name is pretty boy. Stay pretty and I'll keep you. Otherwise, you can be a toy for Marshmallow to play with. He may have forgiven you for slicing his leg, I'm not sure. We can see." She waved to a rough wooden table with toiletries. "So tend to your grooming, pretty boy. You are a prince, after all."
He looked at the basin, pitcher, soap, brushes, straight razor. She had sauntered close to the bars in her smugness. He grabbed the razor and swung.
She snapped her fingers and with a "pop" the blade puffed into a cloud of ice crystals. "And that's why your name isn't 'clever boy'." In any other context her laughter would have sounded sweet and musical.
She had called him 'pretty'. "I apologize for my behaviour. I was angry, and mad with desperation. But clearly Your Majesty is an extraordinary woman. If there is any service I can provide, please take it as a small token of – "
She flicked a finger at him and his mouth was stuffed with snow. "I'd stay and chat, but I don't want to. Your dinner is there." She indicated a narrow tray holding meat scraps, gristle, and vegetable peels. Her ice dress swirled around her as she turned and left. He expected the dungeon's outer door to slam resoundingly, but it closed with a soft heaviness, like the sound of an enormous snowbank collapsing.
Over the months, he learned the routine, such as it was. She might come for him three times in a day, or he might not see her for over a week. Once a day he was brought a tray of food scraps, diverted from the royal kennels. When she didn't come for him, it would be brought by Little Shadow, a sort of life-sized ice marionette. When Elsa wasn't there, Little Shadow slumped inert like an abandoned doll. When she was present, Little Shadow came to "life" and did as Elsa wished.
Little Shadow was faceless, with a head sculpted to resemble an upswept hairstyle that reminded Hans a little of an onion, although he would never say so out loud. It was almost entirely ice, with packed snow where softness needed to be simulated. It had male and female parts, plus whatever additions Elsa might be inspired to add. Sometimes Hans would serve Elsa, sometimes Little Shadow, sometimes both. Once Elsa brought a large carrot from the kitchens and attached it to Little Shadow. Usually Elsa was in deadly earnest, but as she watched Little Shadow and Hans together she laughed and laughed. Hans did not think it was funny. Little Shadow, as ever, said nothing.
Sometimes Elsa would come down to the dungeon and say, "Mama's restless, pretty boy. Make Mama happy." He knew that when "Mama's restless", things would get…vigorous. Exhausting. And when Elsa grew tired, Little Shadow could go indefinitely. He knew that there were thousands of men, and probably hundreds of women, who would like to have been in his place, but all he could feel was dread or terror.
But "restless" was relatively good. Sometimes Elsa would say that "Mama's cranky." That's when things would get…painful. Excruciating. Ice can be jagged, or burn with cold, or press down heavily, or squeeze, or simply be hard as a bludgeon.
Fortunately there was plenty of snow to pack his wounds.
The worst would be when she said, "Mama's bored, pretty boy. Make Mama happy." When Mama was bored, Mama got…creative. Inventive. Imaginative. That's when icy equipment would manifest, and Little Shadow would wear the most elaborate accessories. Even if he ended physically unharmed, those were the days when Hans would huddle in the corner of his cell, shivering with more than the cold.
Now and then, there were snippets of conversation. One time Elsa mentioned, "Oh, by the way, we've reopened trade with the Southern Isles. Your father was terribly ashamed of your deceit and cowardice, and to make up for it he's offering us very favourable trade concessions. Anna, of all people, was for it. She didn't want to blame an entire country for the actions of one bad apple. She has so much good in her heart, frankly, it takes my breath away. That was the heart you tried to manipulate and break, by the way."
Hans didn't reply. Little Shadow was busy with him, and his mouth was full.
"Taking your breath away. Now there's an idea."
Another time Hans, reckless with despair and starved for human contact, dared to ask Elsa a question. "Why? Why do you treat me like this? Why are you this way? I could have been tortured, or imprisoned, or executed. Why this?"
Her eyes flashed with anger for an instant, but then she became thoughtful. She conjured an ice throne and sat down.
"For many years I kept all my feelings inside. I was forced to. I was the good girl I always had to be. And because of that I almost lost my sister, my kingdom, maybe even my mind. I only found peace when I learned to let them go.
"But now I carry a different burden. I love my sister, and I love my people. They deserve a queen who can bring peace, and light, and love. Now I am the good girl I choose to be. But there are things…
"I still have rage, and fear. I hate my parents for imprisoning me, my soul. I hate them for cutting me off from Anna. I hate them for dying when I needed them. I hate Anna for not breaking down that door, for not rescuing me thirteen years sooner. I hate her for having a bigger prison than mine all those years, and for making me carry the burden of my secret all that time. I hate the people for fearing me.
"It's irrational, of course. I love them. I love them all. I can't blame them for doing the best they could, or for things they couldn't control. And I can't blame myself for being angry at the things that hurt me, even if they came from the people I love.
"All that pain, and rage, and fear. I need a place to let them go, so that I can give the love and compassion they deserve to the people I love. That place is here. And maybe someday, when my soul is healed, I can let you go. To freedom, or prison, or death, or whatever release suits you best. But for now, you stay here, pretty boy, and you make Mama happy."
And with that he knew that he would be in that dungeon for the rest of his days.