Well hey there, lovely readers who are awesome enough to give this story a chance!
Yesterday I had a stroke of genius. Kind of.
What if I put my OTP in Tsar-ruled Russia - during WWI - and have one of them be an assassin?
I know. It sounded brilliant at the time, which was around 2:00 am. Besides the fact that Frozen or RoTG have nothing to do with pre-Communist, Czar-era Russia.
Major Disclaimer: This fic is pretty much 2378279% historically inaccurate. I'm pretty sure Elsa of Arendelle wasn't the last Czar, and unless he is a Time Lord, Russians living in the early 1900s should have no clue who Ryan Gosling is.
I DO NOT OWN FROZEN OR ROTG. They belong to Walt and DreamWorks, respectively.
Rated T for mild swearing (but heavy cursing in Polish).
Enjoy!
- ncarraway
"Nothing burns like the cold." - George R.R. Martin, A Song of Ice and Fire
It didn't help that the Winter Palace was freezing that night.
Agent Frost pressed his face against his coat-collar, letting the snow dampen the wooly fabric. Long shards of ice frosted the stubble on his beard. He blinked, melting the snow with the warmth of his eyelids. The lights on the smooth, white palace contrasted with the neverending darkness.
It was sickening. All of it.
Earlier that day, he had received two shoulder punches - and a generous black eye - from two guys for whom Klaus did a little "favor", a cut on his left arm left by an excited arms dealer, also acquainted with Klaus, and a nasty bruise on his leg from a very persistent vendor who kept trying to sell him a snow globe with - a poorly crafted - sculpture of a bear riding a tricycle.
As the lights ahead grew brighter and the voices from the banquet louder, he reminded himself that this was only half as bad as that time they wanted him to kill that guy from the Kremlin. That night, the temperature had dropped lower than a professional limbo dancer, low enough that he feared his fingers would crack if he tried to bend them. He loathed Russia - Klaus knew it - but the perpetually jolly fatass made him go, again. When he got back to G.U.A.R.D. he was going to strangle him with his long, white beard.
"Ey, ey!" A voice shattered his melancholiness. He turned to see a palace guard, no older than fifteen, waving his hands in the air. "What are you doing?" His ruddy cheeks reddened.
"Ja pierdole," Frost murmured, his breath creating evanescent tendrils in the thin air.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked away faster, ignoring the boy.
"Ey!" The boy was still running after him, panting loudly in his oversized, red uniform. Frost rolled his eyes. Idiot.
He stopped, more snow abruptly falling in his face. He heard the skidding, crunching footsteps of the boy behind him. He listened carefully, using the rhythm to locate him.
Skid skid crunch, skid skid crunch.
"Ey!" This boy needed to expand his vocabulary. "What do you think you're doing?" Skid skid crunch, skid skid crunch, skid skid-
With one incisive blow to the face, the boy was out. The blood from his nose tainted the snow an alarming shade of pink.
Frost stood back, snow crunching beneath his own feet. He leaned back, satisfied - and slightly amused - by his handiwork. That punch was saved for Klaus, but this sufficed, too.
His jovial mood didn't last long. His well established scowl soon reverted itself back onto his face, and the crease between his brows deepened.
Cursing, he held one indelicate finger towards the palace, vowing never to come back to this polluted, industrial wasteland. A poor excuse for a country.
St. Petersburg always looked so peaceful at night. Without the incessant chugging of trains or the dense layer of smog, in Elsa's eyes, the snow-laden building could almost be, well, a real Winter Palace.
Elsa gripped the cold railing below her, blue eyes fixed on a bare tree in the distance. This - this was what she needed, right? Silence. No distractions. She could concentrate. She could control it. Even though it was below freezing outside, sweat rolled down her neck and into her pine-colored dress.
She closed her eyes, exhaling into the crisp, night air. She tried to picture herself at the moment - a small speck, a white dot on a white building in vast whiteness. A small speck on white nothingness, she reminded herself. She imagined herself standing on the roof of the building, snow covering the ground below her, the palace in all its splendor. A small speck.
Soon, the building was gone, leaving a dent in the snow, a large patch of grass where the snow hadn't fallen. All sounds of human voices and the trains disappeared, as if the audio had been cut from a movie. The blood pounding in her eardrums was all she heard, the swishing sound slowly rocking her to tranquility.
White nothingness, she conjured, and she was standing in it, in nothing, in oblivion. No one existed. She was just an fleeting essence, a small dent in the Universe. She could finally relax, feeling as if a huge encumbrance was being lifted off her back. No one was watching her. No one was judging her. No one was there.
This was it. This was what she needed. Concealment. Imperviousness. Control.
A chill sent her hands to her arms.
Her trance was broken. She was back on the balcony, her hair a mess and her arms freezing. Her dress had a stain in the shape of Belarus.
Frustration boiled inside of her. "No," she grunted, trying to repress the sudden sensation going freezing inside of her veins. Another breeze lifted her stray strands of platinum-blonde hair, entangling them into a ridiculous hair net.
Let's try this again, she thought. Taking off her blue, sterile gloves, she placed her hands back on the railing, gripping the marble as if it were her lifeline. She tried to repeat her earlier thoughts, her daily meditation process. She breathed in through her nose - out through her mouth, with her tongue pressing against the roof of her mouth. She gritted her teeth to quell the chills going down her spine.
Nothingness, nothingness, nothingness, nothingness nothingness nothingness nothingness-
The blast shocked her, sending her skidding back three steps. Her velvet slippers gripped onto the snowy balcony as tightly as possible, her hands shielding her eyes from the iridescent shards of ice flying into her face.
Her eyelids were as adamant as steel shutters, never once twitching or moving. One blink - a piece of ice in the right direction - and she could be blind.
She reached out towards that empty pocket of existence, her safe haven, that comforting oblivion. She couldn't find it. Reality was here. Here, with icy daggers flying into her peripheral vision.
When she couldn't hear the chiming sound of shattering ice and glass, she opened one eye, then the other - slowly and hesitantly, as if a block of ice could jump up and yell: Surprise! I'm still here!
When her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she gasped, her eyes growing wide in fear.
In her state of shock, she had created a lethal labyrinth of icy thorns, all forcing their way out of the cold marble of the balcony. The railing was completely frosted over - if she had not pulled away at the last second, it would have shattered into a million pieces of white marble.
Elsa took another step back, losing her balance on a sheet of ice and coming face to face with another one of her ice thorns. The blade nicked the tip of her nose, and a small drop of blood plopped onto the pristine ice beneath her feet.
Her speculations were right - her powers were getting stronger. She had nearly hurt herself today, and if she didn't learn to control and conceal her curse, someone else would get hurt.
The balcony door broke open, sending granules of ice into Elsa's face.
No, no, Elsa panicked. Not right now. In the doorway, illuminated by the warm light of the bedroom, stood a jaunty bunch of limbs and a shock of red hair.
"It's time! It's finally time!" Anna jumped up and down, laughing as her dress flounced upwards, revealing her pantyhose in a very unladylike manner. She took a step forward before opening her eyes. Her mouth dropped open, her green eyes resembling watermelons.
"Anna, no! Don't come closer!" Elsa yelled, shoving her arm out. "It's dangerous - you'll get hurt!"
Anna stood in the doorway, feet frozen in place, staring at Elsa's icy wonderland. She hadn't blinked yet. Elsa was beginning to think that she had put her sister in a state of eternal paralysis. With a sudden, numbing realization, Elsa realized that all her years of hiding were wasted. Her sister had found out, and there was no way there life would be normal ever again.
This is it, Elsa thought. This is when all the secrets spill out.
She ran over the many possible scenarios in her mind. Would Anna be okay with her curse? Or would she freak out and condemn her as a villain for the rest of her life? Elsa shuddered at the mere thought.
How would she explain this? See here's the thing, Anna, she pictured herself saying, I may be your despondent sister on the outside, but I'm actually a super powerful and dangerous sorceress with crazy ice powers who can destroy this entire city with a single sneeze. And oh yeah, I can't really control my powers, so you are in imminent danger right now.
No. Just - no.
Elsa took a deep breath. "Anna," she started, "I can explain-"
A moment of silence passed, the air heavy with tension. Anna still hadn't moved. Elsa wished she could turn back time, take Anna from the doorway, with her auburn hair tangled in her face and her mouth wide, and plop her back in the hall. Like none of this never happened.
Ten seconds passed. Twenty.
Finally, Anna spoke.
"Oh. My. God." Elsa winced, bracing herself for the blow. She was ready to hear the word monster, or witch. She could see it - ready to roll off the tip of her tongue.
Anna only squealed, eyes bright and cheery. "This is amazing!" Anna laughed and put Elsa in an unwitting headlock, barely dodging an ice spear as she pranced out onto the balcony.
"Wha- Anna, let go of me," Elsa said, removing her younger sister's arms in repulsion. She was confused - she had just experienced the greatest anti-climax of her life.
Anna continued bouncing on her heels. "Elsa," she cried, "how did you sculpt all of this?"
Elsa almost tripped on her ice. Relief flooded her body, and she offered a silent thank-you to the heavens. She turned to face Anna, who was still waiting, smiling with wide eyes, for a response.
"Well, I, uh," Elsa racked her brain for a plausible, non-idiotic alibi. "I practiced. A lot." So much for non-idiotic.
She took the bait. "All this time," Anna said, still staring at the ice "sculptures" in awe, "I thought you were locked up in your room, masturbating to shirtless pictures of Ryan Gosling and writing moody poems, but who knew you were the next Michael and Jello?"
Elsa scoffed. She straightened her back and locked her hands together in an I'm-more-important-than-you pose. "First of all, I have much more important business to attend to than movie stars and typical adolescent angst, and secondly, I believe you're referring to an Italian sculptor, not a gelatinous delicacy."
"Don't be such a pretentious crapnugget," Anna said. Elsa was constantly amused by her sister's vernacular. "This is a party, lighten up." She winked. "Let it go."
The icy balcony forgotten, Anna ran into Elsa's room, jumping onto her bed. Her thin frame sunk into the downy pillows. Sighing, Elsa followed her, begrudgingly, shutting - and locking - the balcony door.
"Aaah," Anna sighed, a sleepy smile beneath her half closed eyes. "This is going to be the best night ever."
Elsa smiled, looking at her younger sister disappear blissfully into the bed.
"Oh great goodness," Anna said, staring at the ceiling dreamily. "There's gonna be that absolutely amazing chocolate fountain at the party tonight. Mmm. I just want to put my tongue in there and cover my face with chocolate. Ugh. So delicious."
She rolled over. "Ooh! Ooh! Elsa!" She sat up. Her royal bun looked like a raven's nest, and she was grinning a wide, Cheshire cat grin. "There will be -" She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively, " - boys."
Elsa sighed in futility.
"Ooh, ooh!" Anna squealed again, as another train of thought approached her mental station, "What if that super handsome prince from Bulgaria comes again?" She shook her head, as if the mere mental image of him was too hot to handle. "Sweet sassy molassy," she sighed, "the build on that boy."
Elsa scoffed, again. "You shouldn't objectify men based on their physical appearance," she said. "There are more things to keep in mind. His habits, traits, personality, the way he treats his mother-"
"Yeah," Anna groaned, "as if you are the expert on men here, Miss Dating Guru."
Before Elsa could retort with an angry lecture on physical objectification, Anna pulled her hand towards her. Elsa shrieked - a very unfeminine screech - and plopped onto the pillows.
The two sisters glanced at each other, trying to stop smiling. They hadn't hung out like this for a while. For months, the only interaction they had were brief nods in the hallways and silent breakfasts, the small moments of intersection before each sister returned to their separate lives.
Maybe Anna was right. Maybe Elsa needed to forget, to let it all go.
Anna sat up on the bed. "Come on, ya wet blanket," she said, yanking Elsa's hand with her. "We have a party to attend."
As she raced Anna down the hall, laughing and shrieking as they bumped into unfortunate guests or servants, Elsa soon forgot about the party, her powers, and everything. All that was left of the world were the two of them, the only bright and warm thing in a galaxy of white nothingness.
If a hapless attendee happened to be answering nature's call in the men's bathroom at nine o'clock that night, he would have been the sole witness to see a frozen figure in black collapse onto the perfectly polished granite.
"Suka," Frost said, clenching his teeth as he hit the ground. He couldn't see anything under his black cap, but he heard the sound of trickling water and smelled the faint scent of cleaning supplies.
After leaving the poor boy in the snow, Frost had scouted the entire perimeter of the palace, looking for open doors or windows and marking all of his data in his cognitive map - he had nearly photographic memory - and eventually traced a hole in a window with a laser. All this without being spotted. The Winter Palace security really needed to step up their game.
Lying on the washroom floor, Frost reveled in the sudden warmth. He laughed, almost hysterically, and started to make what looked like invisible snow angels on the floor, like an emaciated traveler in the desert finding an oasis.
"Woo, baby," he breathed, "that's more like it."
Frost sat up, reminding himself about the task at hand. He tossed the bag slung over his shoulder onto the ground, dumping its contents.
"Game time," he said, smirking.
"Razors, check. Shaving cream, check. Scissors, check. Cologne, yep. Breath freshener, check."
He turned back and forth, suddenly aware that he was missing a crucial element of his ruse.
"Where's my suit?" Damn it, Klaus. How am I supposed to do this wearing a battered trenchcoat and stained pants? He wondered. I'll be surprised if the Tsarina doesn't run away.
As if on cue, a portly, middle-aged man with gelled hair walked into the washroom. He stopped, shiny shoes screeching - alligator skin - as he witnessed Frost, on a heap in the floor, toiletries spilled around him, snow tumbling off of his masked face.
"Hello," Frost said.
Fifteen minutes later, the rich man was outside the window, bound in ropes and struggling to curse at Frost through the duct tape on his mouth. Frost adjusted the collar of his shirt - Westwood, by the way - and smoothed the expensive fabric over his chest. His brand new alligator skin shoes squeaked on the floor.
He studied his face, making sure the razor didn't miss any spots, and spritzed on his cologne. Nothing he was wearing was his, of course. He liked to think of it as involuntary, first-class consignment.
He thought about his plan, turning it over and over again in his head.
It was simple: he was going to seduce the young Tsarina, then poison her. His employer had chosen him especially for that job.
Placed in context, this assassination was not all that daunting. He had carried out even more distasteful operations before without getting caught. The poor Franz - that was partly his handiwork - what, did the public really think a nineteen-year-old could pull that off? The whole Titanic fiasco, the Panama Canal skirmish, the Triangle fire, the U-boat, and even Budapest. Ah, Budapest. Frost smiled at the memory. In each case he was a vanishing catalyst - there, but not there.
But there was something about off about this particular mission. All of his other operations were on important political figures and tycoons, middle-aged men who smoked too much and had too many prostitutes and vacation houses in Florida. But this - this was going to be carried out on a young woman. An innocent young woman. He'd seen photographs of the girl before. In each picture, she held her head up sternly and regally, the conventional pose of a ruler not to be trifled with. Although he couldn't place it, there was something behind her eyes, something unknown, something with fear. She looked like she was hiding a secret.
He wasn't sure what objective his employer was trying to achieve. Even if he killed the Tsarina, another Tsarina would take her place, albeit a less capable one, the younger sister. Besides the two of them, there were plenty of successors - distant cousins - who were next in line for the throne, and as far as he knew, his employer had no connection whatsoever with the Romanov family.
Plus, revolution was stirring among the citizens - he could feel it in the way they walked with their heads bowed, sense it in the way they looked at one another conspiratorially, see it in their eyes when they mobilized for the war. In a decade or two the Tsars would be ousted, anyway.
Frost didn't speculate any further. He learned, with difficulty, to never question the motives of his employer.
Before leaving the restroom, he pulled off his hat and watched as his uncanny white hair spilled over his forehead, feathery and dry from the heat inside. He ruffled his hair.
"Game on." he whispered to his reflection. A pair of icy blue eyes stared back at him impassively. "Let's go kill a Tsarina."
Elsa shivered, but not from the cold. A velvet curtain was the only thing keeping her from the crowd, the throng of people waiting, expecting her to come out.
"Loyal subjects," called the announcer, "I present to you, with honor and dignity . . ."
Elsa smoothed out her green dress and fastened her gloves. Conceal. Don't feel.
"Elsa Arendelle Romanov," came the booming voice, "the Tsarina of Russia."
With a deep breath, Elsa parted the curtain and looked down at the golden ballroom, with golden men and golden women clapping for her.
Control.
She could do this.
She was ready.
Frost looked up among the spectators at the girl in green. She looked much older than in the pictures, and he couldn't help but notice how soft her platinum hair was.
But then he saw it. The fear, the unknown emotion in her terrified blue eyes. To the average spectator, she would have looked as calm and placid as any other ruler, but Frost knew.
For a second, Frost believed he couldn't do it. He couldn't kill someone so unassuming and afraid.
Never question me, he remembered his employer saying.
Obedience.
He could do this.
He was ready.
Psst. Hey, you. Yeah you. Did you have a pleasurable reading experience? Did you think this story is the bomb-diggity? If so, then don't be a pretentious crapnugget and review! :)
Don't cry, hardcore Jelsa fans - our OTP will meet in the next chapter.
I hope you all enjoyed the first chapter - please follow, favorite, and review! Constructive criticism is appreciated.