Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
The Place Where Falling Becomes Flying
One week, she thinks to herself, combing her fingers nervously through the blonde hair that halos in silky waves around her shoulders. One week until Hans is shipped back to his kingdom, and she is left to pick up the pieces of her latest mistake. Five short days until she doesn't have to pass by his guarded room and wonder why things play out the way they do.
The plans are set.
One week until the new normal can begin.
.
..
.
She's forgotten what normal is, but she thinks it sounds pretty nice right about now.
.
..
.
The festival is lively, full of music and food and fermented wine that burns it's way down her throat, and even though she's always loved the cold, she can't help but savor the warmth bubbling dangerously in her stomach, liquid courage at its finest. Maybe, she thinks, it's the alcohol that brings her to his guarded room, but then again, she's always been far too curious about the workings of a mastermind, and she'd be lying if she said there was nothing left to say about the past few days.
"You may go," she says to the guard outside the door, and for a second he looks like he's go to question her, but must think better of defying his ice-wielding queen, for he bows his head and retreats down the hall without a word, off to the party she assumes, perhaps to serenade a round-faced, silky-haired woman, but that, of course is an assumption of the grandest degree because she's learned lately of the capricious nature of love, and how easily deceit is able to mask it, leaving behind nothing but frostbitten truth and the incessant sting of regret.
She doesn't bother to knock, such formalities are lost with attempted murder, instead she waltzes right in like the queen she was born to become, the door slamming with a commanding thud behind her. He lounges in that ugly chair in the corner, the one Anna used to love, jacket thrown to the side carelessly, and by the way his eyes never leave the painting on the wall above her head, she's pretty sure he's been expecting her.
They each occupy their own side of the room, the epitome of the word opposite: her back rigid, his relaxed, her arms crossed, his thrown carelessly over the arms of the chair, her face expressionless, his smug, perhaps even pleased.
"So what brings the beautiful Queen to my humble little room?" He asks expectantly, after a few minutes of suffocating silence, as if he knows he's somehow gotten to her, as if he's sure his twisted little lies have somehow managed to melt her.
He's wrong of course.
"Alcohol," she deadpans, even though they both know she's not telling the whole truth, he doesn't question her and she's far too proud to offer more.
But she can't seem to help the curiosity that's rolling through her stomach like jagged-edged little waves, and before she can regain control of her usually rigid emotions the question has slipped out of her mouth and filled the room with something akin to hope, hope that maybe malice isn't the only thing left in the young prince's heart.
"Why did you save me that night in the castle, if you were just going to kill me anyway, why even bother?" and although she knows her curiosity is a sign of weakness, she feels the need to know; because wouldn't it have saved him so much trouble to let that beautiful little arrow end her life before it ever truly began.
She knows what she wants to hear; she wants him to tell her his instincts kicked in, and his heart was flushed with a surge of adrenaline that made him forget, for one split second, that his plan was in progress. She doesn't want to believe he's all bad, nothing more than a monster, not when so many people have put that same label on her.
He chews it over for a minute, his eyes falling from the wall and locking on hers, and for a second the moment feels far too intimate, like the whole room is only a couple feet wide, and if she just stretched her arm a little more, she could put her hand across his heart and see that maybe he's no more a monster than she is.
But then his mouth opens and that sweet, sweet poison drips from his lips because of course, that chandelier was meant for you, dear Elsa, and she can't help the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, because why would she even expect anything less from a man who had toyed mercilessly with her baby sisters heart, who had left Anna to die in a pile of stuttering green, who aimed a sword at her in the midst of her lowest point and swung...
But she doesn't show her sadness, she conceals it, doesn't feel it, doesn't let him see that maybe she hoped for more; instead she squares her back and looks him right in the eyes, hazel to blue, and reminds him that she's not afraid of him, that in one moments time she could whip her hand out and freeze him solid, but this message, although loud and clear, does not deter him from standing up and crossing the room in three long strides, placing himself mere inches in front of her, his full frame towering over her smaller one, and she's not sure she's ever let anybody but Anna get this close to her, not even her parents.
"I'm not afraid of you," he says, as he leans over and lets his lips brush against the sensitive shell of her ear, "you're afraid of yourself more than enough for the both of us," and even though, she knows she shouldn't let him get to her, she can feel the blood pooling in her cheeks and her fingers twitching impatiently, and she's pretty sure the window wasn't fogged like that three seconds ago, so she does what she does best, she pushes him away, her hands connecting to his solid chest with a terrifying force that sends him stumbling back.
"You don't know me," she growls as she whips around and slams the door behind her, the blood pounding rapidly through her veins, as she leans against the door frame and tries to clear the red from the corners of her vision because maybe he knows her too well, and that's far scarier than anything she could ever inflict on herself, because she's not supposed to get close to people like that.
Not now, not ever
.
..
.
Three more days, three days until his face doesn't swim through her dreams and nightmares alike, three days until there's nobody left who can see past the ice and cold.
Three more days.
.
..
.
"Queen Elsa, your majesty, Price Hans of the Southern Isles requests your presence," and even though she knew it was coming and has the right to refuse such a request at this time of night, she follows the messenger down the winding hall, once again dismissing the soldier that guards the door before slipping through the arch and entering the dim room.
This time, he's sitting on the edge of the bed, hunched over on himself, while she leans herself against the door, one hand on the handle, ready to flee if things get too close for comfort.
She's gotten pretty good a running.
"Do you know what it's like to have three brother?" he asks, launching into an impressive pitch, and the fact that she doesn't know where all this is going scares her more than anything, "It's like being a part of a match set, nobody cares about anything past the third child, let alone the thirteenth."
She closes her eyes, confused because Do you really want me to pity you? Do you really want to disregard the past week, and pretend like you deserve anybody's ruth?
"That's why I had to try," he says, pulling his fingers through his hair, and if she didn't know any better, she would say he looked like a desperate man.
" Do you regret it?" she asks honestly, as if it's the easiest question in the world.
"Not at all."
"Me neither."
And it's as simple as that.
Because maybe things aren't easy now, maybe they'll never be, but at least they're going somewhere.
"I'd do it all over if it meant finding my sister again."
And that's all they need to say, as a comfortable silence settles between the two, and they watch as the moon climbs its way across the sky.
"You were right, you know," she says, her fingers falling off the handle of the door in muted defeat, "I'm afraid of myself; I'm afraid of hurting the people I care about."
It's impulsive and stupid, but she doesn't regret it, not at all, and when she looks at him, he seems confused, almost intrigued by the truth in her voice because lying is easy; it's safe. But this is no lie, it never has been.
"You won't," he tells her quietly, and even if he's lying, it pulls at her heart strings and makes her stomach flip because nobody has ever had faith in her like that: her own parents feared that she was a monster, a lost cause. She doesn't look at him, afraid that perhaps that terrible smile has found it's way back onto his face; instead, she cracks the door open and slips into the hall, nothing more than a beautiful shadow in the night.
That night, her hands seem smaller somehow, as if they no longer possess the power to freeze a kingdom and kill those she cares the most about.
.
..
.
It's nothing more than an illusion, of course, because as soon as a maid sneaks up on her in the hallway outside his room, she looses control, and her fathers urn shatters into a thousand frozen pieces, and despite the fact that she's not supposed to feel, she can't help the wail that spills from her lips as the ashes flutter through the air in a flurry of gray, and teardrops freeze in tiny crystals to the surface of her alabaster skin, and they all stare at her like she's crazy, the maids and the guards, but they don't know, so she screams at them to leave her be, and they scatter like leaves in autumn as she falls to the ground and weeps because he was the only one who loved her in spite of her flaws, and maybe if she wasn't cursed with such an ugly gift, none of this would have ever happened.
But all she can feel is the sickly burn of ash sticking to her skin and a numbing blanket of sadness settling across her body, and in a moment of blinding anger, she pulls herself off the floor and slams Hans's door open because he lied to her, and why the hell was she naive enough to believe anything he said.
"You told me I wouldn't hurt anybody I loved!" she screams her finger shaking in disgust, at herself, at him, at the terrible nature of fate; he had made her feel safe, comfortable, if only for one night, as if the world was a haven, and she was better than whatever evil was inside her, but she's not. She never will be.
For a moment, he seems completely and utterly confused, but then he sees the ash coating her arms, and the remains of a family seal broken across the floor, and although he's done some stupid things, he understands completely.
Power is ugly.
It's demented and cruel and changes those who it chooses; it twists them and burns them until all they have left is a subdued sense of reality, until the line between right and wrong is nothing more than a string of sadistic fate, so maybe that's why he crosses the room and takes her arm in his hands, gently rubbing away the ash that seems to be frozen to her skin; she tries pulling away from him because what if she can't control it, and she's not supposed to be this vulnerable, not where people can see, not when he's so close to her destructive fingertips, and even just a simple flick of her wrist could send him reeling, but he holds onto her, his fingers peeling away the gray gently, layer by layer until all that's left is pristine white.
"Stop," she wails as he grabs her other arm and gives it a similar treatment because I'm far too dangerous for this life, and, I can't hurt you too, not when you know so much about me and still aren't afraid.
"It's okay, Elsa," he whispers as the last remains of her father fall in a pile on the floor, but she knows it's a lie, it's always been a lie because she's a monster, and this, this is her punishment, "don't do this to yourself."
And then his arms are wrapping around her from behind and pulling her back towards his chest, feeling the way her shoulders bend in an attempt to put as much distance between the two of them as possible as she stares at her hands in complete and utter disgust.
"I'm sorry,"she shudders, "I'm so sorry."
And then she's pulling away, her elbows banging haphazardly against his chest, running from his room in a streak of blue, and the paintings are flashing angrily around her as reality reminds her yet again that she's not built for this world.
Witch.
Sorceress.
Monster.
.
..
.
Elsa.
.
..
.
One more day.
One more day until he leaves and takes this tainted legacy with him
One day until nobody will know just how tortured their perfect little queen is.
One day.
.
..
.
"You are dismissed," she says to the guard outside the room, by this point he's stopped looking at her funny and leaves with only slight nod of the head. She paints on a smile and folds her gloved fingers together because it's important that she leaves no loose ends.
The door folds away behind her as she walks to the center of the candlelit room, her footsteps measured and far too perfect for such a broken girl, and when his eyes raise from the bed, she can tell he sees right through it.
"Hello, Prince Hans," she says slowly, choosing her words with measured precision, "I've come to apologize for my behavior yesterday; I overreacted, of course," And it feels good, safe, to hide behind this carefully constructed wall of lies, a special place where she can't hurt anybody else. He looks at her like she's crazy, turning to perch himself on the edge of the bed as there eyes lock and hazel searches blue.
"I've also come to wish you luck on your journey tomorrow morning; the water is rough this time of year," and that's probably the only truth in her web of lies, she realizes sadly, as she turns away from him and focuses her eyes on the doorknob.
"Goodbye, Prince Hans," she whispers, wrapping her fingers around the handle.
But then there are hands around her waist pulling her back and shoving her against the wall with wonderful force, pinning her roughly between a warm body and the cold stone wall, and she can't help the moan that escapes her lips as searing hand move up and down her body, leaving trails of tingling fire on any skin that's exposed. She feels useless, her arms limp at her sides, gloved fingertips rubbing against the bottom of her dress, but she can't do it, can't risk hurting him, not when she can feel every line of his body moving against her, and it's all far too beautiful to be frozen.
She feels his hand clutching blindly at hers, pulling the gloved fingers to his mouth and kissing each and every knuckle, and she leans back, squeezing hers eyes shut because it's just too close and warm and too much, but when she tries to pull her hand away, he growls in protest, and grabs it roughly pulling the glove off in one swift movement that causes her to flinch, before doing the same with the other.
She looks at her hands, bare and cold in the candlelight, and it's just so wrong and reckless, and what if she hurts him because she's never been any good at controlling those warm emotions that seem to come with touching and being touched.
But then he tilts her chin, so she's looking straight into his hazel eyes.
"Touch me, Elsa," he demands, hands gripping her waist with a comforting pressure, but even so, its too risky, and what if her fingers slip, what if she loses control again, what if...
She shakes her head, curling her body inward and pulling away from him because she's ready for this to be over because it's all far too hot in here for someone as cold as her, but then he grabs her hand and brings it to his cheek and "It's okay, you won't hurt me," and the feeling is just so addictive, warm and soft and nothing like anything she's ever felt before as weary hands touch torrid skin and silky hair and toned muscle, and she can't help but feel that everything beautiful in the world is being unfolded in front of her, that is until she notices the icicles forming on her fingertips and pulls away with a gasp.
"Don't stop," he growls leaning down to lock eyes with her before adding a little more gently, "I'm fine."
And then his lips are engulfing hers, and her hands are roaming his body shamelessly, and the world is frozen in a single, beautiful droplet of time that pulses rapidly through her body and breaths new life into her, and maybe I'm just a fool for believing a word you say, because touching you is toxic and your lips are poison, but I'd rather be a beautiful little fool than spend one more moment without this in my life.
.
..
.
Ohh Hans.
.
..
.
She sneaks away before her wakes up, before they have the chance to say goodbye, and her perfect night inevitably shatters into a million pieces of razor-edged desire.
And then, like every good thing she's ever been fortunate enough to know, he's gone, blown away by the same sea breeze that brought him to her, and even though it should be a relief, because isn't this what you wanted all along, she can't help the empty hole that seems to have manifested itself in the pit of her stomach because when have I ever known what I really needed out of this life?
.
..
.
And she doesn't want to call it love
.
..
.
Because nobody was getting anywhere with her, right?
.
..
.
But it feels foolish not to, not when she can still feel his tongue dragging across her neck, and the love bite he left on her rib cage seems to scream his name louder than ever.
.
..
.
And why am I so stupid because he tried to kill you and your sister for something as temporal as power?
.
..
.
But does she really regret it?
.
..
.
No.
Not at all.
A/N: I hope you all had a beautiful holiday :) Anybody who is waiting for a LoK update please forgive me! I recently saw this movie and it truly moved me; I felt especially connected to Elsa, and really wanted to explore her further, hence the central theme in this piece. Her fear of her own abilities really made me fall in love with this movie. Well anyways, I hope you enjoy, and as always, constructive criticism is appreciated! Happy New Year to all!