THE SCENE: an abandoned guard post at the outskirts of Arendelle.
The young prince rode up on his trusted stallion, dismounted, and waited. And waited.
"Would she come?" he wondered.
The aurora borealis tinted the snow on the ground in a kaleidoscope of hues.
He had all but give up, when, at last, a cloaked figure on a sable steed ambled toward him, seemingly materializing out of the darkness.
He helped the rider off her mount, whereupon she doffed her hood. It was the fair Queen of Arendelle.
Her beauty made his heart race, as it always did. "Your highness," he said, bowing low.
"My prince," she said with a sad smile – that barest hint of a smile, one which no one else, not even her own sister, ever perceived. But he did, because he knew it from his own mirror – the mirthless bemusement that one can derive from even the blackest situations.
"It's unbelievable. It's worse than I dreaded, worse than I could have imagined," he said, pulling out a sheaf of papers which appeared to have been crumpled, then straightened out again. But if there had been anger when he had first read these scripted pages, now the tone in his voice registered despondency. "The things they want me to do and say, and the horrible person they want me to be…"
"I know," she said, looking downward. (Yes, though she was a queen, she looked downward, for she couldn't suppress the grief that she felt for this kind, caring man and the ugly fate that he'd been assigned.) She clasped together her hands and held them tightly, as she often did when she attempted to inhibit her feelings. "I'm so sorry."
"I don't understand why–" he began, but stopped short, for they both knew the reason. A power ruled both their fates that was far mightier than even Elsa's own. The power belonged to the gods of this world, who controlled the destiny of its every inhabitant.
"Do you think, my Queen, that in another time…?" His voice trailed off. But they both knew the answer.
"Yes," she replied. "In another time."
In another time, the values of the gods of this world had been different. They had prized honour and heritage and beauty and virtue. But now, the gods set women against men and class against class and scorned the noble values of the past, seeking ugliness in their stories to match the ugliness in their hearts.
Daring a tiny surrender to her feelings, she unclasped her gloved hands and, with her right palm, tenderly touched his cheek.
He fervently grasped her gloved hand and kissed it, crying for both of them.
"I swear to you," he uttered, "I would have defended you with my last breath and loved you more than my own life."
She didn't dare respond. She didn't even dare to think about how much she longed to embrace– To embrace–
No, she disciplined herself. No, she had to kill that thought, kill even the memory of it, or she would lose control of herself and her power forever.
"You would have been the truest of princes," she whispered, almost inaudibly – though she knew that he had heard her – then rushed back to her horse.
Icy tears flowed – she couldn't stop them – as she galloped off.
She would try to forget him, somehow. She had to. She would try to see him only as the twisted, demented being that the gods of this world demanded that he be, and forget about the kind, noble soul who had stood before her moments ago.
But even as she attempted to push him out of her memory, stray thoughts of the Southern Isles stole into her mind. How balmy those gentle climes must be, she mused, and for the first time in her life, she longed for warmth more than for cold. She no longer wished to be the Ice Queen of Arendelle. She wanted the heat of the Southern Isles to fill her soul.
But she could do nothing. The gods of this world ruled her fate, and they had given her a solitary sentence – to be alleviated only by occasional visits from her sister, who would soon have a family of her own – but never to be commuted by the love of her lost prince.
Back at the abandoned guard tower, the young man continued staring into the blackness, long after his Lady's shadow vanished into the night. Though shivering, though his lips were turning blue, he wished he could stay in that one spot forever.
Then he realized, perhaps he could. If he remained there and didn't move – as the temperature fell and the cold sapped the last of his body heat – then he would never do the terrible, evil things that the gods of this world demanded of him.
Let them find some other villain, he thought to himself.
With a gentle smack, "Unlucky Hans" sent his horse along on its way, as he remained behind. And never again did he move from that spot, as the night grew colder and colder and his body turned to ice.