Kristoff stood on the small footstool of the dressing room, his brow damp with sweat as the seamstress worked around every detail of his bodies features with a selection of pins and needles, the dots of glass at the ends a large array of colors. It had been only fifteen minutes since she had begun, but it felt like far longer than that.
The elderly woman was one Kristoff hadn't known by name throughout his years of being within the palace walls. The lady was stout, short, and had a small abundance of wrinkles upon her forehead, the lines of age clear whenever she came across some abnormality in the size of his appendages. She had soft grey eyes that seemed filled with endless stories from any assortment of experiences she had witnessed or been part in. To Kristoff's understanding she had been in the palace since Hans' grandparents. There was no doubt in the icemans mind she was a fascinating character. But his mind wasn't on his seamstress at the moment. Something much bigger than that was consuming his thoughts, and had been for the coming weeks.
The yearly Founders Ball.
It was time to celebrate in the Southern Isles, as it marked the weeks in which the nation had, akin to the title, been founded under the Westergard Family up to four centuries ago. It was a big ceremony that had once been rather tightly wound, but in recent years, especially this past year, had devolved into a simple party within the castle that involved only the royal family and the closest nations to the Southern Isles. The list of countries was small, but the dignitaries and royalty from said countries filled the ballroom to capacity, something that hadn't been seen in such extent since the late King Erik's coronation. It had been a yearly custom until the period of Hans' upbringing and frankly, Hans himself was more than excited to continue the tradition. But this time, Kristoff would be in attendance.
It had been described to the iceman by Hans that it was tradition that at the Founders Ball courtships within the royal family were to be acknowledged and in most cases, announced to the general public.
"Kristoff, we've been courting for a while now. It's time we revealed it like you did to me. It'll be a good way to showcase you to the family." Hans had told him the week before, his voice calm and collected like any ruler would be. The iceman complied, knowing it would make his prince happy.
At the moment though, the anxiety was catching up to him.
It wasn't that he didn't love Hans, or his family for that matter. The problem was he barely knew them, despite his years of ice delivery to the palace. He was horrified he would make a bad impression as Hans had at Erik's coronation, only this time, it wouldn't involve shooting a wall of flames at the guests. Kristoff was nervous he was too clumsy, too brutish for the years of etiquette his lover had gone through; felt that he didn't belong in a palace to be pampered and catered to by the same people he once was at equal status with. It was a life he didn't deserve, or at the moment, want.
The sharp prick of a needle in his upper leg snapped him from his silent trance. "Ow!"
"I'm sorry m'lord." The elderly seamstress mumbled through her lips, the needles tucked between them.
"It's fine… and it's just Kristoff." The iceman sighed, his brown eyes coming to rest on the woman, who was now placing a thread through the eye of a needle; her grey eyes thick with intent focus.
She mumbled something, but Kristoff couldn't hear it. At the moment though, he needed something to distract his troublesome thoughts. He craned his head to look down on the seamstress, who was now pushing and pulling the black thread in rhythmic motion up the side of his black breeches.
"I never thought it could turn out this way." He said and took a breath for the seamstress instruct him. To his surprise she didn't.
"You're a very fortunate man." She looked up at him for a split second before returning to the stitching. "And yet, you don't seem happy." She finished the side and broke the thread with a sharp tug, the small sound of the breaking string seeming to create a lasting echo over the roar of the fireplace.
"Well… I just don't know what I'm doing here." Kristoff's voice wavered for a moment as the elder stood, her full height reaching that of an armchair in the distance.
"Well, Kristoff, what is it that is bothering you?" She replied and bet over to the other pant leg to continue the stitching.
Kristoff hardly had to think about his answer. "I don't belong here." The iceman deadpanned, the seamstress suddenly stopped. She stood once more, her eyes focused on her model.
"You don't belong?" She said in a manner that suggested a tone of shock. "My dear, you have done great things. Such a man is worthy of the fortune he is bestowed." The elderly woman placed both hands on her hips.
"I just don't think that I'm cut out for this life. I've never needed maids or servants or seamstresses." He sighed and felt a drop of sweat roll down his nose.
The woman gave a knowing smile and got down on her hands and knees to continue her work. "I know Kristoff. But think for a moment before you complain." She finished the final stitch of the jet black thread and tore it free, indicated to the iceman he needed to lift his arms.
"I'm sorry?" Kristoff responded, not quite understanding what she meant.
"I mean that you never expected to live this life in courtship. But would you have wanted for your love of Hans to have came out any different?" She took a burgundy ribbon from a table beside her and stretched out a considerable length.
"No." The iceman answered, his gaze lifted to the room in front of him. "I just wish that this wasn't so hard for me."
"My dear, the life you hold may not be what you desire, but what would you have otherwise?" The woman questioned before taking a pair of scissors to the burgundy ribbon and slicing it. "You wouldn't have Elsa, Ashley, Olaf… or Hans." She took the piece of fabric and ran it along the under seam of his suit's jacket, before shaking her head and bending low to measure it's length on the pants. The seamstress nodded and took a needle from the brim of his pants and held the ribbon in place.
As much as Kristoff didn't want to admit it, she was correct. He wouldn't have Hans or any of his friends if he hadn't taken the risk.
"But why can't I feel right about this?" He asked the woman as she began to sew the ribbon to his breeches, the red line adding a bit of color to his formal ensemble.
"Because this wasn't how you pictured it. You can't see yourself going out there and being someone you're not." The seamstress replied simply. "I understand. Hans worries over the same things." She smiled up at the iceman, whose brows knitted tightly with confusion.
"Really?" Was all Kristoff could ask.
"Sure. You're prince may appear strong and well mannered, but believe me when I say Hans is an absolute worry." She chuckled softly and finished tailoring the ribbon, taking the rest of the remaining strand to measure it out.
"How?" The iceman wondered aloud.
"Kristoff, when you've worked as a seamstress for as long as I have, you become well versed in your models lives. I've tailored for Hans since he was but knee high, and for him especially, life was no breeze." The elder sighed as if recalling memories from who knew how long ago.
"You know," She began to what was likely going to be a long story. "I was with him not two weeks ago when Hans voiced his anxiety over Thomas accepting you into the family." The seamstress finally cut the ribbon, and trailed it against Kristoff's pant leg.
"And what did you tell him?" Kristoff was interested in whatever response this woman had, a small bit of hope building up within him.
"I said," The elder stood up and stretched her back. "That if he loved you the way he claimed to, that if Thomas did not welcome you, his love for you wouldn't change. I told him how his love for you was a large part in who he was. For if the prince hadn't cared for you, he would never have kept you out of harm's way in the manner he did. He wouldn't have given away his childhood, banished himself from his own home, attempted to get you away from him until you would never be hurt by his hands because he loves you so." The lady placed a finger to her chin as if contemplating something, but shook her head and trailed a length of black thread for his jacket.
When Kristoff only stared, she sighed and cut the thread. "I'm saying, that despite your worries and faults, Hans will always love you. That's what love is. Caring enough to accept someone's vices instead of trying to change them." The seamstress clicked her tongue and measured the length.
"Thank you…" Kristoff trailed off, not knowing his seamstresses name.
"Anita." She offered.
"Anita." The iceman blushed. "How can I be sure that I'll get through all of this?" He asked as the elderly woman smiled, her grey eyes alight with satisfaction as she began to remove all of the pins and needles from the formal attire.
She sighed, and then answered. "Are you happy?"
"Yes." Kristoff responded.
"Then you will do fine." She assured her client as she plucked the final pin from the outfit before flashing a wrinkled, albeit knowing smile at Kristoff. "Now," Anita began. "Are you ready for tonight?"
"Yes." The iceman nodded and lowered his arms. "Yes, I am."