Hans slumped down against the wall of the castle dungeon. His boat ride back to the Southern Isles had been absolutely torturous. Not only was it incredibly long and turbulent, but the cell that he was locked in was small and uncomfortable. And if that wasn't bad enough, the people who had thrown him inside had taken special care to make sure that he hit his head as hard as he possibly could to add some immense pain to the emotional turmoil that he was already struggling with. He put a hand to his throbbing forehead, and came to the conclusion that he had a concussion. What else could explain all of the strange memories that were building up, and then fading away like billows of ice-cold smoke?
His thoughts were interrupted by the creaking of a door, and he squinted as the bright light from the hallway outside illuminated the cell, burning his eyes. Once they adjusted to the glow, he was able to make out the fuzzy image of a person walking in, and he shrunk back in fear. Even with a minor concussion, he knew one thing: if it was his oldest brother Ivar, then he was a goner. But, as the figure approached him, he was able to tell, despite his blurred vision, that it was someone different: he youngest of his brothers, only a year older than him. He breathed a sigh of relief. In his current state, he was barely able to even stand without fainting or throwing up, let alone the fight his aggressive eldest sibling would likely instigate.
"Hey there, Hans." His brother said hesitantly.
"Hello, Amund." He replied, breaking eye contact and staring at the floor.
"You know, when I heard that you were returning home from Arendelle, I never would have guessed the reason why it was so soon."
"Can we please not discuss this?"
"No. We have to. Now, all I know about what happened is what I have been told, though there really isn't much of an explanation that you can offer as to what exactly took place, or why."
"Then what are you doing here?" He growled.
"Because, despite that, I still want to know your side of the story."
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"It can't possibly be that implausible."
"Well, I'll tell you this: my side of the story is far less malicious than everyone else thinks it is. But, after all of the lies that I told back in Arendelle, no one will ever believe a word I say again. Honestly, I can't blame them. I was able to convince them all that my intentions were far different than they actually were, and because of that, I am now a documented liar. Why would they possibly think that my story is true?"
"Well, I'll believe what you say."
"You won't be able to get me out of this mess. I dug myself into a hole, Amund. And now, it's up to me to find a way to escape it."
"And how are you going to do that?"
"I don't know. I've got to do something."
"What if you went back to Arendelle?"
"Are you insane? If I went back there, I'd be executed on the spot!"
"Well, I've got this nagging feeling that you aren't much better off here." Amund sighed. "After what you did, you'll be lucky if anyone ever forgives you. Is it true that you tried to murder the queen?"
"Well, technically I- well… it's hard to explain."
"Well, I have nothing to do today, so you have plenty of time to tell me the details."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"I just can't, okay?" Hans shouted angrily.
"Alright, alright. I'll stop pestering you! But there's definitely more to the story than there seems to be." Amund said, walking to the door. As he began to step out, he paused before adding: "And just for the record, the "fake" helping-the-poor, saving-people's lives Hans sounds a heck of a lot more genuine than the murderous, psychopathic one."
"I'm sorry; I didn't get a word of that."
"I'm just saying that I do believe that you lied to everyone in Arendelle. But, I doubt that it was about what they all think it was. I know you, Hans. You may get on my nerves on occasion, but you're no murderer. I know that there's another side to the story. And when you're ready to share it, I would love to listen." Without another word, he turned and slammed the door, leaving Hans sulking on the stone-hard bench, all alone.
He sighed, putting his head in his hands. Why did it have to be so hard? Why couldn't he just tell everyone what really happened?
If I told them the truth, they would start asking questions, and then they would figure out everything. He thought. Though, of course, Anna and Elsa would probably understand. Maybe if I- No! It's too risky. I just have to keep pretending. I can't let them get to me. Just let them see me as a murderer. It would be best for all of us.
He stood up and groaned in annoyance and anger, ripping off one of his gloves, throwing it on the ground, and slamming his still-covered fist against the wall. Upon the impact, his anger turned into grief, and he slid down onto the bench, trying not to let a tear escape.
"Oh, Anna." He whimpered silently. "If only you knew the truth."