Hans jerked out of his light sleep at the pompous voice on the other side of the thick wooden door.
"Open it," it demanded, and keys jangled and banged against the bolt. He knew that voice; the accent and authority meant top tier of society, the smoothness meant one of his brothers. The intense arrogance narrowed the field by half, and the nasal, whiny quality told him it was either Albert or Harold. Before the guard opened the door, Hans sat up and tried to look untroubled. It was a token effort, really, since the dirt, threadbare clothes and skinniness rather offset his princely nonchalance as he posed in his dank cell. This was not the first visit from a brother over these past few months; a couple of distraught-family how-could-you-why-did-you encounters from the good eggs, a bit of gloating and some darker visits from the nastier of the princes. As had always been the case, showing genuine weakness was only ever going to make things worse, so he tried to minimize his pathetic appearance.
To his chagrin, the velvet-clad brunet who stood in the doorway was the eighth Prince of the Southern Isles, Harold. As arguably the most physically delicate of the brood, and definitely the most unco-ordinated, he had been the target for a fair few pranks and attacks over the years, even from the younger boys. Hans was fairly sure that had played a part in the formation of his malicious nature and poisonous self-interest. There was no doubt he was here for revenge now that he, who had always been faster and bigger and more charismatic, had no chance to fight back. At least this time he hadn't brought... friends.
Harold sneered at the filthy prisoner as he fussed with the abundance of brocade on his sleeve. "Well, don't you look cosy," he needled.
Hans feigned disinterest, but watched the volatile little man closely from the corner of his eye. He had more than a head's height advantage and broader frame but couldn't remember eating in the last two days. He felt weak at the idea of trying to fight off the gremlin.
Harold straightened, lifting his chin. "I come bearing news," he announced ominously. Whatever he had to say, he had devised it to hurt Hans. He ignored the comment.
"Come, come, brother. It pertains to our dear Benjamin," he taunted. Hans' head snapped to attention. Benjamin was the twelfth son, and expected to have been the last. The King and Queen had not expected identical twins.
Benjamin was the best of all thirteen princes; he had been born weaker and smaller than Hans, but with all the goodness and kindness, and enough to go a long way in making up for some of the others. Hans was physically gifted and cunning, but his favoured brother was smarter. He could master any topic or any trick in minutes. They made the perfect team, when his rigid morals or poor health weren't getting in the way.
The silence stretched on. Benjamin hadn't visited the prison since he had been locked up. Hans thought the shame or disappointment had made him finally turn his back on his slightly younger brother. But perhaps not.
"Ask me," Harold grinned. When there was no response, he stomped a foot like a child. "Ask me what's happened!"
Hans sighed at the dramatic display and ran a hand through his tangled red locks, far longer than they had ever been in his living memory.
"Fine. I suppose I'll just tell you, then. Benjamin's dead. Now get up, we're going to Father."
Devastation. That was the word. There was a ringing in his ears that blessedly drowned out whatever complaints Harold was making now. Benjamin... dead. What had happened? When? Ought not he have felt it, his twin passing? And without his influence, how much would the immoral and foolish of his brothers sway his father and Crown Prince Holger? Too much, and to the detriment of the nation and people.
He was vaguely aware he was being manhandled, forced out of the cells, through the labyrinth of the Guard House near the palace, then being shoved and dragged across the castle grounds, and into the building where he had lived until a year ago. The sunlight hurt his eyes, and the manacles they crammed on him before leaving the Guard House were tight enough to leave bruises. The air was fresh and scented with baking and flowers, and dry and warm, probably. Hans didn't take any of it in. He was still reeling. A small part of his mind noted with disgust the lack of distress Harold displayed for the passing of his gentle brother; if anything, he seemed to find it gratifying. Repugnant.
The pushing stopped, and with one final heave he was thrown to the floor. Dazed, he stayed there.
A female sob broke through the fog. His mother. Slowly rising to a crouch, Hans realised he was in the throne room. Each of his parents were seated on their thrones, looking distressed and holding hands. The Queen pressed a handkerchief to her face.
"I brought the traitor, as you asked. Shall I tell the executioner to prepare?" Harold piped up with thinly concealed glee. The only thing better than a brother dying was multiple brothers dying, apparently. His mother sobbed again.
"No, Harold. Thank you, son, but please leave us now," his father replied, his deep voice tempered by sadness and fatigue.
A guard removed the iron cuffs, before following his fellows out of the room. Harold lingered, but eventually stalked away, probably to wrestle a lolly from a baby or something. Nearly an even match, Hans thought meanly, but a baby is not likely willing to drown him to win that fight. He wouldn't put that past Harold.
His mother swept out of her gilded perch and knelt before him, shocking him by lowering herself to his eye level, and apparently without fear or thought of crumpling the mass of black and purple silk that made the journey with her. She placed a hand on his grimy cheek, not recoiling at the unkempt beard that grew there.
Her teary eyes met his, and he saw in hers the motherly love that she rarely spared time to express. "Oh Hans, have you heard? Sweet, little Benjamin..." she whispered, voice shaking and cracking. Her fingers brushed gently against the side of his face, calling back a memory of being no more than waist height, enjoying the same attention but with a smile from his elegant beauty of a mother. He wondered how long it had been since someone had touched him with such gentle intent. He had no idea. Since he was a boy, surely.
"Hans," his father intoned, walking over and pulling his wife to her feet. Hans stood too. "You acted shamefully in Arendelle, breaking our laws and hers - one of our allies, our important trading partners! Not to mention basic good morals and sense. But you have never been a bad man, and never as... susceptible... as some of your own brothers. I believe that your regret is genuine, and offer you a chance."
Hans stared, wondering what this speech was leading to. The King was grave, and clearly something was going on. What this had to do with his brother's death remained to be seen, but he hoped he would be told soon enough. This sounded like he could be on the precipice of a serious improvement in quality of life, and he was willing to hold his tongue for the time being.
He nodded, and the grey-bearded king continued. "Despite, or perhaps due to, your actions last summer, there have been considerable diplomatic communications with the realm of Arendelle over this past year, to ameliorate the bruised relations between our countries. Not only on an ambassadorial level, but I toured there briefly in spring," he explained, earning a shocked expression from his son. But if anything was going to call for monarch-to-monarch apologies, it was a prince's attempt at regicide. And Queen Elsa had seemed much more even-tempered than her sister, so he was willing to believe she accepted his visit.
"I offered Her Majesty my country's and my own promise of aid and advice if she should ever need it, and she came to discuss an array of topics with me that can trouble a young queen. As you know, she is unmarried, and we agreed that it would be beneficial for her to marry, for her kingdom," the king continued, pausing at the blown-away expression on Hans' face. Given Anna's stance on romance, love and marriage, it seemed absurd that the Queen would agree to a purely pragmatic union. Although, he didn't know the full story, so there was no indication of a solely political arrangement.
Clearing his throat, the older man started up his narrative again. "I pledged my discreet aid in her search for an appropriate match once I returned. After a short time, I suggested one of my own sons - as I am certain, you would see the host of benefits for both kingdoms were such a match to occur. Benjamin, being the closest to Her Majesty in age, was whom we settled upon. He was to sail to Arendelle three days ago to meet with Queen Elsa and her advisors." Here, he stopped, let out a shaky breath and pulled the Queen closer to his side.
"We sent word two days ago that he would be briefly delayed by illness... A week ago, he was riding, and was unsaddled. The mount was spooked, and much of him was struck by the hooves... His health had never been good, and yesterday... He succumbed to..." he broke off. Hans looked away, swallowing thickly. The frail prince had loved to ride but hadn't stalked risk like Hans. To have been trampled by his own beloved horse was a cruel twist of fate.
It was yet to be explained how his second chance was to manifest, but he had an idea. In his starved state he was as thin as his identical twin.
"We cannot risk damaging our relations with Arendelle or her ruler any further," his mother said resolutely. "Our own citizens are able to tell you apart, but to those who had never met the other... They would never know what to look for."
His father looked at him sadly. "Benjamin was beloved of the people of the Southern Isles. You will not be missed now, cast off as you have been. We offer you the chance to go to Arendelle, but you must become your lost brother to do so. Letters you write, how you act and what you say must be what he would say and do. But a handful of people will ever know the switch that has occurred. Obviously, you cannot return to the gaze of your countrymen, for they must believe you are Benjamin. Perhaps in old age, when you are sufficiently changed..." his father allowed.
Hans wondered what was to be done with the battered body of his honourable brother. Likely it would be buried in place of his own so that if questions were asked they could show that Prince Hans was dead. Or maybe lain to rest in the family crypt in secret.
"Your father insists that you will take on this task with the honour worthy of your bloodline, and do your best to be a good son and husband. I want to believe it, as I did before. But you tried to kill that woman before; by all accounts she is a just and gentle beauty, and an intelligent ruler. Against whom you raised your sword. Diplomatic chaos aside, I could never forgive myself if we sent her murderer to her altar," she forced out, seeming to quail at her own words.
The dirty prince flinched. Murderer, he thought, the word sickening him. Almost true, I cannot deny it. "You may not believe me, but it is the truth. I truly was trying to do what was best for the people of Arendelle. Pretending to love the princess was perhaps unkind, but I had assumed that she was less naïve than she appeared and was seeking the advantages of a husband over love. As I saw it, my hand was forced. I am glad to have been wrong," he muttered. The moment that he had decided to bring cold steel onto the elegant neck of the heartbroken woman on the ice haunted him. Wondering what could have happened had he succeeded troubled him, which was perhaps a sign that the whole ordeal and imprisonment had done him good in some sense after all. While he thought he was never evil or cruel, self-interested and a bit devious were fair. Even if killing Queen Elsa would have ended the storm and artificial winter, he was glad for how things had turned out in the north. From what he had gathered in the trial and sentencing period before his incarceration, the kingdom was prospering and happy under their queen, and she herself was enjoying her duties.
His parents scrutinised him, both seeming to assess his heart. Hans swayed lightly; he hadn't had to stand for long in an age and hadn't eaten well in even longer. They must have seen something that convinced them, or been desperate enough to trade with Arendelle that they didn't set the bar very high. No murderous sneer was good enough.