Author's note: Frejaverse. My lone Swedish Disney song I have is « Part of Your World » but I think so much of both Frejas is in that song that in my mind I picture (modern) Freja singing it. So here you go, an older Freja just because.
« Vakker » is Norwegian for beautiful. The lyrics below are from the opening of the Swedish version.
Jag vill va
Räknar man ting, tror man nog lätt
Att det jag har måste vara komplett
Her dress is short, her legs so long her fathers long ago gave up trying to cover them. It's deep blue in color, Papa's flag's blue, with three-quarter length sleeves that billow out the same way the bottom of the dress does. Around her neck she wears a big gold bow, gold shorts under her dress as a modesty compromise. Her long blonde hair is pulled up in a messy but contained way, Daddy having done it for her before brushing her fringe out and hugging her. Some things never change.
Just off stage she steps out of her heels; it felt better to sing this song barefoot. Without her shoes she's taller than most of the other women; at seventeen-years-old Freja is taller than a lot of people, but Papa is still taller than her and Daddy says she's so tall because she's so beautiful.
"Vakker," she repeats under her breath, slight Swedish accent on the Norwegian word. Someone steps up behind her.
"You ready?" The difference is that when her brother speaks, he has a slight English accent on Swedish words.
"Pelle, tell me I'll do fine." Peter laughs, hugging her from behind. Physically she's a year older than him, but he'll always be her big brother.
"You're going to steal the show Freja."
When her turn comes she walks as calmly onto the stage as she can, breathing deeply. Freja lets her mind go blank save for the three seats four rows back, right in the center: Papa between Daddy and Peter. The young woman imagines only her family is watching, everyone else gone.
The music starts up and Freja smiles, just a little.
After she has little memory of what happened beyond how bright the lights had been or how her voice had echoed throughout the room. She tries to grab her shoes with dignity, stumbling a little bit, before two strong and pale arms wrap around her, lifting her with ease. Her legs over one of his arms, her back against another, Freja sighs into her father's shoulder.
"Tell me I did fine Papa," she whispers, pleading.
"You were perfect," his deep voice responds, carrying her out of the backstage to the changing rooms.
"You always are," another voice adds, a voice that sounds empty of life but Freja knows is full of it, passionate and loving and all Daddy.
Normally they'd leave before awards were handed out at the end of the recital, which Freja is grateful for. If she wins, someone calls home and Daddy takes her to get her medal. If she doesn't win, she feels no shame. It's a humility thing that her fathers have instilled in her, to never demand, always work hard to earn but still be grateful when she succeeds. Peter helps her pack her things, Papa looking up directions to the restaurant they'd be going to. Someone interrupts.
"Five more minutes?" one of the assistant directors begs of her father, Daddy meeting Papa's eyes. The Norwegian shrugs and the Swede sighs and so Freja sits back down, her feet finally starting to ache in her heels.
"I saw your tat on stage," Peter whispers into her ear. He means the tattoo on her inner thigh, the union flag of Sweden-Norway that she'd begged to get. In the end her fathers had agreed, getting them themselves. It's a part of who they are. "Very risqué Missy." The younger sister laughs.
They wait off stage, blood pumping in Freja's ears as Daddy holds her to his chest. Then she hears her names and an eruption of applause, someone guiding her away from her fathers and brother to center stage.
The applause grow louder as she stands there, taking the medal for Best Performance for her rendition of « Part of Your World » in Swedish.
"Do you have anything to say?" the host of the show asks, shoving the mic at her; this was why the young woman preferred leaving right away.
Did she have anything to say? Freja has a thousand things to say. She wants to tell people to believe in themselves, to stop giving out awards for vain talent instead of real effort. She wants to cry out for peace, for people to see that they can change the world. She wants to have her fathers come out and join her though they never take the spot light, two powerful men who'd rather watch their daughter than be watched. She wants to say their family is held together by love and that that was how she had come so far, real, honest-to-God love.
"I was named," Freja starts, her voice growing stronger as she finds her words, "for a great-grandmother who could never escape what society demanded of her." Her eyes catch the sag of Papa's shoulders, the same sag that's always there when they talk about the first Freja. "She may have never left the sea for land but she tried, and that inspires me. Thank you."
In the car Peter takes a picture of the blushing award-winner with her certificate, medal around her neck; he posts it to Facebook for their relatives to see. "I liked what you said Freja," Daddy says from the passenger seat, watching her with those deep blue eyes of his. "You do her name proud."
Freja blushes as they pull into the parking lot, Daddy winking before getting out. He and Peter start in, Freja trying to not crumple anything while still pulling her small purse from the seat. As soon as she steps out of the car she's engulfed in a slightly too-tight hug, Papa's way of getting emotional. The hug lasts a bit longer than she'd like but Freja knows this is for Papa's benefit really.
"I'm sorry I made you sad Papa." He kisses her forehead, holding her face still as he takes her in from behind glasses.
"No, Freja. You made me the proudest father out there tonight."
Daddy had said that regret was the best word to sum up Papa, that the Swedish nation was a man who constantly blamed himself for things he never could have controlled and regrets not being able to save the first Freja from something more powerful than they ever were. Papa is rarely proud.
"Come now," and he pulls her in under one of his arms, ignoring how she wipes tears from her eyes. "Let's go get dinner. What are you thinking?"
"Don't know yet. I could go for some fancy soup and a big dessert though." That makes Papa laugh; Freja likes it when he laughs.