Yes, yes, I'm well aware that there are a bunch of prisoner fics already, but I really wanted to take this for a spin of my own. Inspired by Arcade Fire's Afterlife - I'd definitely give it a listen. Hopefully you guys enjoy it! I don't own or profit from Frozen... or anything along those lines.
Half-expecting the churning ebb and flow of ocean currents to awaken him, a traitor's eyes widen when he realizes that the ground isn't swaying like any boat might be.
Oddly enough, the ground is sturdy… and far colder than he's used to. It's a miracle that he hasn't been stripped of his clothes and left for dead. Well, unless that's what this is. Watching the world from behind a few bars of iron hadn't exactly been his definition of a meaningful life. Now, definitions don't feel so permanent. How could he define an ideal way of living when even the realm of mere possibility is so far away?
There's something concrete inside of him—one goal, and one goal alone: take the throne, and swallow the kingdom whole. Not to harm them by any means, not the kingdom, at least. He could never say the same for Arendelle's current leaders, but drastic measures were reserved for those who got in the way. Anna and Elsa had done exactly that. What did they expect? A man of his caliber to stand by and watch ever-passively as two, callow girls ruled haphazardly?
With no more experience than what shadowed watching their parents, who could possibly have the audacity to expect him to believe that they were fully capable leaders?
Vim, vigor and an elegant demeanor does not a monarch make.
He finds himself musing with chained hands and his gaze on the floor – 'humiliation' doesn't hold a candle to what litters his blood and makes his head swim. Certainly, the voyage back to his home would brim with a similar sense of contempt, but at least that would hold conviction.
This? This prison? Has nothing for him. Arendelle no longer bears a window of opportunity. Rather, it stands as a threat – more of one than each of his brothers could ever manage.
As far as Hans is concerned, there's nothing they could do to him that they haven't already done. But by the time his pinky (they've taken his gloves for reasons unbeknownst to him) comes in contact with the shackle's rim to abscond, his silence is interrupted by the fateful sound of an open door.
The urge to swear in the name of irony is overwhelming.
"Hans?"
A beat later, he sneers. "Calling prisoners by their first name is a courtesy that you owe none, your highness." He'd like to ask what stands between him, a guillotine, and the boat to home, but pride seals his mouth before he has the chance.
Distinguishing Elsa from Anna is far too easy—the moment one is in earshot, the tone is either composed or high-pitched. Both, however, try his patience unlike any other.
"Then what is it I should call you?" Her tone bleeds venom, the kind that stems from nearly being decapitated. Even more so, he imagines, from almost losing the one you've spent your life protecting… and all the harm that trails deceit.
He clicks his tongue in mock thought. "I'm sure your sister has a better idea on where to start. Wouldn't you agree?"
With the way her eyes search his face, it seems a great deal as though she's looking for guilt, remorse… an apology? In return, Hans offers a quirk of his brow. A smirk is far too bold, and he'd like a few answers before she turns on her heel, though suppressing it has the corner of his mouth twitching just once.
"Do you really have to act this way? Your little game of pretend is over, Hans. There's no escaping what you built for yourself. What good is it to stay like this? To play the part?" The temporary crescendo in her voice comes to an abrupt halt, and he wonders why she's quieted herself. Not bothering to absorb the depth of her words, the prince's expression begins to twist.
Coming away from his hunched position on the concrete bench, he straightens to meet Elsa's eyes. It's easy for him to disregard the queen's disappointment; after all, there hasn't been much else in the eyes that cared to look his way.
"Princess Anna," surprisingly enough, he sounds more curious than scornful. "Does she know that I'm being held prisoner?"
Her lack of a reply is more than enough of an answer for him, and he lights up.
"Of course she doesn't. Tut-tut, Elsa. Keeping secrets, already?"
By the time her brows are knitting together, the snow queen grits her teeth. No longer will she stand by and listen to a man that nearly succeeded in her place on the throne.
"The only thing you'll be keeping is count of the days you spend in this cell if you don't start thinking about a way to make it up to me, and my people. And most importantly? To my sister."
She extends her hand, wrist snapping so gracefully that he almost has trouble noticing that she's sent a climbing layer of ice up two of the bars that cage him in.
Although his quick tongue is bound to get him into trouble, that doesn't stop him from a careful riposte.
"I'm afraid you'll be waiting far longer than I. You see, any proper gent knows that patience is a virtue."
"Is that what you want?" She's the picture of unmoving elegance – platinum blonde cascades down one shoulder, several loose strands about her face… impressive looks, no doubt. Anna may not have been anywhere near an eyesore, but Elsa's presence is something else entirely. "To die in here?"
He rises now; intrigued by the question she poses.
"Oh, Elsa." If his hands weren't bound, surely he'd extend one to brush her cheek with his thumb. "I'm already dead. In fact, I've been dead since the moment I was born."
When the queen blinks three times fast and lifts a slightly curled hand, Hans can't ignore his impulses: he'd like, quite a bit, to know what she's thinking. For one, because not even his patience can manage all that stands before him… and two, because the way that her eyelids peel back is morbidly exciting and he thinks he just might like the dark lashes that line them.
For lack of a better word, she's amusing – and if nothing else, then the next few years should be an entertaining back and forth between the two. Naturally, it would be far more exciting if she continues to keep it a secret, but Elsa is just as volatile as any blizzard and he knows better than to try anticipating her next move.
"That's the silliest thing I've ever heard."
Her dismissal prompts a duck of his head, a quiet chuckle following suit. "If you say so, Snow White."
"I beg your pardon?"
There's heat in her eyes that doesn't seem so cold from where he's standing, and he concludes she has a less-than-regal temper.
"You may beg, yes."
A flash of electric blue nearly blinds the perpetrator; several shards so close to his throat that he's pinned to the back wall. Chills dart up his spine and he clenches his jaw to keep from chattering – it seems too much like a sign of weakness: one thing he doesn't take kindly to exhibiting.
She thins her eyes and speaks matter-of-factly. "You may explain if you can contain those remarks."
"Even for a prisoner, don't you think this is a tad harsh?" There's no way to pry the ice from the soft flesh of his neck, and he presses against the wall as far as possible for a makeshift gap, though it isn't much. "Besides, there isn't much in it for me, now is there?"
"You've committed treason. As Queen of Arendelle, it is my duty to assure your punishment is carried out accordingly. Why should you get anything in return? You threatened what's left of my family, my happiness… Perhaps if you'd just open up a little, I could sympathize—though I doubt it."
This is easily the most he's heard her speak at once, and Hans has to fight off yet another grin. He doesn't get away with it, this time.
"I'm tempted to ask if you could, just this once, pretend that you're capable of human emotion, but I think that's just it. All you do is pretend! What could possibly be funny at a time like this?"
His reply is as honest as it gets. "When you ramble like that, you remind me of your sister."
Parted lips might have considered a gentler reply, but their unexpected turn is cut off by one of the guards. Elsa spins immediately, and Hans struggles to crane his neck in hopes of getting a better look.
"Your Majesty, the princess is looking for you. She says the matter is… urgent." The way the suited man's forehead creases, Hans doubts as much. The freckled girl could save a wounded butterfly, bring it home, have little to no idea how to care for it and call that an emergency.
Apparently, the only one in the room who finds the notion pressing is the queen, because she doesn't concern herself with glancing back in his direction. Instead, she follows the man up the stairs that lead to the rest of the world—a place he suspects won't be in his line of sight for quite some time.
"You're just going to leave this here?" If it were possible to gesture to the cluster of ice surrounding his throat, he would.
The wave of her hand is flippant, and there's no doubt in his mind that it's a small piece of what he'll be forced to deal with so long as he resides in this miserable cell.
"Oh, it'll thaw."
Maybe, just maybe, if he weren't so piqued by her lack of naiveté, there would be something artful (impressive, even) about being left in such raw temperatures with a dreadfully slow timer forced against his jugular.
Dead? Why are you dead?
Anyways, I hope that was alright! More should be up soon - I don't think this one will be too long, but we'll see where it goes. As always, please leave a review and let me know how I'm doing!