He used to dream of returning home to a cheering crowd. Of mothers elbowing each other in the ribs on the off-chance that he would pause in the street to bless their mewling children. Of riding through the palace gate, his horse treading on perfect clusters of violets or red-and-gold trumpet flowers as the crier rode before him announcing that he—Hans! Prince Hans of the Southern Isles, thirteenth son of King Kaspar and Queen Edda, was returned victorious from battle, returned conqueror and King in his own right…was returned, returned and loved.
He'd never anticipated that he would return home in chains. When Ambassador St. Just unlocked the door to his cell, his wrists were chaffed and swollen—more from his several escape attempts than anything else. It had been a week's journey from Arendelle to the Southern Isles; a week spent sleeping on a hard cot; a week spent eating slop that was barely fit for an oarsman to ingest, let alone a prince; a week spent enduring the taunts of the ship's crew.
"We have arrived, Your Highness," St. Just announced, though there was no need. Hans had heard the lookout shout when the Isles appeared on the horizon just before dawn, had watched as crewmen rushed about and prepared the ship to dock. The sun was high in the sky now, and bright enough that it forced Hans to squint as he was shoved roughly onto the deck by one of the guardsmen that had watched him during his incarceration. Crewmembers—scattered across the deck—paused to watch as he was frog marched across the length of the ship.
Hans didn't bother to hide the smile on his face as St. Just exchanged his iron manacles for rope. Freedom was simply a carriage ride away.
There was no carriage waiting on the pier. There was no Decurion of King's Men waiting to bear him home to the castle, no town crier to announce his homecoming.
There was a horse—fat and old and docile as a lamb. Not Hans's own, of course—that would have been too kind. There were ten foot soldiers, spears in hand but not a breastplate to be seen. They did not bow when Hans descended from the ship. They did not scramble to touch his hand or throw flowers at his feet. One grimaced. Another stifled a laugh when he had to be helped onto the horse because of his shackles. Their captain—an unfamiliar man with butter yellow hair and thin lips—seemed to be made of stone until St. Just announced that everything seemed to be in order. Then he slid two fingers through the horse's braided leather halter and gave a tug. They were off.
There was no crowd. As they made their way slowly along the King's road, peasants stopped in their tracks to watch the unusual procession, but no…there was no crowd. They did not bow either, and at first he thought that they didn't recognize him. Then, he watched a youth heft an overripe pear in his palm. He heard the boy yell "traitor! Snake!" and felt the pear splatter against his boot.
Oh, yes. They recognized him.
He glanced down at the captain, expecting the man to send a soldier after the boy, to arrest him for assaulting their noble prince. But no. The man's thin lips were curled into a satisfied smile.
An icy feeling settled in Hans's gut, and for the first time since he'd heard the lookout cry "Isles ho!" from the crow's nest aboard the ship, he began to suspect that perhaps coming home hadn't been such a good idea after all.
