I.

The Admiral and the Crowned Princess

It's not that the King did not trust his daughter. It was just… Well, his eldest child has a… problematic predicament.

It was rather unsettling and mystifying how Elsa had been born with powers that had only existed in myth: the ability to manifest, manipulate, and reign over the power of ice and snow.

The King suspected that this was because of a malpractice some centuries ago in their Royal Bloodline.

He has read of a foolish ancestor of his who has been involved with "black magic", exhorting any means, no matter how "demonic" or life threatening, to conquer neighbouring countries. The idiosyncratic cretin failed, of course, and along his wake, followed several years of hardships in trade and diplomacy that his descendants had to repair tediously for him.

In a span of two centuries, there has only been three accounts of the possession of this kind of "anomaly" in the family: a prince who perished after unsuccessfully trying to remove the magic from his body "through every possible means"; a princess who was ultimately granted a merciful death as an infant by her own parents after her powers were discovered; and now, Elsa.

And the King and his Queen were determined to keep both their daughter and the power she innately possesses, regardless of how it had obviously terrified the staff at first. Granted, they wish to keep this a secured secret as long as they can manage.

Elsa's powers were mostly harmless, especially after a critical disaster that had occurred when she and her younger sister, Anna, were playing as children. Everyone knew it was an accident, as Elsa- with her benevolent and gentle heart- would never dream to strike her powers at her sister. The sliver of magic, thankfully, did not cause the young princess' death. With Anna saved through the help of the aboriginal Trolls living in the forests of the kingdom, the King saw to it that Elsa was to learn to harness her powers with the help of the Trolls at any chance they get.

More often than they dared to admit, the King, the Queen, and even Anna, felt that Elsa grew up plagued with the heavy burden of learning to run a country and control her powers at the same time. The King wasn't a cruel man, everyone knows that, but he wasn't entirely lax in preparing his daughter for her future duties.

"I'll marry one day, won't I, Father? Surely, my husband would be the king. Forgive me, but why do I have to learn so much if it will all fall to my husband one day?" was the question inferred by a thirteen year old Elsa, close to tears, as she had been tasked to finish an entire volume that had centred on advanced matters of diplomacy within a week.

She did not mean for it to sound like a complain, but the heavy fatigue, the suffocating pressure, was finally getting to her. She was greatly upset that she had been playing less with Anna. She hadn't read a single book about anything else other than her assigned texts. She hadn't left the castle for so long that she couldn't remember the last time she ever did. She even began to miss the Trolls, especially dear old Pabbie.

The King remembered how uncharacteristically cold it was in the room that day despite the summer heat rolling beyond the window. He saw how panicked, how close to disintegrating his daughter was as she stood before him, begging him to spare her from more torture.

"Elsa," the King sighed, kneeling in front of his daughter, and securing the gloves in her hands; the gloves that were the only things keeping her magic in check, "Child, you still are the one carrying the Royal Bloodline of Arendelle in your veins. The man you'll marry, my dear, is no more than a stranger that will come to help you, but he will not take away your duty from you"

"Still," Elsa added mournfully, "He'll help me… I won't have to do everything on my own… What if I… What if I fail the people of Arendelle? W-What if I—?"

"Elsa, look at me," the King quickly interjected, noticing the light fall of snow in the room and the sudden drop of temperature, "Look at me, please, dear? Listen to me. It makes you stronger, you see, when you do things on your own, when you accomplish something on your own. Yes, my love, being alone is difficult. Very difficult. But it makes you stronger. Remember this, my dear girl: the success you'll achieved with someone else will only be equivalent to half of the glory you'll gain when you have done something all by yourself. For that success is yours, and yours alone. Earn it. Own it. You owe it to yourself, at least, for some recognition for a job well done."

As Elsa flung herself into his embrace, crying to him, thanking him, the King thought there and then that his daughter indeed needed someone to be there for her, someone who'll help her, care for her, protect her.

He knew that Elsa would not like it. Most likely, she will not. But he trusts in his allies that one of their sons will just be the right match for his daughter.

Besides, he needed to warn them about Elsa's… condition. The sooner they know, the faster and easier it would be for Elsa to have a willing suitor. Or at least, a king or queen willing to marry off their son to someone unique (For that is what Elsa is, the King thought proudly) as Arendelle's heir.

Despite his heartfelt speech to his daughter mere hours ago, he himself agreed to one thought: He doesn't want his daughter to go through all this alone.

That night, after visiting the girls and tucking them to sleep, the King and Queen began to run through the names of the princes living in the nearby kingdoms.

The kingdom of the Southern Isles seemed to have the most promising country so far, given the number of sons they have. Not a bad family either, they noted.

His brother was crowned "King of the Southern Isles" that day, and where was he?

Locked in a secluded cupboard in the kitchens.

The place was empty, of course, seeing as the servants had come to witness the coronation of the new king.

His two maniacal, psychopathic twin brothers couldn't have picked a better time to strike.

Frej and Flemming had asked him to go to the kitchens to fetch them a "celebratory wine", as they were "planning" to have a little private toast with their crowned prince brother, Osvald, and the rest of their brothers and half-brothers before the ceremony starts. Being the idiot that he was, a timid fifteen year old Hans sped to the kitchens, so eager to be part of his circle of brothers even for just a little while.

Dressed in his best as he was, Hans spent the next four five hours in the kitchen cupboard, as Frej and Flemming seemed to have forgotten themselves that they had locked their little half-brother somewhere in the castle. Hans only got out of his enclosure when one of the cleaners passing through heard him sniffling.

Of course, his little "disappearance" made him the least favourite brother. Again.

Hans arrived at the party later than he had intended. Naturally, he had to change his clothes and wipe the dust and smudges on his skin. He had to appear fresh, not stricken with angry eyes red with tears.

The newly crowned Osvavld moved about in the hall, accepting congratulatory remarks here and there. He found little Hans by the door, looking small and diminutive, as if he wished nothing more than to disappear through the wall behind him. Being the youngest in the family, Hans was easily distinguished by his eldest brother, and Osvald was not at all pleased with his absence. Sure, Hans was a moody and broody young man; it was understandable at his age. But to miss something so important…

"Where have you been?" Oswald asked him, trying to quell his annoyance, his brimming irritation, at how the young prince has been behaving.

"… Around," Hans answered curtly, eyes casted on the ground. Osvald didn't have to know. He didn't want to make everything worse.

Osvald opened his mouth to speak, to admonish the boy, but he didn't want to embarrass the two of them in a public gathering such as this. he couldn't trust himself with the words that might spill from his lips. He merely left.

Hans could not even look at him. No one could deny that among all thirteen of them in the family, Osvald was the one who looked very much like the late King of the Southern Isles. From the pure emerald gleam in his eyes to the richest dark brown locks. His beard was even starting to grow in a similar way as the King's did. For all the graces and composure, Osvald inherited their father's gentle heart, but stern governance. It was as if their father never died at all, they would say.

And Hans loved their father. Granted, the late King had a total of five wives; three of them divorced, and the other two deceased.

But as many as his sons were, the King would allot at least some time with each of them before he closes his eyes and retire for the night. Hans, as the youngest, would always be the last to see him every night, and by then, the King would be absolutely tired already. But still, the King would stay up. He would listen to Hans. He would praise his youngest for his eyes and his auburn hair; the most beautiful and prominent features of his beloved late wife, the Lady Adeline. The Lady Adeline, who did not live long enough to see her son grow into a young prince, for she had succumbed to death mere minutes after her only child to the King was born.

"You have her eyes, my son. Her hair. Her stubbornness, even," the King told him again one night, several months ago, as Hans sat beside him, holding his hand as he lay there, wheezing in slight pain at the illness he had been enduring for weeks now, "Her charm as well, no doubt. I heard you got in trouble with a baker's daughter sometime this week…"

Hans lowered his head, mollified. "I assume it was Valentin who told you about this…"

The King merely chuckled, giving his son's hand a gentle tap. "Was she beautiful, dear boy?"

Hans' complexion was slowly matching the shade of his hair. "Father…"

"My young son, clearly you've managed to inherit my love for women. It is never good."

"Father, not to belittle you or anything, but you're being a hypocrite."

The King laughed. "I know, I know. Which is why I'm telling you this now. I loved all your mothers. Yours, especially. You're grinning. Ah, you think I am joking? Yes, I loved all of them, and I loved your mother the most. Why? For she managed to give me what my other wives did not: Love."

"I don't understand, father."

"You don't have to, at this age. You're young, and so was I. It was around your age when I was promised to Princess Gretha, Osvald's mother. It excited me, oh yes. To tell you a little secret, Osvald was conceived before the marriage—"

"Father."

"Oh, don't be so modest, Hans. Valentin told me what kind of trouble you've gotten yourself into with that girl."

"… I'm going to kill him."

The King laughed again. "Joking aside, Hans, there was excitement, yes. So it was with my other wives. But your mother… Excitement did not come first. I was struck, you see, with how beautiful her soul was. She loved the people, despite of being raised in a secluded manor as the Duke's daughter. She had a fiery determination, too, that woman. Always insisted on doing my papers for me when she gets exasperated with how dull I write them. Charming to boot, as well. She might have been a clever trickster with her way of words. Maybe she was. Winning her hand was a lover's labour. She was absolutely evasive. At one point or another, I was sure she hated me. Well, it all worked out in the end. She's a hard lady, but she's a gentle soul once you get pass her insecurities. I loved her so much, my dear boy. I could never find another woman like her."

Hans nodded. "Is that why you never married again?"

The King's eyes shone as he looked at Hans. "I think you've had enough brothers to deal with," he said amiably, and Hans saw how his eyes got misty and suddenly vulnerable, "It's true. You're right. I loved her with all my heart. I can never love someone as much I had loved her. And I love her still, even now. She's alive, my son, whenever I look at you. My dear boy, promise me one thing."

"Anything, father," Has readily answered, feeling his heart clench painfully at his father's confession.

"Keep yourself happy. You'll never be happy here, with your brothers. Don't argue. I told you, Valentin has been telling me things. My son, my prayer for you is that you find someone who will complete you, as your mother had done to me. You deserved so much more than what your own family has to offer you, and for that, we are sorry. Don't ever think that you're alone. No one is alone, Hans. I just want you to be happy, to finally be happy…"

The King could not continue after that, as he was attacked by a series of coughing fits.

Three days later, his sons gathered around his bed some time around midnight. The King died, alone, in his sleep. He did not find the strength to call for his servants and the doctors, for them to call his sons for his final farewell.

Young Hans was the last to leave the King's corpse. When it was evident that he wasn't leaving anytime soon, they have to haul the anguished prince away from the room to prepare the King's body for his last rights.

She was eighteen. Anna had just turned fifteen.

They received the news around midnight. Gerda had knocked cautiously on their doors. Elsa did not awake soon enough, as she was greatly fatigued from reading her father's anecdotes.

If she was being honest to herself, she had crammed the task. Several hours earlier, she and Anna had a good deal of laughs from reading their mother's private diary. Their parents were away on a trip, and they have complete unrestricted access to their parents' bedroom. The guilt of such mischief and misconduct had pushed Elsa into returning to her work while Anna simply slipped off to bed.

When Elsa finally decided to grant the poor waiting woman access to her room, she was horrified to see both Gerda's and Anna's eyes burning with tears. Behind them, Kai and other court officials were waiting. Elsa began to wish that she should have at least wore something more presentable.

"A message was sent, your majesty," Gerda said stiffly, keeping her tears at bay. She broke, however, as she said the last word, and she turned away from a confused Elsa.

Kai stepped in her stead. He looked tired, solemn. It was the most serious look Elsa had seen the jolly man pull off in years. He looked at her steadily for a moment. Elsa was too confused, too frightened, to dare to ask what was happening, so she waited.

And then Kai, suddenly dropped to one knee, and bowed his head.

Gerda, who was sobbing quietly, dropped to her knees as well, and so did the other court officials at Elsa's door. Anna, disheveled and rattled as she was, looked at Elsa's eyes for a long time, before she had done the same, dropping beside Gerda.

"Long live the Queen," Kai suddenly spoke up.

The proclamation was repeated by every other person in the room in unison. Over and over, and over again.

Long live the Queen. Long live the Queen. Long live the Queen.

Elsa's head spun. Blood drained from her face. The room's temperature helplessly dropped into a freezing temperature. Ice lazily and slowly spread from below her feet.

They did not say the words, but the message was clear. Absolutely clear with resolute clarity and formidable truth.

Her parents are dead.

The throne was entirely hers.

And she did not want it.

He was the youngest admiral in the history of the Southern Isles at the age of twenty three.

More or less, Hans handled the fleet, making sure the cargo their ships were carrying was safely shipped to another country. The fleet's massive arsenal was of no use at the moment; it was a time of peace. But despite the dullness of his career, Hans always managed to find reasons to be out in the sea, sailing from port to port, living the life of a sailor than a bachelor.

He wouldn't be one anymore in a few months anyway.

He learned—recently, at that — that he was already promised to a princess of Arendelle.

And not just any princess. He was to wed a crowned princess, soon to be queen.

As it turns out, Osvald had been holding on to some documents sent to their father years ago. As their father never managed to answer it, it fell to Osvald's hands for him to solve. It was a letter sent by the King of Arendelle, requesting for one of the princes to be a suitor for their daughter. In the letter, Osvald saw that the princess had some sort of… problem.

Well. It was nothing new. Quite recently, one of this brothers, Adgar, had been repeatedly reported to have a dalliance with a "sorceress" in the woods. Well, she did somehow manage to erupt a bout of flames in her wake as she fled when Osvald's soldiers came to apprehend her.

Hans was the only one closest to the princess' age (she being twenty-one, and he being twenty-three). And it was as if Hans was doing anything useful other than waste the funds of the kingdom on his exploits in other lands. More than once, Hans stirred trouble, mostly from merchants declaring that the prince had "soiled their daughters". Osvald had to admit: Hans did have his way using his charm, the little devil that he was. It was getting ridiculous. Marriage, he realized, would finally be a good way to tie him down.

"… I'm sorry? Perhaps I heard you wrong," Hans blurted out, looking completely nonplussed as he stood in his brother's office.

"You did not," Osvald said as he stood before the window, hands behind his back, "I already sent the reply to Arendelle three days ago."

Hans glowered. "You could have at least informed me," he said in a low, but surprisingly calm voice. If there was one thing that stuck to him in his years of misery in the palace he had called home, it was that no one should ever see him break, see him weak. If he had to hide behind a mask, a facade, so be it.

"You would have said no."

"You know I would've. Why me?"

"Hans, the princess of Arendelle is… unique. Solidifying our alliance with her is our upmost priority. I chose you, for you two are nearly of the same age. And with the fleet at your command, we can offer Arendelle military service, and they could offer us more trading opportunities. It's a good opportunity for both our countries."

"I refuse to take part in this," Hans said, unyielding as ever as he stood, proud and imposing.

"You must remember that you are first and foremost a Westergaard," Osvald began, pacing steadily in the room, "The royal lineage in the Eastern Tribunes is of Westergaard. The Duke of Cantercroft is a Westergaard. Five of our brothers, who are all married to duchesses and princesses, are Westergaards. The King of the Southern Isles is a Westergaard, and you are the next piece in the game."

"That is not exactly a compelling argument—"

"You will accept this marriage, and that is final!" Osvald roared, "For once in your life, be of use to this family!"

Hans said nothing. He can't look at Osvald. He know he'll only see his father— especially now, given how Osvald had matured, more and more resembling the King as every year goes by— and he knows his resolve will only crumble. He had to remind himself that it was Osvald who was saying these stabbing words to him, not his father. His father would never ever say things like these to him…

Osvald evened his breathing, cleared his throat, and promptly sat down.

"Now, Hans, if you please. Sit. Before you go to Arendelle, there is something you need to know about your future bride…"