There is no sound quite like a snow-silence. The frigid air is still, paused as if at the peak of an inhalation, the birds and animals that would normally create the ambient noise that is the backdrop in any rural town hunker down in their insulated beds, conserving heat. Unnatural noises - a woman's shout, the creak-crunch of heavy boots on packed snow - echo strangely in their absence. Snowflakes, large and wet and falling thickly, mute the world.
The world dozes.
Such are the streets of Arendelle - cold, silent, blanketed white. The snow is so deep it has become an abstract of a town: valleys indicate streets, hills hide rooftops, blue-tinted tunnels mark doorways; all edges are softened by the snowfall, as if the town is a sandcastle that has been caught by the first wave of high tide. No lamps have been lit. No one has bothered to light them. Squares of yellow light flicker dimly from a few houses, but fuel is precious now, a thing to be hoarded, lamps to be used only in dire need.
A group of four people crosses the market square, carrying a fifth between them. Snow has accumulated on the bright fabric of their overcoats, reducing them to shades of black and gray; they are distinguishable only by their height. Their footprints disappear in the time it takes them to reach the second house from the end.
The tallest, a man with tired gray eyes, ducks as they enter the door-tunnel, pale, scarred hands adjusting to find a better grip on the fifth figure's wrists.
"Careful!" says one of the women carrying the fifth's legs as they cross the threshold. "Don't drop him. Set him by the fire."
As the three shuffle around to lay the prone, coat-wrapped form of the fifth on the hearth, the fourth, a child no older than seven, pushes at the man's legs, trying to get a glimpse of the figure's face. Chunks of snow, dislodged from her boots, hiss as they skitter within reach of the flames.
"Anika, get back," says the shorter of the two women. "You're getting snow all over him. Go hang up your coat by the door and put your slippers on, then you can help."
The child sighs, then does as she's told, remembering to clap the snow out of her boots before she puts them down. Blonde hair spills like water from her hat as she removes it and hangs it neatly above her coat.
"Blankets," says the short woman, motioning to the child, who dashes up the stairs like a cricket evading a hungry bird, ricocheting off the wall at the top with an audible thump in her haste. The short woman rolls her eyes.
On the hearth, the man - for it was a man - groans and coughs, cradles his left arm against his chest. Heat from the fire touches his core through the many layers of his clothing and his body responds by shivering violently, kindling its own warmth with tremors that shake him from head to toe.
"Anika! The blankets!"
A pile of woollen blankets land in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, followed a moment later by the child, jumping down from five steps up. "Here, Mama!"
"He's coming round." The taller woman knelt by the man's head, loosened the scarf that was knotted around his neck and pulled it down from where it covered his face, revealing a long freckled nose and strong chin. Hazel eyes fluttered, half-melted snow still caught in his lashes.
"What's wrong with him?" asks the child. "Why is he dressed so funny?"
It was true; beneath the blanket the child's mother tucks around him, the man's coat, though obviously meant for winter weather, is a good deal shorter than the coats of the other adults in the room, and of a different cut. The material is different, too, thinner, the wool more finely woven.
"He has gotten too cold," says the taller woman, "and he has been injured, somehow. His arm, look. It's lucky we found him when we did."
Eyes wide, the child creeps up next to the tall woman and brushes the man's face with her pale, delicate fingers. "Too cold . . . like the squirrels?"
"Yes, like the squirrels." The tall woman looks up at the man, who was adding another log to the fire. "Dear, could you see if there is any tea left?"
"Of course." The man vanishes into the dimness of the other half of the room.
On the hearth, the figure is moving sluggishly, rolling onto his back, trying to free his arm from the blanket. Through teeth that are chattering so hard they are audible from across the room, he speaks.
"Wh-where . . . am I? I'm . . . freezing!"
"You are in Edwin's house, in the town of Arendelle," says the tall woman. "We found you out on the fjord, half frozen to death."
"I spied you first!" says the child. "I saw your coat under the snow, and then Mama and Ea and Edwin carried you back here."
"My arm . . ." The man pushes the blanket off of his chest and gingerly rolls up his sleeve, baring his left forearm. A bruise, purple and black and ugly, discolors the flesh below his wrist, as if he had blocked a blow from a blunt weapon. "Ew."
"Can you move your fingers?" says the tall woman.
Long, wiry piano-player fingers tentatively clench and unclench. "It hurts a little, but yeah."
"Good, it's not broken." The tall woman relaxes visibly. "How did it happen? Do you remember?"
"I . . ." The man frowns, closes his eyes. "It was cold, a-and I was w-walking . . . across the . . . the fjord." His eyes open, suddenly remembering. "I fought - something. A monster. A s-sort of man, wr-wrapped in ice. I shot him, but-" The man's good hand flies to his hip, grasping for something that wasn't there. "It's not here! Where did it go?"
"That sounds like one of the Queen's Sentries," says the tall woman. The adults in the room exchange glances.
"My belt, it's gone," says the man. "And - aagh-"
Blood, black in the firelight, is smeared across his fingers when he lifts his hand from his side. A vertical tear in his shirt sags open to reveal a shallow gash, oozing blood.
The kettle whistles and Edwin re-emerges, carrying three steaming mugs in each hand. The man accepts his gratefully and takes a sip, hardly tasting it, relishing the warmth that is seeping back into his extremities.
"I'm surprised he made it this far," says Edwin. "The Sentries are ordinarily more attentive than that."
"Let's get you out of that coat," says the child's mother, and she helps the man sit up and remove the sodden garment. The others take that as a cue to remove their own outdoor clothes, and soon a row of coats, hats, and boots have joined the child's on the wall next to the door.
"Perhaps the dyret frightened them away," says the tall woman. "Perhaps today's snowfall was too thick for them to run. Either way, we have a very lucky man on our hands."
"Or very unlucky." Edwin runs a hand over his bald scalp, scratches his beard. "It would have been luckier for him if he had died. This is a harsh place for outsiders. Few can survive long here without the Queen's blessing."
"I'm afraid there's not much we can do about your injuries," says the child's mother. "Medical supplies are . . . not plentiful now. We could bandage that cut, but that's all unless you have something life-threatening you haven't told us about."
The man shakes his head. "No, no need, it's a shallow cut. See, it's pretty much stopped bleeding already. My shirt, though . . . do you have anything to sew it up with? I'm afraid I lost my spare out on the fjord somewhere."
"I'm sure there's a needle and a scrap of thread here somewhere."
The child gulps her tea, heedless of its temperature, gripping the mug between both of her tiny hands. Her blue-white eyes lock onto the man's with an unnerving steadiness, and she sits herself indian-style in front of him, her back to the fire, setting her mug on the hearth beside her.
"So why are you here?"
Silence in the house.
"Um," says the man, "here as in here by the fire, or as in here in Arendelle?"
The tall woman gives him a flat stare. "What do you think, Outsider?"
". . . Right." Breaking eye contact with the group, he settles himself more comfortably on the floor, wrapping the blanket more tightly around his shoulders. "I am here to investigate the source of this blizzard and, if possible, to stop it. To put an end to this winter, as it were."
"That's easy," says the child. "Queen Elsa's the one making the blizzard. She's the only one who's strong enough. But- oh." Her face falls, and she looks at him with pleading eyes. "You're not going to kill her, are you?"
"If that's what it takes," says the outsider. "I mean, that's my last resort. I intend to talk to her, first, to convince her to stop the blizzard."
"Good luck with that," says Edwin. "She doesn't take kindly to outsiders. You're not the first stranger to try and halt the snow, and you probably won't be the last. Nobody comes out of that castle unscathed, if they come out at all."
"A fool's quest." The tall woman crosses her arms, shaking her head sadly. "We go to all the trouble of rescuing you and all you want to do is go and pester the Queen. Next you'll be running out onto the fjord and challenging the dyret to a duel."
"No need to be upset, Ea," says Edwin, wrapping a gentle arm around her, planting a kiss on her temple. Ea frowns, but sighs and leans her thin form against his bulk.
"It will just be another needless death," she says, frustration and sadness and anger all evident in her tone. "We have already lost so many . . ."
"I promise you, I will not be another loss," says the outsider. "I am not going to die."
"How can you promise that?" says Ea. "How can you know, for sure, what the Queen will do?"
"I can't," says the outsider, "but I am confident that I will come out alive. Please, you just have to trust me."
His words are met with silence and stony glares from around the room.
"Listen," he says, "do you want this winter to end or not?"
Noncommittal muttering.
"Do you?"
"We do, but morally we cannot assist in the murder of our Queen," says Edwin at length. "She may seem cold and cruel to you, but she has helped us in ways you cannot imagine. We would not betray her trust in such a way."
"I'm not asking you to help me kill her, if it comes to that," says the outsider. "You have already done more for me than I expected anyone to do. I will stay here for the night, and then in the morning I will go to talk to the Queen. It will be as if I never existed."
The child's mother smiles and ducks her head. "It was nothing."
"I have only one thing to ask of you."
Wary glances between the adults.
"I need to find my weapons belt. I lost it out on the fjord somewhere, and I need it before I can see the Queen."
Edwin swirls the dregs of his tea. "That's a tall order. Look outside, it's been snowing all day. Your belt will have been buried long ago."
"But there was wind out on the fjord, it kept the snow from sticking. I remember I was walking on clear ice, only an inch of snow at most. It will be difficult, but possible."
Something unspoken passes between the adults, clear in their worried faces and tense shoulders. A secret is in the air. Then Ea sighs, downs the last of her tea, sets the mug on the mantelpiece.
"We will help you, Outsider," she says, "but not today. We're losing the daylight, and going outside in the dark is not . . . advisable here."
"Tomorrow, then," says the outsider.
"Tomorrow." The child's mother stands, brushes ash off her blue-and-red skirt. "I'm afraid we don't have a spare bed for you, though, we'll have to make do with blankets."
"You are very kind."
"Is the hearth all right? For a place to sleep, that is."
The outsider nods. "I've slept in more uncomfortable places. I'll stay up for a while and make sure the fire doesn't die."
The child yawns suddenly and stretches, casting long flickering shadows with her arms. Her mother pulls her gently onto her lap. "Time for bed, I think."
The little group around the fire dissipates, Edwin and Ea leaving to wash the mugs and clean the kitchen, the mother chasing her child up the stairs with tickles and kisses, until only the outsider is left, sitting in his blanket, staring into the snapping flames. Eventually the couple retire upstairs, too, leaving the outsider alone.
Using the small, square-ended shovel leaning against the wall to his left, he consolidates the fire into a pile of ash and embers at the back of the fireplace and adds another three logs to the top, ensuring that the fire will smoulder all night and keep the flue clear of snow. Then he removes his shoes, setting them out to steam next to the coals, and rolls up a second blanket to use as a pillow.
Tomorrow, he will find his belt and see the Queen.