Author's Note: I'm positing that figure skating hasn't been invented by the time of Frozen. They have chocolate, but not steam power, so maybe it has, maybe it hasn't.

Wearing My Art on My Sleeve

Summer is the best time of year to go ice skating. It's been almost a year since I was able to use my magic in public like this, and since then skating in the palace courtyard has been a weekly event, even in winter when the lakes were frozen and my magic wasn't necessary. I've made friends this way, more friends than I've ever had before, and honestly, I just feel happy when I use my magic. In the short moments away from my responsibilities I create sculptures, mostly flowers and animals, and on more relaxed days I engrave various scenes of my imagining across all the walls and floors, framed by kaleidoscopic fractal patterns. I'm always experimenting with new forms of art, new forms of expression. Magic is a way of baring my heart, showing something fundamental to me in a way that I could never fully express in words.

When I think back to the time before, when my parents made me deny that part of me, hide what I am, deceive those I care about, and lock my true self away… I resent those years. But thinking back on them has yielded a valuable insight. I keep another secret, and tonight it will come out of that stifling, little room that holds all my most painful memories.

The palace gate opens, and I see the shadow of the guard waving my guest through. Fair and slender, with blue eyes and long, brown hair loose down her back, lightly dressed for a cool, summer evening, this is Nora, a woman my age with whom I've become very dear friends over the past few months. When I first spoke to her last year she told me that, in between working to help support her family, she was caretaker for her ailing father and that she found skating at the palace to be a relaxing way to take her mind off her worries. Over the winter and spring months I have allowed her to skate here in the evenings alone, and since her father's passing a few weeks ago she has come almost every night. Sometimes I join her, sometimes I watch her, and sometimes I give her privacy. She's taught herself some remarkable dance-like moves, spins and leaps and twists. I often wonder if she simply enjoys this for its own sake, or if it's how she expresses herself. Is she expressing her grief, or the part of her that is not grief?

She smiles when she sees me sitting on one of the benches I had moved here specifically for skaters needing rest. She waves before approaching at a jog.

"Good evening, Nora."

She curtseys. "Good evening, Your Majesty." She always insists on addressing me this way at least in greeting. Thereafter I've insisted that she speak to me as a friend. "Are you joining me tonight?"

Skating is too light-hearted for the things that weigh me down this particular evening. "I would just like to watch, if that's alright."

She happily assents.

"I do have something special planned for tonight, though," I say, taking to my feet and rushing to the middle of the courtyard as it rapidly freezes over in a solid sheet.

She follows on skates made of ice.

To each corner of the courtyard I add an ice sculpture – a life-size depiction of Nora, each from a different dance. Gliding with one leg straight up in the air, body parallel to the ground, arms out like an eagle's wings. Leaning forward and reaching straight back to grip one foot by the blade and hold it as high as possible. Kicking one foot out and spreading her arms wide in a cheerful, "ta-dah" sort of way she does sometimes after a move she's particularly proud of. Standing tall and confident, one hand on her hip and the other blowing a kiss to an imaginary crowd, which she only does when she thinks I'm not looking.

"These are of me?"

I laugh. "There's no one else who dances like you do."

"No," she immediately protests, "I'm not as good…" She eyes the crowd-kissing one from top to bottom and back. "Or as graceful or beautiful as all that."

She is to me.

"I think you are," I whisper, maybe too quiet for her to hear.

"Well, thank you," she says, gaze still fixed on her frozen figure.

There's something else I want to say here, but I…

"Is this really how you see me?" she asks.

"Yes."

Just say it.

"I actually, um…"

Just say the first word and the rest will follow.

"I practiced all week to get every detail just right."

Not that!

"Wow," she says. "I, I'm honored."

I know I can say it.

"There's something else I want to talk to you about."

She turns back to me with a curious look. "Yes?"

I'm trembling. I don't want to do this anymore. "We can discuss it later. You go ahead and skate."

Letting go is terrifying. If I hadn't been outed against my will at my coronation, I'd still be repressed and miserable.

She gives me a lengthy, worried look before starting her warm-up. She always starts with her footwork, crossing blade over blade, lunges, loopy S's and figure eights, switching her footing as frequently as she can, turning between forward and backward rapidly without changing direction or losing momentum. Gradually she adds the hand motions, twists, kicks, and flourishes that change it from drill to dance. I don't know how she makes it so beautiful; I've tried copying her and I feel like I'm flailing gracelessly. Not to mention her jumps and spins, which are beyond my athletic ability. She doesn't do them often, though, as she doesn't like the added risk of falling, especially when she knows I'm watching.

I have an idea. Next to the sculpture of Nora blowing a kiss I add another figure. I'm a lot slower sculpting this one since I'm making it up as I go, but she'll be here another half hour or so and I think I can finish something passable by then. I start out with a mannequin-like base, with one hand holding Nora's and the other on its heart. I give it simple clothing lacking in detail, and mittens to save time on the hands. I put far more detail into its face and hair, as that's what will make it recognizable.

It's mostly a rough draft sort of thing, and I can add to it later, but for now Nora finishes earlier than expected.

"You weren't watching," she says, slightly out of breath. "What are you working on?"

I step back to reveal a sculpture of myself smiling gently at her. "I wanted to make one of your father. I wish I'd met him."

"You've done so much for me already. I'm grateful."

"I know I've already asked you this, but if you ever want an audience, or maybe some musicians…"

She shakes her head. "I don't do this for other people to watch."

"You like it when I watch."

She shrugs. "You're my friend."

"About that…" I lock eyes with hers. I'm hesitating too long and holding my breath to conceal how hard my heart is pounding. I'm about to jump off a cliff and this is my last chance to turn back.

She tilts her head quizzically. "Elsa?"

"I" feels like a ten mile run and "love you" like the last step off the cliff's edge.

"You love me?" she repeats.

I nod.

She smiles, takes my hands in hers, and invites me to dance.

Author's Note: As someone who once spent time in the closet, Elsa's story felt painfully familiar. It hurts to have to hide a fundamental part of who you are. Here's to every girl who is free to express herself, and every girl who isn't. If you have any suggestions on how I can improve this piece or my writing style, please leave a review! Don't hold back; you won't hurt my feelings.