Anna loves drawing Elsa. Sure, Anna likes drawing a lot of things -the newborn ducklings featuring primely in the recent spring days- but her sister is a one of a kind interest. The redhead's simple charcoal and light hand have traced Elsa's delicate features a thousand different ways, but Anna's personal favorite is when she captures Elsa in the small things.
A smile, fragile at first, warm and benign to her subjects.
Bowing, head down to accept a flower crown from a young girl.
Her graceful walk, formal and regal, down ranks of the guard.
Elsa's softened brow when reading her favorite book, relaxed in her favorite chair, sitting quietly in the library.
Her dreamy air as she pauses in her work to gaze out the window, hand supporting her chin, quill paused between her fingers.
The nights she falls asleep by the fireside, lines of worry and shadows of fatigue erased from her face in slumber.
All of these things Anna loves, and with loving hands does she endeavor to eternalize them in her drawings.
But there is one thing she has never quite been able to pin down: Elsa when she performs her magic.
Elsa's power is both with and without form. It is dynamic and powerful, yet lithe and free flowing. It has structure, but just as often it does not.
In this way, Elsa is a mirror image. Anna often sees her practicing in the open expanses of the garden, perched as the young girl is on her window sill. Like a dancer to music, Elsa becomes wrapped in herself. She is one being, one person, capable of everything in that moment, she is a spirit, a color, a song, her song, and she is one with expression, a gift withheld for far too long. She is as rhythmic as she is random, stoic as she is carefree. She is an enigma, and as Anna makes a line too quick and too dark to erase, this fact is suddenly more infuriating than fascinating.
Frustrated, Anna snaps the charcoal between her dusty fingers and hurls the pieces out the window. She retreats back into her room, tears stinging the corners of her eyes, and slams her sketchbook onto the vanity. Her hand covers the more elegant of her drawings but she only has eyes for the one she's ruined. A thick line bisects Elsa, marring the slender curve of her wrist and arm, running through her hips, and all but destroying the slim line of her leg. A splash of water further smudges the picture, and Anna does nothing to stop more tears from falling. It is a failed drawing why bother to save it?
In fact, why bother to save any of it? They could never match the real Elsa.
Her thoughts burning, Anna grips the stack of bound parchment hard enough the tear some of the pages. She whirls and buries the book deep into the waste basket next to the desk, throwing it with so much force and blind rage that the bucket tips over, spilling its contents in a tidal wave of crumpled paper.
Without a backwards glance, Anna storms towards the door, eager to create distance between her person and her failings-
Only to pause as the open door revealed Elsa, hand raised in preparation to knock.
"Anna I-. You left so suddenly, and threw charcoal at me of all things…" Concern filled her eyes, taking in Anna's agitated demeanor. "What's wrong?" Elsa reached forward, cupping her sister's cheek.
Anna shrugged her off, ignorant of the hurt that flitted across Elsa's face. "It's nothing," she nearly growled, "not important." She pushed past Elsa, shoving the blonde none too lightly on the shoulder, and stomped down the hallway, needing to be anywhere but there.
Anna shuffled her feet outside Elsa's door. The blonde had been withdrawn and silent during dinner and had not bid her goodnight the day before. Her behaviour had puzzled Anna, but neither direct questions nor promises of chocolate could pry the answer from her sister. In the small hours of the morning as Anna had lay awake, too troubled with Elsa's actions to get a good night's rest, she had stumbled upon the answer and the realization made her stomach drop. She'd been rude to Elsa, rude beyond belief, dismissive even. Being angry with herself did not excuse such actions towards anyone else.
So here she found herself, timid as always in front of the snowflake printed doorway, forever afraid that this time the knob would not turn, resist her as it had done for many years. Anna took a breath and pushed against the door, twisting the lock at the same time. The door swung open freely.
Anna peered inside. The room was empty, only a faint breeze stirring the curtains near the open window.
So Elsa wasn't here.
Sighing in both relief and disappointment Anna made to leave but flinched as the sound of something, or several things, falling made her stop.
Pushing past the door and into the room, Anna searched for the source of the noise. Her attention turned to the space above Elsa's writing desk. Papers were pinned to the wall, a carefully organized collage. A few had come free, fluttering as paper does to the floor. Anna frowned at this, having not believed Elsa would be the kind of person to treat important documents in… such a way. Maybe it helped her work.
Anna bent to retrieve the stray papers. They felt… familiar. The heft and texture did not feel like official printing parchment. Those were thick and rigid, allowing ink to soak in without bleeding through. This parchment was thin and wispy, textured in a way no writing paper should be.
Anna turned the paper over. Then another. Then another.
Charcoal drawings.
Her charcoal drawings.
The entire pinned collection was her sketches. Elsa danced from page to page, different poses, varying emotions, angles, and lighting, portraits and full body. Elsa, Elsa, Elsa.
"Do you like them?"
Anna looked up. Elsa finished closing the door, the latch clicking softly into place. As she continued speaking, she strode forward, gaze never leaving the papers on the wall. "Wonderful aren't they? I especially like this one. I didn't know my hair looked that nice when it's down rather than in a bun or braid. And this one," Elsa pointed to another, "the artist did so well with the shadows in this drawing. Ah, but this one is my favorite." Elsa had reached Anna and wrapped an arm around the younger girl's shoulders. She released her now and carefully un-taced the drawing, holding it so delicately between her fingers it may well have been a pane of glass.
Anna had hidden her… well, she wasn't quite sure. She was surprised to find her work intact, but wasn't sure how she felt that Elsa had kept them. She'd feigned disinterest as Elsa had talked about her pieces, but now Elsa demanded her attention, the older girl even gave a little cough and waved the parchment under Anna's nose. Anna knew exactly which drawing it was, but she kept her eyes on Elsa's.
"This one is the most special," Elsa began, choosing also to keep her focus on Anna instead of the drawing. "I love this one because it is unlike any of the artist's other sketches. It's me, but I look different. I look… alive." Elsa tapped a fingernail above a specific portion of the drawing, never losing eye contact with Anna. "Now this mark, at first I thought it was a mistake on the artist's part." Anna felt tears prick at her eyelids. Elsa noticed, and to Anna's shock, the blonde smiled warmly at her. "But then I realized; no, it's not a mistake. I examined all of the other works, and this artist does not make mistakes. She has a confident hand and a loving heart for her subject. But I couldn't come to a conclusion on what this mark was. I saw the artist had thrown away all of her beautiful drawings. So I brought them to my room, and hung them as you see here, knowing full well the artist might have mixed feelings about me finding them."
Elsa tilted her head, waiting for Anna to say something. The redhead offered nothing. "So I wondered, is this work unfinished? For it is certainly beautiful, but perhaps the artist became frustrated with her subject or her own abilities. Saw this mark," Elsa tapped the charcoal line again, "and thought it a mistake on her part, believing she'd ruined the drawing." Elsa placed the paper on the desk and turned fully to Anna. "But I don't think so, and I'd like to see her finish it."
Anna blinked, lost for words. Elsa curled the fingers of Anna's hand around something thin and lightweight. Anna naturally repositioned the object as Elsa sat her down at the writing desk in front of the drawing. Then Elsa stood behind her, hands resting on the younger girl's shoulders.
Anna looked at the charcoal in her hand, one of the pieces that she'd thrown out the window. "I can't."
"Why ever not?"
Anna's grip tightened until the charcoal creaked. "I'm not good enough." Silence. "Why did you keep them?"
Elsa ran her thumbs along Anna's shoulder blades. "Because they're very well done."
Anna suppressed a snort. "And that's all?" The rubbing stopped. Anna felt her earlier frustration climbing up her spine. How could Elsa expect her to finish a ruined drawing? Impatience grew within her, coiling around her heart like a vine.
"Because I loved them. They were better than any hired artist we've ever had. And don't," she softly interrupted Anna's denial," think they're not. No artist can do what you can Anna, because they never see me like you do. These are one of a kind. The portraits I have to pose for, stand for hours on end for, are paintings of the Queen of Arendelle."
Elsa rested her chin on top of Anna's head, interlacing her fingers with Anna's free hand. "But yours, yours are of the real me. The sister, not the ruler. And… I needed the reminder that I could be both."
Anna dropped the charcoal and hugged her sister's arm, understanding dispersing her resentment.
"Will you finish it then?" Anna nodded against her and looked back at the drawing, charcoal once again resting in her hand. Elsa peered quietly over her shoulder. The redhead chewed her lip, thinking. She planned a few cautionary strokes in her head, but could not decide how to correct the line. She thought back to her sister, the way she moved when she practiced her magic, how she was soft and resilient, passionate and calm.
And suddenly she knew what to do.
Some time later, Anna put down the remaining stub of her charcoal. Her gaze swept over her work, nodding to herself.
"It's beautiful," Elsa whispered in her ear, "thank you."
"I should be thanking you, for believing in me."
Elsa smiled and kissed Anna's cheek. "You're my sister, you can do anything."
Anna laughed. "Hey, that's my line!" Elsa took the finished drawing and repositioned it on the wall, front and center.
"I think it's your best yet." Anna agreed. Elsa had been captured beautifully as always, eyes closed but smile bright as her magic swirled around her. The horrible dark line no longer marred her form. It was the motion of her power, lending dimension and form to her otherwise formless magic. And as the drawing had continued, the line had joined with others to frame and define Elsa so now the gorgeous queen, no, Anna's wonderful sister was exactly as she'd described herself to be: alive; free, breaking boundaries with her magic as Anna's dark line was overlapped by whispers of snowflakes.
From that day on, Anna continued to draw. When she lost confidence, confounded by Elsa anew, she put the drawing aside and just watched. Eventually her mind would figure out what she needed to do and the piece would be finished and slipped to Elsa over dinner or pushed under her door.
Elsa kept every single one, reminding herself each night that despite how she sometimes felt, she had a sister who loved her for her and not the queen she had to be.
Inspired by this post. ( post/82850809247/artist-au-anna-draws-elsa-when-shes-doing-unconscious)