The kingdom of Arendelle was one vast expanse of blue water, scattered with patches of green land from which the roofs of houses, clustered together, and the pointed peaks of tall, round buildings rose up, reaching for the sky. Mountains, rugged, icy blue and stony grey, surrounded that great sheet of island-dotted water.
The largest and most beautiful building, the royal palace, stood above and apart from the others. It was as grey as the mountains against which it was situated, with more than four towers, and each tower was capped with a round roof of pine green color, while the main roof of the palace, as well as the canopy above the entrance, was a beautiful purple-grey. It was a handsome, benevolent-looking place, home to Queen Iduna, daughter of the Lord Baron of Levitton, and King Agdar.
It was an hour after sunrise, several hours after the delivery of the baby girl who would inherit Iduna as queen of Arendelle. The little royal family, the young king, his bride and the newborn princess, were together in the bedchamber in which Iduna had given birth. Iduna lay propped up against a row of headcushions, the tiny bundle of pink lace and fair hair in her arms, with Adgar's arm about her.
She pressed her daughter to her bosom, as she must have done a thousand times that day. Then, at long last, she glanced up into the face of her husband, read the eagerness and impatience in his face, and, with a self-deprecatory smile, surrendered the baby to him.
"There you are, beloved." As always, her voice was soft, as delicate as if it were made of glass, though there was some hoarseness. "You've waited for this all morning. I'm sorry."
Wordlessly, Adgar took the baby into the crook of his arm. He gazed into that little lily of a face, traced each feature with a thumb.
Somehow this little girl had not inherited the yellow-brown hair of her father, nor was she born a brunette, as her mother was. She had been born with a head full of thick, lustrous golden-white hair - hair that looked, somehow, as if it had been spun of gold and silver, sunlight and moonlight, all at once. But her skin was as smooth and as soft as satin, and she had inherited his complexion - very fair, with a rose-like hue.
He studied those tiny pink lips, their shape, the way that they were aligned, and could see that she would be blessed with the same regal beauty, the same quiet, serene, radiant blooming-of-a-flower smile that her mother had.
Iduna touched her husband's shoulder.
"Look, dearheart," she whispered. "Those eyes. Where did she get those eyes?"
Adgar had no answer for her. His daughter, who was wide awake, had indeed been gifted with enormous laughing blue eyes - as light and bright and blue as the glassy mountainsides. And, like the mountainsides, they reflected the light of the sun as it drifted in through the window, past the parted curtains.
But far more than that, these bright, impish eyes seemed to reflect the very warmth of the sun, to reflect all that makes the sun much more than the lantern of the earth, all that gives it the power to bring merriment to the heart, youthfulness and delight to the soul.
Though Adgar was only twenty-three years of age, and Iduna was not yet twenty, they were badly in need of the spirit-lifting, heart-lightening magic that sunshine worked on the souls of those who opened them up to its influence.
For, up unto this day, the royal palace had been a majestically beautiful place, but staid and quiet and somewhat detached - handsome, elegant, benevolent, and yet aloof from all the rest of that hustling, bustling, sociable city. It had a great deal in common with its ruling lady. Inside, the walls of its halls and its chambers were all draped with curtains of crimson and wine-colored velvet - all dark hues, rich, beautiful and uncompromisingly regal - and strewn with gold cord. There was nothing whimsical, nothing sweetly charming or cheerful in the interior design or in the atmosphere. Its inhabitants, from the lowliest scullery maid to the king, operated and interacted on a basis of efficiency and unfaltering formality. Every man and woman did his or her duty and was concerned with nothing more, adhering strictly to etiquette, and no one so much as knocked at the doors of the massive walls that separated king from courtier and maid from marquis.
It was because of Queen Iduna, who, even in girlhood, had been known for being quiet, soft-spoken, seemingly self-possessed, and reticent in the extreme. Dignified to a fault both in public and in private, she had never done anything unusual, unconventional or exciting - had never done anything to make herself the center of a scandal or the subject of a round of gossip, a form of entertainment to which many nobleladies of all ages were given, but in which she seldom took part. Most of those who knew her dismissed her as bashful. In truth, she was secretly, fiercely proud of the aloofness for which she was known and the aura of dignified, benevolent detachment that she had cultivated over the years.
"I've achieved nothing else," she had often told herself, in the days before she had exchanged vows and hearts with Adgar, "I've no special talents to speak of, no wealth or status, and I'm too afraid to act as Annemarie and Helene do. Why shouldn't I put my efforts into being graceful and quiet and above it all? Everyone believes I'm soft and shy . . .and noone will ever know how prideful I really am."
She was the youngest of five girls, herself, Catherine, Helene, Annemarie and Lice, and every one of her sisters outshone her in beauty, and made up for what they lacked in wealth and high status with their boldness, vivacity and talent, save for Helene, the middle sister. A pox she had contracted after a visit to another land had thinned her hair, made her skin sallow and robbed her of her eyesight when she was six years of age. As a young woman, however, she had learned to read and write Braille, was becoming famous for her poetry, and was expected to become Arendelle's Mrs. Barrett Browning.
Catherine had excelled academically and was known for her radiant beauty, her vast knowledge where books and news were concerned, and her sharp wit. Lice was a singer, and Annemarie was a painter. In public, these three girls never failed to shock, charm or amuse, and therefore were very often the center of attention.
Iduna did well academically, but excelled at nothing and had no special talents to speak of. She was not an entertaining or captivating personage. Nor was she a particularly valuable prospect for marriage, for her father was not very wealthy, she would not have a large inheritance, and she could not compete with her lively, incandescently beautiful, fearless and talented sisters. She had given up all efforts to compete with them before she had reached adolescence. She was aware of her limits, and believed she would be a fool to expect to be pursued - by suitors for marriage, by her peers for friendship, or by her parents, who were also aware of all of the ways in which she fell short when compared to her sisters. And so, while Lice and Helene could boast of their poetry and their singing, Iduna continued to project an image of perfect grace and lofty untouchability to all who saw her. To all of those whom she felt would never deign to pursue her, as well as to those who perhaps might have pursued her, she strove to appear to stand just an inch or two above it all.
As for Adgar, before his marriage to Iduna and his coronation, he had been considerably more carefree. In love with fun and with people, the young prince had been the very life of every party or ball, often sending his guests into gales of helpless laughter. He was fond of dancing, foolish, funny dances; he played stringed instruments, and sometimes shamelessly serenaded lords and ladies despite his utter lack of singing talent. He had delighted in stallions, in fast riding, and trekked up the mountains of Arendelle as often as his father would allow him. Far more than all that, though, he was always ready with a smile, a kind or witty word to soothe a troubled heart, even when he himself was troubled. It was said that he had the most wonderful smile - gentle and solicitous, a smile that radiated from his deep brown eyes and somehow made him seem a completely different man, a graver and wiser and more tender soul, despite his youth. He was quick to offer a helping hand or try to lift a sagging spirit, even by making a complete fool of himself, as his despairing mother called it.
As you might expect, Adgar had never enjoyed the company of taciturn, detached individuals. And yet, when Iduna had come to the palace to attend a ball for the first time, he had spied her, standing a little distance off from the lovely Catherine and a handsome young duke with whom she was exchanging archly humorous, flirtatious verbal darts.
Yes - Adgar remembered this day vividly, and Iduna recalled it just as well, and, as their eyes met over the head of the little cherub they had brought into the world only hours before, all of the memories, that long night of dancing and timid caressing of cheeks, each one breathing in the sweet aroma of the perfume in the other's hair, drinking in the beauty of the moonlight with their eyes, came flooding back.
Before this day, he had never laid eyes upon her - a girl of medium height, brown-haired, pink as a lily, attired in a conservative gown of blue velvet. She kept her hands folded before her and her great green eyes straight ahead of her; her gaze almost never wandered, till Adgar began to suspect that she was blind. The corners of her lips were upturned slightly, but they seldom moved unless she was spoken to, and then she parted them a fraction to grace the speaker with a few words in response, then closed them once again, upturned them at the corners in that tiny smile.
Then - then she had glanced up, locked eyes with him for a moment. Without a thought, Adgar had smiled at her. Her pretty face, as small and as pink as a rosebud, and, a moment before, just as tightly closed up, seemed to burst into bloom.
She appeared as calm and poised as ever, and yet, when she blinked those huge, soft eyes at him, he was certain that he detected a tenderness, a sadness in their depths. She was lovely, soft, sweet-faced, yet so withdrawn, and somehow fragile. Some unseen being - if not Iduna herself, with those eyes that seemed to cry out for love without realizing that they cried - called for him to draw closer, to take the tiny gloved hand and lead its owner to the dance floor, and later, outdoors, into the starlight.