After three nights at sea, Prince Hans Westergard had not slept a wink. The wooden cot he slept on cradled him, and the waves rocked him gently every night. The winds that came through the bars of his cell were of Arendelle's summer. Stripped of every luxury, he had never felt more at ease. The sea is a fickle mistress, but Prince Hans only loved her the more for it, and in return, she made her waves his home. He should have slept more soundly here than in the most luxurious palace suite, but for the thoughts that crept into his mind at night:
You are going home.
Your brothers will hear of this.
Johann will be disappointed.
Gerhardt will frown.
And Rudolf will smile.
Your brothers will hear of it.
What will become of you now?
The sailors rattled the bars of his cell every morning to wake him. Their third day at sea, one of the sailors shouted, "Morning, gorgeous!" as he grinned in at him.
Hans sat up on his cot and tilted up his chin, "It's Your Highness, and I'd like warm water and a razor to shave." It had taken Hans years to grow his sideburns, and could never seem to manage a beard, but three days had finally taken away his smooth cheeks, and most of all he itched for any familiar ritual to distract him from their destination.
The sailor, who had a full black beard, laughed and punched the bars again. Hans knew they wouldn't listen to a single one of his commands, but it comforted him to give them constantly, to maintain some semblance of control. His palms sweat to think of what might happen in the days to come, and his imagination raced through all the gruesome sorts of execution he had read about in history and invented six more besides.
"Coil that rope while you're at it." Hans nodded towards a tangled pile of rope not far from his cell door. It had grated on him every time he looked at it, a sign of the poor seamanship of the men running this vessel. "It's unsafe as it is." If he were lucky, this crew would kill everyone aboard the ship before they even laid eyes on the Southern Isles.
"What do you know about it?" the black-bearded sailor said.
"I used to be an admiral in my kingdom's navy." He spoke so loud half the crew could hear him. He hated the way they sneered at him, looked down their pock-marked noses at him, laughed as him as though he were lying. He knew more about seamanship than all of them combined. "I was appointed by – "
"Ooo, appointed. Well put me down as impressed," said another sailor, clean-shaven, with a hooked nose, "Did you pass an extra special test?"
"Why didn't you stay in the job? Too much work?" cut in the black-bearded man.
Hans stood and pressed his face to the bars of his cell. The metal felt cool against his cheeks. "I know more about seamanship than this entire crew," he said defiantly.
They hooted at that. One man, more of a scrawny boy, with ginger hair sticking out of his head at every available angle, half-slid, half-fell down the rigging, he was laughing so hard.
They laughed and laughed, like each and every one of them had not laughed in years. Hans wanted to yell at them, to stomp his feet and demand they be quiet, but instead he lay back down on his cot and imagined something else absolutely hilarious that they must be laughing at instead. From the deck above Hans' cell, the captain cleared his throat, and quiet fell. "Back to work, men. The sooner we reach the Southern Isles, the sooner we leave our prisoner behind." The captain found the young redheaded boy, and gestured to the messy pile of rope. The boy rolled his eyes, but sat down next to the rope and started coiling it.
"As for you, Your Highness." The captain took slow, swaggering steps towards Hans' cell. He was a tall, dignified blond man, but he had a simple look to his face, as if he did not know what it was to be angry. "If I were you, I would spend the precious time you have before we reach the Southern Isles thinking about what you plan to say to your brothers instead of spending it correcting my crew." He always looked at Hans with pity and Hans hated it. He could pity himself well enough, thank you very much.
When the captain left, Hans turned on one side and propped his head on his hand. "You see," he told the black-bearded sailor. "I was right about the rope." The man only smiled.
"You remind me of my brother Rudolf," Hans said. "He smiles too much."