Conceal it, don't feel it. Don't let it show. Conceal, don't feel. Conceal. Don't feel…

Over the years, Elsa had heard her parents say those words so often that, whether or not they had intended so, it had become a mantra to her.

As yet it could only act to quell her magic momentarily, keeping it coiled up and locked inside. Sooner or later she always had to let it go, but by whispering those words to herself she could at least stave it off until she was alone. But they had always hoped that, one day, she would be able banish the storm before it even formed.

Now those words held no power at all. If anything they had turned against her. For every repetition, she heard her parents say it with her, saw their faces before her, and felt them snatched away by icy wind. Each cruel recollection brought forth another blossom of frost from her gloved fingertips, glinting on each button and shining bright against her funeral dress.

She began to speak aloud again, searching blindly for another turn of phrase to bolster her and keep the ice at bay.

"Pull yourself together."

I'm the only one who can now.

She rubbed her hands together and blew on them to try and melt the ice as it formed, but it was like trying to clear snow in the midst of a blizzard.

"Control it."

Or everything will go wrong.

She clenched her fists and pressed the heels of her hands onto her eyelids until snowflakes clung to her eyelashes and fractal flashes of light filled her vision.

"Be the good girl they wanted."

I am going to let them down.

A frigid gale swept around the room. She started pacing back and forth. The rug crunched and crackled beneath her feet.

"Don't let them see."

Everyone will hate me.

Her breath came in short gusts. Each one formed a flurry of snowflakes to be swept up and encircle her.

"You are. Their Queen."

I can't escape.

Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes, patches of warmth that she frantically wiped away before they could turn into icicles.

"You. Have. To do. This."

I can't do this.

Her knees gave way; she clutched at the doorframe to steady herself. Frost erupted across the wood and shot down to the floor, icy tendrils spreading between her frozen footprints.

She sat with her back against that door, knees pulled up to her chest and her face buried in them. She could feel her tears soaking into her skirt until the fabric was rigid, crinkled, and cold. She was shivering, but it wasn't from the temperature.

This wasn't the first time this had happened, but it was the first since her parents had left.

When it got this bad, she didn't . . . hadn't even let her parents near her. She couldn't risk it. But sometimes her father would sit outside her door and talk to her, while her mother kept Anna distracted. His voice changed during these times. It became softer, less instructive. He had always been both her tutor and her father, but for a short period of time he became only the latter.

Over the years he had learned to recognise the point at which his eldest daughter's powers overtook her, beyond which neither her own will nor his firm, measured guidance could pull her back. He had come to understand that, once that point was passed, he could only provide a comforting voice.

Once the storm had died down, she would open the door and he would come in and sit on one of the big chairs, and she would sit on her frost-covered bed. He would talk to her, and his normal voice would be back. He would tell her to focus more on controlling the magic. He would remind her that getting upset only made it worse, and that if she would only learn to calm herself before it got out of hand then she would have nothing to worry about.

Elsa would feel a retort rise within her – 'It's not that easy!' – but she would swallow it down, too worn out by the earlier agitation to do anything but stare at the floor and nod. Her father was back to being her teacher, but at least as the storm had swirled within and around her she had had his voice to remind her that the rest of the world still existed, to keep her from getting lost entirely.

That would never happen again. The only other people who knew her secret, around whom she didn't have to hide, were dead. She was alone.

Eventually the tears stopped, her breathing slowed, and her hands steadied. She lifted her head. The wind had ceased, and with it the snowflakes had stopped swirling around her. But they had not dropped to the floor. Instead, they were suspended in mid-air. The tiny, crystalline constructs spun slowly, catching the light shining in through the window. She almost thought it beautiful.

Elsa had heard of 'the calm before the storm', but to her the calm always came afterwards. For a brief time between the panic and the guilt, she felt . . . nothing, really. She wouldn't call it a good feeling. It was more like a lack of something, some pressure that was always building in her fingers and the pit of her stomach and the back of her skull and which, at least for a moment, had been released.

Of course, something would always crop up to pierce that fragile pocket of peace. In this case, that disturbance came in the form of a knocking at the door.

"Your Majesty?"

It was Gerda. She sounded as uncomfortable uttering that title as Elsa felt being referred to by it.

"Yes?" Elsa replied, her voice trained to hide her distress.

"The service will start in ten minutes, Your Majesty."

Had she been sat there for that long? Elsa's eyes shot up to the clock; its face was partly frosted over, but the time was unmistakeable.

"Your Majesty?" The lady-in-waiting's voice was gentle.

"I just need a few more minutes. I shall be there soon."

"Yes, Ma'am."

Elsa heard Gerda's footsteps receding down the hall.

Ten minutes. Surely she could still be ready in time? She had other black clothing; she could get changed if she did so quickly and got started right away.

But she didn't. As brief as the storm had been, it had somehow robbed her of all impetus. She felt somehow weighed down, or held back. She could not even force herself to look away from the clock, let alone move enough to get up and walk over to her wardrobe.

She tried telling herself how important this was. She thought of the crowds that were no doubt already assembled to mourn the King and Queen. She thought of her sister there. She thought of the empty space where she, Elsa, should be standing, a pillar of strength for her grieving people. She thought of the whispers that would abound if she did not show up.

Yet even as she tried to use these images to spur her into action, she recoiled from them. She could not picture the gathered people without imagining how many might be hurt if she lost control again, could not imagine their disappointment at their absentee Queen without hearing the screams and jeers should her secret be revealed.

Could not think of Anna, a fifteen year old stood alone at her parents' grave, without seeing a five year old lying limp and cold on the ballroom floor, afflicted on account of Elsa's own fear and weakness.

So she did not move. She sat and watched time tick by, thinking with every passing minute that she might still have time if she could only get up now, right up until the moment that the second knock came.

"Your Majesty? They're just about to begin."

Gerda again. Her voice had become even softer, almost tentative. Elsa wondered if it was out of kindness or fear.

"I . . ." for a moment she found herself seized by indecision, but she soon realised it was too late, ". . . I shan't be going."

There was a brief pause. Elsa could almost see the woman make to enquire further and then think better of it. She had strict instructions about not disturbing the eldest princess.

"Very well, Ma'am."

As the footsteps once again faded from hearing, Elsa sank back into weary, yet welcome solitude. As much as she told herself that her self-imposed seclusion was for the good of those around her, she would be lying if she said she did not also appreciate it. When socialising was accompanied by constant fear, it was hardly surprising that she preferred to be alone.

Perhaps that was why she still couldn't control her powers. Because, on some level, she didn't really want to. Because she knew that the longer she had to hide away for others' safety, the longer she would be able to avoid the scrutiny she feared so much.

Guilt hovered at the edge of her consciousness, like gathering clouds. But she did not truly feel it until, several hours later, there came yet another knock at the door. This time it was not Gerda's voice that rang out, but Anna's.

"Elsa?"

They could have been eight and five again.

"Please, I know you're in there. People are asking where you've been."

Of course they have, Elsa thought. I can't hide forever.

"They say 'Have courage', and I'm trying to."

You have so much more than me.

"I'm right out here for you. Just let me in."

I wish I could, Anna.

"We only have each other. It's just you and me."

You deserve so much better.

"What are we going to do?"

I don't know. I should, but I don't.

A pause. Elsa thought perhaps her sister had given up, but then there came one last plea:

"Do you want to build a snowman?"

Finally, a sob escaped Elsa and the wind began to pick up, once again granting movement to the hanging snowflakes as the guilt flooded into her, filling up the empty space left by the storm.

"I'm sorry." she whispered into her knees, though she knew her sister couldn't hear her.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't there today. I'm sorry for all the times I haven't been there. I'm sorry for all the snowmen we never built. I'm sorry you can't know why.

I'm sorry for failing you.