Author's Note: Based on a prompt given to me by yumi michiyo: "The pathetic image of the self-denying woman."
She's also here and writing the most excellent Helsa multichapter, Thaw. Go check it out!
Part I
Three years later, she still doesn't like being touched.
She can go without her gloves, and she doesn't mind it when it's just Anna or Olaf that put their hands (or twigs) in hers—but with everyone else she's still cautious, her fingers winding tightly together.
Everyone else, that is, except him.
She'd never imagined that it would become like this—that he would be her semi-permanent prisoner, or guest, or whatever he is, now—but it's been this way for so long that sometimes, it's hard to recall what her intentions even were in the first place.
But she remembers, at least, that they weren't good.
She can still picture how he looked on the day he was brought back: full of false regret, formal apologies, and pledges of fealty. His act had been so stunning that, for a minute, she'd nearly believed him.
Her act, in turn, had been just as brazen: stiff castigations of his crimes, generous acceptance of his apologies, and a gentle wave to bestow her forgiveness.
He hadn't believed hers for even a second.
But he never attempted to expose her deception, nor does he now; instead, he contents himself to wander within his permitted space of the castle, keeping to his lonesome. She often finds him in the library perusing old history books, or tomes on military strategy, and today is no exception.
When she enters and coughs, he immediately stands to attention. "Your Majesty," he says automatically, placing the book down.
She slowly walks over until she is standing by his side, her gaze flickering over his figure briefly before fixing on the book.
"What were you reading?" she asks, though she's doesn't really care.
He glances down at it. "Nothing of note," he says simply.
Her hand skims over the ridges on the cover, only faintly aware that the gesture looks oddly like a caress.
(She wonders if he notices that she's not wearing her gloves.)
"I wonder where you found this dusty old thing," she muses aloud, running her fingers along the spine; soon, they're not far from his own, perched on the edge of the desk.
He smiles stiffly. "One of the shelves in the back," he answers, and she isn't listening to him anymore. "I think I must be the only one who even goes there."
"Is that so?" she breathes. She draws closer without realising it, and then she's only inches from him, her blue eyes heavy as they rise to meet his. "I wasn't aware."
His nose wrinkles, and his smile turns down into a sneer.
Her breath hitches in her throat, because she should have seen this coming.
"You aren't aware of many things, Queen Elsa," he reminds her, grabbing the book, his hands returning to his sides. "And you never will be."
He walks away like it's the easiest thing in the world, but she's shaking, nails scraping against wood, frost trailing under them.
Three years later, he still doesn't let her touch him.
Part II
She's been looking for him, though she won't admit as much to herself.
He wasn't in his usual haunt, crouched down among the cramped shelves of the library, to her surprise; in fact, when she finds him, he's sitting by the window in her father's old study, now largely unused, staring at a world he used to belong to.
(Or perhaps never belonged to.)
The door creaks as she closes it behind her, but it doesn't startle him, since he's probably expecting her.
When he turns to greet her, however, she has to hold in a slight gasp of surprise—because covering the entirety of his right eye is a dark, purple bruise, discolouring his distinctive features.
"Your Majesty," he says as he stands, bowing lightly.
She draws nearer to him, unable to keep the concern from her pursed lips. "Hans, how did you—what happened?"
"The Princess was having a bad day," he replies simply.
Her heart drops to her stomach, and she swallows hard.
"Has she—has she done this before?" she asks, though she's not sure she wants to know the answer.
He shrugs, though she can see that he's trying not to wince in pain. "No," he says, "but it didn't hurt as badly as the first time."
There's a false smile plastered to his lips that nearly makes her shudder, because she knows him, and she knows her sister—and the latter never took kindly to his presence in the castle, nor, it appears, does she welcome it now.
She shouldn't be so keen on him staying there either, she thinks; more to the point, she shouldn't be seeking him out like this, and she shouldn't be drawn to him like she is.
But there's something about him that brings her back every time, even when she sees the results of Anna's ire, knows what damage he can cause, remembers the poisonous words that curled around her heart and left her for dead on an ice-covered fjord.
She realises, though, that what that something is isn't definable in words, nor in the language she uses to command others.
(The language she cannot use to command him.)
She removes her gloves almost automatically, ignoring his slight, uneasy shift at the sight of her bare hands, and conjures a small block of ice, holding it towards him.
"Here," she says, "put this on your eye. You'll feel better."
He's hesitant, naturally, since she rarely takes her gloves off in his presence, or offers him some kind of assistance beyond what is absolutely necessary; but, seeing her determined look, he finally takes it from her, and sighs as the cold enters his skin.
"Thank you, Your Majesty," he says with genuine gratitude, but she doesn't acknowledge it.
Instead, she's distracted—distracted because her pulse is throbbing at the sight of her ice against his cheek, his lips relaxed in relief, his eyes closed in brief bliss.
She wonders if it's the closest she'll ever get to touching him.
Part III
"What are you doing?"
She's not usually the one to initiate these kinds of conversations, but when she sees him there, slumped casually across the chaise with a book, she's struck by something like irritation.
He blinks at her. "Just resting for a minute, Your Majesty."
Her brows crease at the answer—it's too simple.
(Too simple for someone like him.)
"No, I mean—what are you doing here, Hans?" she clarifies through a frown. "Why are you … why haven't you left, yet?"
She fights not to bite her lip as she continues. "Where's your—where has your ambition gone?"
He stares at her, and his brows furrow in confusion. "My 'ambition'? What—"
He stops, his eyes widening in realisation, and then he sighs.
"Oh, Queen Elsa," he continues, his gaze darkening, "did you mean my 'ambition' to become king? To rule Arendelle?" His voice drops, and his tone becomes thickly, sickly sweet. "Or perhaps you meant my 'ambition' to court a queen? To marry her?"
"What? No, I didn't—"
She's blushing too hard to continue, and it hurts to swallow.
"You know, Your Majesty ... you could have had me by now, if that's what you wanted."
She chokes on her words. "How—how dare you—"
"Anna isn't afraid to touch me—to hurt me, even," he reminds her, and she glances at the eye that once was blackened by her sister's anger before turning away. "But you ... you, Elsa, the Queen, with powers of ice and snow," he goes on, "you don't do anything at all, except pine away, blushing like the little girl you never were."
Her heart pulses in indignation. "You didn't know me then," she hisses, her hands coiled at her sides, "and you certainly don't know me now."
"No—I suppose I didn't, and don't," he admits, and stares long enough at her hands to make her resentment fade. "After all—if I did, perhaps I could understand why you're so ... hesitant."
Her cheeks tighten at that word, and he must know, she realises, how much meaning it holds for her beyond the confines of that little conversation.
Hesitant.
"I wouldn't ask you to do something against your—" she pauses, and it's harder to breathe than ever.
"Against my will?" he finishes the thought, and she nods slowly, still not looking at him.
He smiles, and there's the faintest touch of wistfulness at the corners of his lips as he regards her.
"Does this mean that you're ... waiting for me, my Queen?"
Her eyes sharply meet his, though she wonders if she's even seeing him then, through the haze of her own, muddled desires.
She doesn't offer a reply.
He sighs at her expression—sighs, and then draws closer to her, his smile small and cruel. "If that's the case," he says, his face inches from hers, "then you'll be waiting a long while, Your Majesty."
She can feel his breath on her lips.
"Perhaps forever."
Part IV
It's an unusually hot day in April when he leaves—or, more accurately, when she releases him—and she makes a point of not knowing the exact hour, minute, or second that he departs the castle.
That never stops her from wondering, though.
It would have been strange for her to go out in such warm weather, regardless of his leaving or not. As much as she doesn't want to acknowledge it, her reputation as the Snow Queen holds some truth to it in times like these.
But that's an excuse, she knows, just like everything else is when it comes to him.
She can't bring herself to speak of his departure at court, though Anna knows, and Anna speaks of it, loudly, abrasively, a triumphant, satisfied smile on her face, her fingers curled into fists so tight that her knuckles turn white.
She merely watches the spectacle from afar, saying nothing.
(Still, she remembers the black eye he wore a year ago, and the other injuries that followed it, and her stomach turns a little, repulsed.)
She doesn't have any right to comment on it, anyway—not after so many long afternoons spent in his company, beginning stilted conversations, finding her footing in others, earning rare smiles from his worn features, and indulging in the sound of his melodic voice, even when it savagely cut through her.
You aren't aware of many things, Queen Elsa. And you never will be.
It's strange and horrible all at once to think how right he was, though she'll never admit that aloud. She doesn't need to, really, when she already knows how much of a fool she is.
A little girl that you never were.
The memory of his brittle words isn't enough, somehow, to keep her from going back there—back to the small, private room he once occupied, inhabited now only by the paltry furnishings provided him.
When she opens the door, there's hesitation in every step, because it's only the second time she's ever been there; the first, of course, had been when she'd shown him to the room and ordered that he be kept under watch at all times. She'd thought little of it after that, since he spent most of his time amongst the private stacks, or delicately examining her father's old artefacts.
Now, with him gone, there's no life left to the drab little space at all.
Nothing except a pair of white gloves, one laid across the other, sitting atop the dresser.
She chokes at the sight, and her own gloves are discarded carelessly to the side as she grasps his, her bare skin clenched around them, her knuckles turning white.
It's his last bit of cruelty towards her, but she can smell his scent in every fibre of the cloth, and soon, she's weeping.
"Hans," she says breathlessly, reverently, as she presses countless kisses to them, staining the fabric with pink lips and crystalline tears. "Hans."
Four years later, and she's finally touching him.