When he touches her hands, she holds back a shudder.
His rough-hewn palms scrape against her smooth skin – pale, unblemished hands that have only ever-so-recently become exposed to the world once more.
Her skin there is so sensitive, the nerves jumping and very nearly screaming at the lightest, gentlest touch.
She reacts in such a way because of the gloves that she has almost always worn, yes, but also because this particular touch carries with it the weight of what is to come.
Grand Pabbie's fingertips graze her own. His fingers wrap around hers, and she feels not just the abrasive texture of his hands but also the power that seems to draw her own out. His palms, lumpy and jagged, cup the backs of her hands, and she feels her magic being pulled; stretched out and then held, frozen – for once, motionless.
She doesn't like the feeling, not at all.
"Elsa."
His voice, like the rock-like skin she feels pressing up against her, is gravelly, rich and deep. It tells of age, of great power, of great weight and perhaps sadness. Of history. Of history made, centuries before, and of history, now, about to be created.
She tries desperately to quell the shaking of her hands in his. She knows he can feel it, and she is embarrassed. A Queen, and a powerful one at that, reduced to a child once again in his eyes, in his hands. The same child that stood at this very spot, fourteen years ago. She thought so much had changed since then.
She should have known better.
"Elsa," Grand Pabbie repeats.
No 'queen.' It is not necessary. It is not her – for here, standing here, on this rock, surrounded by these people and trolls and the weight of what she is and what she, what her body has done – she is not 'queen.' She is just – just – Elsa.
No one else.
No one else could have done such a thing.
She meets his eyes this time. Though only briefly, shaking and scared as she is, she still considers it an accomplishment.
"You are certain this is the path you wish to take?" Grand Pabbie's gaze is level, his voice even.
She feels her fingers quake harder in his grasp and tries to fight her burgeoning panic. Sucks in deep, shaky breaths, blinks the tears back out of her eyes that begin to form and fall. Her heart pounds in her chest. She's never felt this heavy before, like her feet and legs can't stand to support her weight. Yet at the same time she is light, so light, that the world is spinning around her and she could just drift away, into the air and never come back.
A different grip on her upper arm brings her back to reality. "Elsa."
Despite the gravity of the situation, Anna's voice is light, comforting. Soothing.
She doesn't deserve it.
The hand on her arm is cold – freezing, even to her. It terrifies her.
She cannot turn around, cannot look to see her sister standing there next to her. To see her supporting her, loving her, even after what she has done.
Her heart catches in her throat and she chokes, breath stuttering.
"Yes," she hisses, eyes squeezed shut so hard it hurts.
"You know what you must do, then." His tone is patient, understanding, and she hates him for it.
She can barely speak because her heart is pounding in her throat and she cannot swallow, cannot breathe. But somehow she finds the words. She must.
"I, Elsa of Arendelle," she starts. She feels the cold being drawn from her veins, feels the ice crackling under her skin in protest. "Hereby relinquish my magic, request that you purge it from my being-" She stumbles over the last words as she feels her magic latch onto her spirit, like tiny arctic barbs digging into her soul.
"For what purpose?" Grand Pabbie prompts, his hands grasping hers more roughly than before. "You know well that I cannot do this for any such reason. I have told you, and your parents, as such, before."
She no longer knows where she is, who she is, the pain and despair and confusion is so strong and all she can hear and see and feel. The roar of her magic fighting back swirls in her ears and screams in protest. It knows what is about to happen. It is fighting.
But she feels the icy grip of her sister, whose arms wrap around her shaking, shameful body, and knows what she must do if she is to be worthy of such unconditional love.
"Take away my magic," she tries again, urging, pleading. "For love."
She hears a scream, a guttural cry, as the ice is ripped from her body. She feels her very soul torn to pieces, feels like her heart has been rent to pieces.
Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she hears her sister calling her name, feels her stiff, icicle-like fingers stroke her forehead and dance over her shoulders. She thinks that scream might have been hers.
The pain is too much, the loss too much to bear.
The world goes black.
Please let me know what you think! I read every word, and your reviews are what keep me writing. I would so greatly appreciate your comment.
Any guesses as to why Elsa is sacrificing her magic?