2
Anna dreams. A tangled web of dream and memory. Out in the castle courtyard, she and Elsa build snowmen. Elsa blowing on her numbed, freezing fingers to thaw them. "Stop it, Elsa, that tickles!" she exclaims, in a fit of giggles. "Anna… I'm sorry, but your sister is dead." Raw, red-faced, she screams, "No she's not! You're lying! You're lying!" Equations. Endless, endless equations. Regurgitating an alphabet soup of histories, dates. Words, they were only words… "I can't be Queen. I just can't." Thrusting the knife into the wolf, which becomes her uncle, which becomes her father, who turns into Elsa, lying dead on the floor. A scream rises to part her lips. Before Elsa places a finger over them. "Shh." She kneels down onto the floor, eye height with Anna. Glances round, afraid. "I'm not supposed to play with you anymore, Anna. If they catch me here, I'll be in trouble," she whispers. But why? "I can't tell you that… I will one day. And things can go back to normal. It'll be me and you again soon. I promise."
I promise.
She wakes, to the sound of water.
Consciousness comes to her slowly this time. The dull ache of her leg. The sharper pain of her hand. Something hard and flat and cold, beneath her. Not snow. On top of her someone had laid something. It's warm and scratchy. A blanket?
She stirs slightly, hand closing round the coarse horse-hair fabric.
…and something clatters abruptly to the floor. Anna opens her eyes to see a person vanish through the door frame.
…made of ice.
Anna sits up, clutching the blanket to her, wondering. The cavernous high-vaulted ceiling, the walls, even the bed she lays upon: they're all made of sheer-cut ice. Her bed canopy, spun from sparkling crystal threads, delicate as a spider's web. Even the chaise lounge and the coffee table sparkle like glass. Even the vase that sits upon it, filled with marvellous crystalline sunflowers.
Her favourites.
At the foot of the bed is a wooden bucket fallen on its side, sat in a puddle. A cloth. She pulls up the ruined hem of her filthy dress and understands: someone's been cleaning her cuts and scrapes. They've popped her leg back into its socket, too, which is a relief. I wasn't looking forward to that.
Her knife, cleaned from the muck, sits in its sheaf on the coffee table.
Someone is watching me.
She raises her face, to see in the doorway the most beautiful woman she's ever laid eyes upon. She's swathed in a magnificent gown that sparkles with every tiny movement, her snow-trimmed cloak trailing behind her. A high collar frames her head like a halo. Untamed ice-blonde hair. But the most marvellous thing is her crown: dozens of snaking stalactites that top her head like antlers.
Like a cold blast, robbing the air from Anna's lungs. The witch's eyes, trained on her, are cold, polished diamonds.
"E-Elsa?" Anna whispers.
The witch flinches.
This beautiful, terrifying woman before her looks little like the sister she remembers. And yet—
Clasping the blanket closer to her, she slides to the end of the bed. In response, the Snow Queen takes a step backwards.
Tears pool in the corners of Anna's eyes. Her vision blurs: the room splinters like a kaleidoscope. But in all those pieces she sees only one thing: her sister.
"Elsa," she sobs. "You've no idea… you don't know how much I've missed you. I came here— to find you."
When Elsa speaks, her voice is strange and hoarse, as though from a long length of disuse. "To find me?"
"They lied to me. Mama and Papa and Uncle Magnus and everyone else too. They told me you'd died. But I…" clutching hold of the blanket so tightly her knuckles whiten, "I always knew. They said I was in denial. But I knew you'd always come back to me. Because you promised."
With her other hand she pushes herself off the bed. Elsa visibly tenses. But Anna forgets how she'd burned her hand. With a wince, she slips back down onto the bed once more.
Elsa's eyes widen with concern. "Your hand. You've hurt it." Her words are awkward and clumsy, a foreign language being spoken straight from a textbook.
Anna cradles it to her herself with a hiss of pain. "It's… nothing really."
Cautiously, Elsa approaches her, snowy cape dragging behind her. Slowly, a nervous animal, eyes tracked on Anna's face. She pulls up her skirt and kneels by her side.
"I can help," she says. She offers up her open hands like a child showing a dog she has nothing: she is no threat. Anna understands: she is asking for her own. And when she does offer her injured hand, Elsa hesitates. Eyes flick up meet hers.
"You can touch me, Elsa," Anna murmurs.
Elsa touches her as though she's made of the finest glass. Turns her hand over, to see her inflamed red palm. Elsa's fingers are cold, and she touches her own so gently a shiver runs through Anna: not an entirely undesirable sensation. Elsa's eyes meet hers again, seeking permission. Anna nods.
She's still surprised, however, when her sister brings her hand to her lips, and kisses it on the inflamed spot. Delicious, cool relief breaks over her, the burn numbed by delicate frost like spun sugar. It feels so good she cannot help the relieved moan that pushes past her lips.
She opens her eyes to see Elsa peering at her in curiosity. Her cold eyes seem for a moment a child's eyes. Or an injured animal's.
"Thank you, Elsa," she sandwiches her sister's hand between her own, pausing as the older girl flinches. "What… what did they do to you?" she murmurs.
Elsa stares at the floor. Her cracked voice: "I didn't want you to come here. To see me, like this."
Gently, Anna squeezes. "This has all been an awful mistake. But, Elsa… Mama and Papa, they're gone now. We can put things right. You can stop the blizzard, we can go home, and—"
Steel, flashing across Elsa's face. "I won't return to that place."
Anna can't blame her. She doesn't look forward to her return much either. But— "People are dying in this weather, Elsa. If you'd just stop the storm—"
"I can't."
"You… can't?"
Elsa's head is turned away. She sees only the shadow of her face. "I can't," she says again.
"I see…" Anna bites her lip. "Then I'll stay with you."
Elsa speaks in a croak; "What?"
"I won't leave you alone again. So I'll stay with you."
Elsa's lips part. Their hands, still joined. And Anna sees it: a crack across a frozen pond, something vital stirs in her sister's cold eyes.
They are not alone in the palace, as Anna learns the following morning. She starts awake to a thundering clatter, quickly throwing the blanket from her.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" she says, bleary, panicked. "I'm coming now. I forgot, I'm so—"
Her vision clears, and she finds herself sitting inches from a terrifying snow golem. A yelp, and she throws herself against the backboard. The creature cocks its head curiously at her.
And she realises: "A snowman."
A creepy snowman, she thinks, as memory stirs within her. She remembers building a snowman like this with Elsa once. It was…
"Olaf!" she exclaims, with delight, as the snowman claps his hands together, a picture of excitement.
…except that, this Olaf has no mouth.
Oh, Elsa. What did they do to you?
While each one of Olaf's movements is an exaggeration of cheerfulness and life, its eyes are dulled: lumps of coal.
Her eyes move to Olaf's feet, and she discovers what had awoken her in the first place. The remains of what was apparently her breakfast are all over the floor. An upturned tray. An upside down bowl of porridge. A couple of eggs with bleeding yolks. Only the toast looks vaguely salvageable.
Immediately, Olaf looks deeply contrite, hanging his head in shame. It's kind of cute, and Anna waves her hands furiously. "It's fine! It's fine! Don't worry about it. When I was a kid, I used to be really clumsy too." Quickly she leans down to snatch up a piece of toast and crams into her mouth. She swallows it so fast she starts to choke, and beats her chest with her fist. "See! Still good!"
Olaf perks up like a flower in the sunshine. Jumping up and down, he gestures watch this and picking up the tray he balances it, wobbling, on his head.
On second thought, that's probably how he lost it.
He takes a few steps back, and gesturing, make way! With arms outstretched he does several, impromptu cartwheels, the tray spinning off across the ice floor.
Or maybe it was that.
He offers a deep, sweeping bow, and Anna applauds, laughing. She can't help but laugh, Olaf's such a funny little creature. It's been such a long time since she's laughed at something fun and stupid like this, that she discovers she can't stop laughing. She rocks back and forth, and Olaf touches her shoulder with a concerned twig. Anna raises her head, wiping the tears from her eyes.
"Thanks, Olaf," she sniffs.
She helps clean up the mess he's made, and then she asks him, "Where is your mistress?" Olaf cocks his head to the door. Elsewhere. "Will you take me to her?"
The little snowman nods with vigour, offering her a twig. Without Anna having to explain her injured leg, he ducks beneath her arm so she can lean upon him.
She says it again, as easily as if to an old friend: "Thank you, Olaf."
Immaculate: impenetrable: cold. The ice palace is a maze Anna fears that, without Olaf's sure guidance, she would no doubt lose herself in. Huge, vaulted rooms like the inside of a cathedral. Elaborate ice-carved pillars and buttresses, vanishing to pin pricks high above. With Olaf's help, she traverses a spiral staircase that twists inwards like a corkscrew, running her hand along the smooth banister. It's flawless.
The farther they travel, the smaller the rooms become. The ceilings shrink, the architecture becomes more crowded, positively cosy. Rooms opening out upon rooms like systems of Chinese boxes, cloistering cloisters. Nooks. Crannies. The rooms are reminiscent of Arendelle castle, and yet, they are not. They pass through a dazzling three tier library, filled with unreadable ice books. A drawing room, with a dead, icy grate that could never be lit. Everything is beautiful; enchanting; pointless.
And yet, Anna wonders, how it seems somehow alive. She is sure as she passes a suit of armour that it turns its head. Olaf guides her through a room filled with giant chess pieces. Eyes seem to watch her, and she peers upwards. In the rafters there's a flutter of wings. Perfect snow-white doves, gazing down at her from the high beams.
Farther they travel. Farther and higher, Anna's leg aching, until they emerge from the top of the staircase, into a room different from all the rest. It's perfectly circular, the ceiling arching into a perfect dome, split into mandarin segments. A chandelier of hedgehog spikes. There are several doors. Olaf pulls her eagerly, tugging at her sleeve.
"Okay, okay!" she laughs, pushing the translucent doors open. She blinks against the sudden sunlight.
Sunlight! she realises. This palace is not the centre of the storm: it is the storm. No wonder they've climbed so many stairs, for Anna understands now they stand in the tallest tower of the palace, so tall it pierces the clouds. She grabs hold of the railing, looking down to see a ring of cloud circling the tower like a wedding band. Above that, the blue sky. She feels the sunlight on her face, every pore in her skin aching for it.
Olaf tugs, once again at her sleeve. Reluctantly she goes back inside into the cold, and he leads her towards the opposite door. In his growing excitement, he skips out from underneath her and runs inside, leaving her to stagger through the doorway.
"Olaf…!" she hisses, grabbing hold of the door frame. When something makes her start.
Elsa…
She is creating. With one flick of her wrist, ice spirals up into a magnificent candelabra. She turns. She turns so gracefully it's like she's dancing, dress sparkling like stars. A chandelier blooms from the ceiling. She dances.
Anna's hello evaporates from her lips. She cannot look away.
As if Elsa's in a dream. Eyelids, drooping at half-mast, eyelashes studded with snowflakes. She dances. She does not look like a terrifying witch. She looks magic. She looks beautiful.
When she's finished, the room is an elegant drawing room. Curtains strung from snowflakes. Cabinets packed with memorabilia, drawn in the tiniest detail. Elsa's magic ceases. The sparkle in her hands sleeps. She stands, still, her eyes slipping closed; sated.
And all the words clamouring in Anna's chest for breath sleep also. How warm her chest feels. How strange. How peaceful her heart feels.
The last thing she expected to find at the Snow Queen's castle was peace.
To be continued.
