A/N: Thanks for the reviews and subscriptions! This one is a bridge chapter, to set things in motion.
I have no spur/ To prick the sides of my intent, but only/ Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself,/ And falls on th'other – Macbeth, Act 1 Scene 7
.
.
A few weeks earlier
Amidst the mess and water damage caused by melted ice, the limp, rotting carrot was found on one of the palace's more severely blighted corridors and tossed into the rubbish pile without a second glance.
-:-
Present
Hans carefully laid the small wreath against Anna's grave and stepped back, bowing his head slightly. The orange-pink hues of the setting sun bathed the marble in a myriad of warm colours, turning it into an appropriately picturesque sight – just as he was the picture-perfect image of the grieving lover, with his slightly drooping shoulders and sombre demeanour.
Appearances had to be maintained, after all.
This had become a weekly ritual, where he would make his way alone to the graveyard of the Arendellian Royal Family and pay his respects. Nearby stood the tombstones of Anna's parents – empty graves, just like the one for their daughter. If he'd stuck to the original plan, there would be another stone standing in this place. A complete set, he mused.
The image of Elsa's wide, devastated eyes flashed across his mind, and a small frown creased his forehead.
But he couldn't have committed regicide so openly, after all. The halting of the snowstorm, while welcome, had had the unfortunate side effect of exposing him to prying eyes and potentially sticky questioning. Much better to let the Queen go. It was cleaner, easier.
And yet –
A tendril of disquiet scratched in a corner of his mind, an unease that he had been unable to completely dismiss. Perhaps he would have to deal with the elder sister in due course. A little more quietly, of course, and such that no suspicion would attach to his name.
He was already having trouble dealing with the Council – an unimaginative group of bureaucrats at best, but still duly suspicious of a foreigner. The only barriers keeping them from open rebellion was a combination of Anna's orders to appoint him regent, a reluctance to stick their necks out and fear of the alternative. He knew that they were waiting for him to make a fatal mistake, but first – he had to solve the country's more pressing problems.
As long as they had their scapegoat, he was safe.
Hans glanced up. The sky was getting dark and he had paid his dues for the week. He strode briskly to his horse and swung himself up – an autumnal chill was starting to set in and he'd never liked the cold. Repressing a slight shiver, he rode off to the castle without looking back.
-:-
. . .You won't get away with this. . .this. . .this. . .
Watch as he turns his back on you, girl – remember this moment. Remember how he used you and lied to you and betrayed you, and then walked away with his prize in his hands and a spring in his step. Will you let him go this easily? Will you allow him to preen over his ill-gotten gains while your kingdom falls under foreign control? You can still fight back – fight back and win. You can still set the ball rolling, though you won't be the one to finish him off. You can. You can.
. . .Oh. . .
. . .I already have.
-:-
Under a thin crescent moon, Elsa knelt by the tombstone, eyes tracing the letters of a name. No words passed her lips; none were needed. Her shoulders shook slightly as she allowed a flood of memories to sweep over her – such a delight to finally feel, such a pleasure in itself, though the soul-crushing grief was hardly comforting.
She'd struggled to keep her anger in check while staring at the distant figure of the Southern Isles prince as he'd falsely paid his respects. Looking down at the wreath he'd left behind, that same anger threatened to overwhelm her. Frost started to creep into the ground in front of her; with an effort she forced herself to think of her sister's face.
Anna, she thought, at least deserved flowers from someone who was sincere.
Elsa held out a hand and concentrated, drawing on cherished memories and savouring the rush that came with the process of creation. A bluish-white glow coalesced in her palm and became solid; intricately carved ice flowers took shape.
Staring down at her handiwork, Elsa let out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding. A crocus, a tea rose and a violet lay in her palm, the faint light of the moon glinting off their petals and intertwined stems. Cheerfulness, remembrance, and a promise of devotion. Such drivel when seen in a crusty tome, but excruciatingly appropriate for the current situation.
Dimly, she wondered why it was such a release to feel at this moment – the anger she had felt earlier had caused her control over her powers to slip. But now –
She ran her fingers gently down the cold marble.
Surely it couldn't be that simple, that – that clichéd? Creating the delicate icy blooms in her hand had been well within her capabilities, had practically been as challenging as singing a slightly tricky tune. And if she recalled correctly, the snowstorm had stopped when she'd found out about Anna's death.
You must learn to control it. Fear will be your enemy. But there was more to that, wasn't there? No doubt fear was a negative force in this, but what was the actively positive force? Something had pushed her to end the winter, and it wasn't just a mastery of her emotions – it had required something much, much stronger –
Click. The pieces started to fit together in her mind with beautiful clarity.
A sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a scoff escaped her lips. "I see," she said to no one in particular. Her shoulders shook slightly.
With her free hand, she scraped at the dirt at the side of the tombstone. It would be unwise to leave her offerings out in the open; best keep a low profile while she finalised her plans. A strange urge to laugh threatened to surface – now that she'd had that nagging problem figured out, things would be much easier. Much easier.
She carefully placed the ice flowers in the little hole she had dug with surprisingly steady hands. As she started to pile the soil back in, her thoughts turned back to the pertinent issue at hand, with the little details falling into place. It would all form an exquisitely tidy whole in the end, she told herself. And it was to be for Arendelle, for the memory of her sister and for the sake of a bond that death would not sever.
It was for a fluttering shade, a wisp of memory and a glittering kingdom on the coast.
A glittering kingdom. . .
-:-
"It will be done six days from now. Maybe thirteen."
"We look forward to it."
"Good luck, Elsa."
-:-
Another week as Regent, another week of wrangling. Hans sighed and massaged his temples as he stared at the amount of paperwork before him. Ruling a country was undoubtedly harder than he'd expected, though he'd known it would take work – far more so in a country that was beset with food shortages and crop failure. It was fortunate that at the time of the Great Freeze, many of Arendelle's ships were not docked at the harbour; most of the ships present had suffered significant damage that required copious amounts of time and money to repair. Some had been unsalvageable.
The people didn't seem inclined to revolt yet, though; Arendelle's leaders had had the foresight to set aside a massive store of dried foodstuffs and seeds in an underground area which had become accessible after the ice melted. It was sufficient to keep the food shortage at still-manageable levels, and at least people weren't starving outright. But they weren't exactly happy with the food rationing programme either.
That morning, as he'd stared into the mirror, he'd seen a thinner, haggard face looking back at him, with a slight hollowness to the eyes and dark smudges beneath them. It was tiring enough, governing a country which he had little first-hand knowledge about; it was far more tiring having to work with a Council that openly despised him. The crown loyalists were more stubborn than he'd expected.
But then, no one had ever said that a struggle for significance would be easy.
He glanced out of the window; it was time to make his weekly pilgrimage. The weather was good today, with no strong winds and few clouds in the sky. He needed a walk, anyway – so no need for the horse.
Roughly shoving the document forward on his desk, he suppressed a yawn and stood up; perhaps it was the deception that was also getting to him. Or perhaps not. He didn't care enough to think deeper on it.
At least the trips to Anna's grave gave him a supposedly legitimate reason to take a break.
-:-
The last thing he remembered at the graveyard was the sound of something rushing towards him, before a hard and very cold object crashed into the back of his head.