From that day forward, the sailors realized what great fun it was to mock their prisoner. They made a game of ridiculing his walk and posture when they knew he was looking.

"That's not it!" an older sailor called after the redheaded boy who minced across deck with his nose in the air. "More like you've got a pole up your arse." The boy adjusted his walk accordingly, and a round of applause broke over the deck.

"You should learn to control your men, sir." Hans told the captain.

"Your Highness..." the captain began calmly, pityingly.

"Mockery is the sincerest form of flattery?"

"Your Highness, you nearly killed the Queen of Arendelle. Let the boys have a laugh at your expense. It will do you good."

Hans bristled at his words, but only held his head higher. "Where is Le Comte Surette? I thought he was escorting me home."

"He is, but he does not do well at sea. He'll be in his cabin for the trip."

"Who's the feminine aristocrat now?" Hans muttered.

"Le Comte Jean Surette, to my knowledge, has no murders to date," the captain said, and walked off.

"I didn't even kill anybody," Hans muttered, pulled off his cravat, and ran the silk through his fingers. He found the action soothing. He wondered how different he must look now, four days' growth of beard, suit disheveled. The cravat started moving faster and faster. How he looked. They made fun of him for how he looked. Despite his best efforts to kill the queen, they saw him most as an effete aristocrat, incapable of doing anything on his own. And Hans had encouraged that image at every turn – fussing over his appearance, giving the sailors orders like he owned the place. Maybe –just maybe –

"Ha! Look what I found!" An orange head darted past his cell and snatched the cravat from his hands.

"Give that back!" Hans reached after the boy.

"How do I look now?" the boy asked his comrades, tying the silk around his neck in a giant bow. He minced around the deck to the hoots and hollers of the crew.

"Lemme try it!" called the big-nosed man. He unwrapped the cravat, and as he did, saw the words embroidered on its corner. "What's this now?" The big-nosed man He shoved his giant nose shoved his nose at the writing. "To... Hans... on... your... birth-day." He annunciated slowly. "Love... Johann."

"Give it here! Please!" Hans' voice turned to a high-pitched whine. He reached through the bars until they pinched his arm. He only reached further still. So he reached further. "Please!" Just thinking of their grubby hands all over Johann's gift made him feel sick.

"Who's Johann?" asked a voice from the crowd. He couldn't tell who.

"My brother, of course! Who else would it be?"

The scrawny boy puckered his lips. "Sure it weren't from some fancy man, Your Highness?"

A wolf whistle came from somewhere deep in the crowd, and the boy took it as encouragement, holding the bright fabric to his lips.

"Give it back now!" Hans yelled.

In the storm of scandalized laughter and whistling, the black-bearded man alone was quiet. He turned a deep scarlet and looked down at his shuffling feet.

"Enough!" the captain called. "It's gone too far now, boys. Don't you think?"

The black-bearded man snatched the cravat and handed it to Hans, still fiery read and looking at the floor.

"Thank you," Hans said in his softest voice.

"Course."

Hans flicked his eyes to the man's belt, and then up again. "I mean it sincerely," he said, pure gratitude, in part for the gesture, in part for the fact that the one man on this ship who clearly wanted a fancy man was also the one with the keys.

When Pierre left his rounds on watch, he always walked past Hans' cell. This time, when he walked past, he found Hans in tears. The tears were easy, too easy, to summon. The desperate nature of his current situation coupled with the memory of Gerda's sad blue eyes and outstretched hands had him sobbing in a moments.

Hans had unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt. His cravat hung limp around his neck. He lay turned towards the cell door, displaying the freckles on his collarbone when Pierre walked past his door.

As expected, Hans heard a gentle rap on the door, followed by an even gentler, "You alright?"

"Does it look like I'm alright?"

"What is it, sir?"

"What's to become of me?" Hans gasped for air. What with all his ridiculous posturing, his hair had come loose from its coif and some strands fell into his eyes. Hans ran his gloved fingers through his hair, mussing it still further. Pierre stared. "After what I did in Arendelle, what's left for me? My brothers will humiliate me, throw me in prison... and who knows what else..." the more Hans thought about it, the easier the tears came. "...and then I'll be useless, really and truly useless. Just like they said I would be."

Pierre was pressed against the bars, just where Hans wanted him. "Who said that? Your brothers? Your family?"

Hans lay back on his cot, struggling with the lump growing in his throat. "I've never felt so alone in my life, Pierre." And then. "I'd rather die than go home." As soon as he had said the words, he knew that they were true. They settled in his stomach like lead. He'd do anything to keep from going home. Anything.

"You know my name?" Pierre asked shyly from the other side of the bars.

Hans smiled. "Of course." He'd learned it just that very afternoon.

Pierre cleared his throat and wiped the smile from his lips. "Prince Hans, you are a prisoner here because you intended to kill both..."

Hans massaged the back of his neck and groaned. Pierre's voice faltered.

"...b-both Queen Elsa and Princess Anna of Arendelle. And you betrayed not only their kingdom, but also your own." Pierre spoke stiffly, as if reciting a practiced speech. Hans wondered if he were.

"I have no kingdom," his rough voice was rough with crying. "And now I never will." He pulled off his gloves and cast them to the ground. "I'm nothing, and I've never felt so alone in my life."

Pierre looked right and then left, before quietly unlocking Hans' cell door and closing it behind him just as quietly. He sat next to Hans, and the wooden bed creaked under his weight. He smelled like sweat and tar. Without disgust or misgiving, Hans rested his head against the sailor's shoulder.

Pierre froze for a full five seconds before his tongue untied. "L-look, sir, we all make mistakes. Yours are bigger than most. Much, much bigger. I never tired to kill anybody – " Hans began to pull away, and Pierre's arm wrapped around him. " – but that doesn't mean your life is over."

Hans leaned against the large man again, and breathed in his scent. For a moment, he didn't want to escape. He wanted to stay in this giant's embrace and listen to his comforting words. This was the trouble of mixing truth with lies: the truth so often threatened to take over all his careful plans. "Perhaps you're right," he murmured. "I hope I could be so brave, if given the chance."

"No point in wondering about things to come."

"You're right again," Hans pulled away as far as he needed to, and one hand closed on the empty metal bucket in his cell. "Thank you, Pierre."

"My pleasure. I mean, I – "

Hans swung the bucket hard and caught Pierre's forehead with a solid thwack, and he crumpled to the ground.

Hans waited in silence until he could be certain no one would come to investigate the sound. Pierre's head was bleeding, but he had a steady pulse. Someone would find him soon enough. He pulled off Pierre's clothes and put them on over his own. At last he gathered his gloves and cravat from the floor. He tied on the necktie, the cool silk running over his neck like water.