The Coldest Moon
Thank you to all that reviewed, favorite, and followed. I never thought that this story would get any reviews at all, but apparently I was wrong. :)
Now, let's see what torment I will place upon these fine characters. . .
If you see any grammar or spelling mistake, please tell me, I will fix them.
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Chapter 4: Shot Through The Heart
Dinner was something Elsa enjoyed with her little sister. They would talk on and on about insensible topics such as school, friends, the juicy new gossip among their peers, and even off-the-wall comments ("I just don't get it, I mean I know Kristoff is a tough guy, but seriously? He ran out of the class like a bat out of hell. He even screamed 'bad burrito' while sprinting away."). It became tradition. Anna would sit next to Elsa, who sat at the head of the long mahogany table as rightful matriarch, and the endless flow of conversation would propel the girls ahead hours. Time seemed to fly by as they talked and giggled all the while eating Gerda's scrumptious cooking. The siblings loved the meal time with all abandon.
Therefore, it was a surprise to learn that the youngest would have to cut the junction short to conform to her new boyfriend's date.
Elsa sat, graciously nibbling on the pork roast the erstwhile maid conjured up, and listened to her sister babble on about this 'epitome of gentlemen and idol of cute asses'.
"Wonder what we're going to do tonight? Maybe he'll take me to the St. Patrick's day festival or . . . Oh! Maybe even to that fancy restaurant down on main—"
"Didn't he already take you on a date this week?" The blonde interrupted, despondently. Throughout the meal she has grumbled and mumbled to the other's frantic hypotheses about that night's date. Truth be told, Elsa was not thrilled to hear that Mr. Sideburns will be imposing on the family custom.
"Well, yeah we did," Anna replied as she suppressed giggles of excitement. The ginger was dolled up, pink blouse pressed impeccably and black skirt long enough to be considered formal yet short enough to reveal toned freckled legs. Her face, naturally beautiful and need of no enhancement in the eldest's opinion, adored a few swipes of blush and foundation, and her eyes were enhanced by liquid mascara, making her shiny teal irises pop.
Perhaps that is why the older girl was so angry at the arrangement. Her sister seldomly bore makeup and the fact that this boy was haling his way to change her already gorgeous visage was maddening to Elsa.
Who does this guy think he is?!
Withal, the young woman held a proper face, one of attention and indifference.
Anna continued, oblivious to her older sister's thoughts, "But we had such a good time, that he couldn't wait to go out on another." With that, she sighed, dreamily. A scowl threatened to appear on the eldest's lips as she heard the breath.
She could feel it, bubbling under her skin. Elsa did not know what, yet something was raking under it, dragging down the length of her body and then U-turning back up to her veiled lour. It manifested in her chest, then occasionally it would diverge to her fingertips almost as if she was itching for . . . Something. Was it anger? Sadness? Or was it entirely different? The blonde did not know, even still, one aspect was for certain—its meridian was toward the lofty disturbance known as Hans.
Another itch, another wishful sigh from her sister. Elsa prodded, "Why you seem . . . zealous."
It took all her will power not to say what she really wanted to utter, unless the blonde desired an angry ginger on her hands. Though, she wondered, as Anna started up again on how her boyfriend was amazing, why did she care of she hurt the girl's feelings? Even before Mr. Sideburns came into the picture, the oldest of the duo was always the brutally honest one. Sometimes, to the point when it seemed so out of line or rude ("That dress makes you look like a giant marshmallow." Or "Yes, an ass can be a hat, if one so desires to wear it as such.").
But this is Anna.
With that, Elsa held her tongue, so long as she wants to keep it.
"Well, yeah, obviously. This is Hans we're talking about. The boy I've been crushing hard on since freshman year." A toothy grin slit her face, she continued, "But . . . Man, I didn't know that those dreams would come true."
The bubbling increased. It heated up her body, scorching her insides. The vice grip in her wine glass tightened.
Conceal, don't feel. Don't let her know you've planned his death several times.
Both heads whirled to the clamant sound of the grand doorbell. Large gongs and Anna's squeal of excitement seemed to drown out the sigh of resignation from the blonde.
Speak of the auburn-haired devil.
Elsa never really divulges in alcohol too often, maybe one or two glasses after a rigorous day at the campus (or usually the hangover day after a shift), and even so, those days were far few and in between. However, as her sister virtually skipped to the large anteroom of the manor, she could not help but down her (nearly full) glass of the decades old beverage. The sour taste and burning sensation along her throat was moot to the inconvenience that awaited.
Gracefully, the eldest dragged herself up and followed the jittery ginger. When she came up on the entrance, she noticed that the door was ajar.
They're probably already grinding against each other with their tongues dancing.
The itching manifested, dragging its claws down her pharynx and spine. Bile built in her mouth and she swallowed as she came up to the reprehensible couple. Anna stood in front of the date, jumping on the balls of her feet—a nervous tick—grinning from ear to ear, the youngest spoke adamantly to the boy before. A faux smile lit Elsa's features as she greeted.
"Hello, Hans."
Dark green eyes pried themselves away from the bubbly teen and gazed into icy blue orbs. The (presumably) one-sided tension ate away at Elsa and it ten folded when the male extended his hand to her. Straightening her spine and squaring her shoulders, she rigidly and hesitantly grasped the proffered palm, trying not to scowl when she felt a surprisingly soft pad.
Anna's going to eat this up.
It was hard to contain a frown when the implications entered the blonde's mind.
Keep calm, smile, approve, look regal, and don't accidentally break his wrist.
"Hi, Elsa. Always a pleasure," Hans said, continuing to didder the pale hand. Was it her, or did his shake seem rigid too? Or did the elder compensate for both? Disregarding those inquiries, she raked her gaze swiftly up and down the male's form and the hidden anger accrued.
For the love of—he even came presentable! First his perfect teeth, hair and butt, now he's fully dressed to go to the opera or something!
Her sister's new boy toy wore pressed and crisp clothes, new by the way they were bright and stainless. A pale yellow polo, ironed immaculately so that it showed off his lean, muscular figure, was tucked into tan khakis, with a shiny new Rolex adoring his left wrist. He was the picture perfect man parents wanted for any daughter, and Elsa was sheathing that she (physically) sanctioned him.
Maybe he eats funny, or picks his nose. He is a man after all.
Yet something told her that those aforementioned scenarios were unlikely. Inhaling, she replied, "Same to you."
Even by her enhanced ears that statement appeared forced.
But Hans, if he picked up on the blonde's strained voice, did not look daunted. Instead, he dropped the handshake, curled into Anna's side by looping an arm around her waist (the strange effervescent stirred once more), and grinned. "How's college? Still top ten?"
Her response was too quick, "Just top."
He whistled, a breezy, melodic, irritating whistle. "Color me surprised. You were always the bright one."
Laughing, Anna, who patiently witnessed the whole territory marking, playfully punched his arm, "Hey!"
"Well, obviously it's genetic."
"It better be. I get straight A's, for your information."
Hans just laughed, a paradox of a melody and a cacophony. Elsa just forced a grin to carve up her cheeks.
Finally, when Mr. Sideburns' titters languished away, the blonde asked, "So, what's the plan for tonight? Dinner?"
Obviously, because Anna didn't eat any with me.
He nodded, "That's the plan, and maybe go to a late night showing." Pausing to look into the elucidating teal orbs of Anna, he then whipped his head to the eldest. Quickly he added, "If that's okay, with you, I mean."
She cracked a small smirk, "So long as she will get up in the morning for school." Then a thought occurred, "but try to get her home around eleven, please."
Hopefully that will curtail any . . . undesirable interactions.
Hans, being the gentleman that he was, agreed by nodding with a equivocate smirk adoring his handsome face. The sensation intensified, nearly making the young woman shudder.
What the heck. . .
"You okay, Elsa?" It was her sister. Concern filled her eyes, however the girl in question just waved it off.
"Fine, fine." A dismissing gesture, she added, "College rigors."
Anna still appeared dubious, though it dissipated when her boyfriend sounded, "Well, I'll bring her back by eleven. Come on, let's give her the night to recoup from her day."
Or more from you.
The couple exited the manor, the cooper haired teen glued to Mr. Sideburns at the hip, heading to his shiny silver Volvo, all the while the bubbling accumulating in Elsa's chest. Pressure built and built. Dots were forming along the werewolf's peripheral, enlarging with each passing second. She witnessed the male glide over to her sister's door and open it, proper and enamoring like. This earned a girly giggle from Anna, who had to bite her lip to stifle the laughter. The eldest watched how she smoothed her skirt down in the back, and then settle into the leather interior of the car.
It was pulsing now, throbbing against her sternum. A grunt of pain escaped the blonde's lips as she leaned onto the large wooden doors of the estate, still viewing how a Cheshire smile crossed her sister's face as she situated herself.
Another throb. Another moan of anguish.
What is this feeling? It feels like a heart attack or cardiac palpitations.
It hurts. It hurts so much. . .
Wide eyes, encased in fear, pain, and confusion continued to follow Anna's movements. The way her teal orbs flickered with excitement, how her signature pigtails bounced as she implacably spook. They were intoxicating. She was intoxicating.
Then, when Elsa's dark spots further clouded her vision and her heart painfully throbbed in her breast, teal eyes locked onto crystal in the side view mirror. A small palm came into the reflection and fingers sprawled outward, in a tentative wave. The Volvo started to life and soon the couple drove down the gravel, crescent-shaped turnaround, dust kicking up and rear lights disappearing.
Something pierced and erupted inside the blonde's chest. White hot pain belched from the center, exploding in a torturous ailment. She shrieked in anguish and a hand came up to clutch her upper torso. Everything stopped, everything went numb. Breathing, blinking, hearing. All functions seemed to terminate in a matter of seconds.
Her legs gave out in pure fatigue and it sent Elsa to the marble floor. Head spinning, heart thumping erratically within her bosom, pain shooting from every fiber, the last thing she witnessed was the crimson lights retreating down the path and Anna's exhilarated smile in the mirror. The ominous dots merged together and soon her vision was nothing but an inky black abyss.
. . . . .
She knew the smell as if it still lingered on that day. The odor it left behind was just as potent as when it is fresh. The iron scent, even its tart essence can bombard her senses occasionally if she lets her mind wander—gamble into the dark depths if her psyche.
Her fears, her ominous memories of past trials, the plagues of her existence, the predominant regrets. Even so, that one simple, abundant smell is something she absolutely detests. The metallic fragrance that she craves, yet resents all the same. The bitter taste it has when it drops onto her tongue, a wave of intolerably pleasant quinine.
She regrets how it sautés the meat she tears into on deplorable nights.
She regrets how her pupils widen at the stench whenever it is prominent.
Regrets how it is beautifully tragic in a sense.
Rueful for when it drips or splatters, it is a near melody to her acute hearing.
But perhaps the worst is when her mind wanders too far to that faithful, sorrow filled evening, as the undulate of repent near drowns her as she wishes to have discovered it first before young Anna—
. . . . .
Elsa woke an hour or so later, on the marble stairs of the entrance, body half in the manor and the other in the cool, damp air of March. Blinking away the blots along the corner of her eyes, she rose, head cradled by one hand and chest clenched with its twin. Her breath came in shallow puffs and her knees shook like the conifers in an autumn storm.
With each irregular thump, her heart ached with an unusual fire she never felt before. It was a hallow, itching, and perpetual pine. The hand around her temples then blindly pursued something to grab ahold of. Finally, an object, sturdy and solid, came along her fingertips. The door. Practically flinging herself on it, Elsa attempted to straighten herself on the structure, but her body was still too stricken. As she tried to turn around to the anteroom, to possibly contact help in some way, her knees buckled. She fell again and this time a muffed moan escaped her mouth.
"Help. . ." Was the only whimper that managed to be voiced. Needles bristled down the length of her throat, causing another stab of pain to explode in her breast. Each breath was torture, each gesture made her grovel.
What's going on? Did someone poison me? Is this an act of sorcery?
"Someone . . . Please . . ."
Another painful thud of her heart. She screamed bloody murder. Boiling tears pooled along her eye lids, threatening to spill.
"Miss Elsa?"
A voice. A person. Someone heard her.
The blonde wanted to guide them to where she was, on the floor, balled up into herself, but all that came out was another strangled shriek.
"Does someone need a warm hug?" It said, chirpy and lively. Footsteps, there were footsteps traveling to her. They were bouncy and energetic. And they were coming from inside the house. Realization hit her.
"Olaf?"
The footfalls sounded nearer, yet they halted as a high-pitched bellow came from the person, "Miss Elsa!"
That was when the young woman sensed someone standing over her. Her blurry vision managed to focus in on a pair of ashen black colonial shoes, old and worn.
"I got you, Miss. I got you."
A pair is scrawny arms lifted her from the ground by her armpits.
"My . . . Room."
"Yes, of course."
The ascent to the young woman's room was tricky at best. The helper, Olaf, stumbled and fell multiple times with Elsa in his lanky arms. But the tumbles were irrelevant when likened with the palpitations her heart was agonizingly producing. She withered in his grasp with each tussle of her figure made knives prickle just under her skin. The trek up the grand stairs was by far the most wrenching and excruciating, however once that part of the journey was over it was minuscule in comparison. All the while, Olaf was murmuring encouragements under his raspy breath.
"It's going to be okay Miss Elsa, perhaps a nice nap will subside . . . This." Nevertheless, with all of his optimistic views and chatter, there was still the underline worry in his rants.
Besides, he only received screams and grunts as response.
He shifted her weight in his arms to grasp the door knob of the blonde's room. Once a firm grip was on both Elsa and the knob, the aid pushed into the threshold. After some shifting and mild screams of agony, Olaf managed to guide the contorting woman to the bed, who once more let loose a shriek.
"Miss Elsa, please tell me what's wrong!"
All the boy got was another shrill. Another stab in her heart. She withered into the plush comforter, now with sweltering tears rolls down her ivory cheeks. Even the droplets seemed to scorch her skin as she continued to shrivel.
Yet soon, her body, whether it was out of fatigue or utter shock, began to marginally come down from the unknown torture. Her breathing became regular and full and, though they stained her face, the tears became barren. Before Olaf could sound his worry, crystal eyes fluttered shut.
. . . . .
The lot that Arendelle manor laid on was quite large, over 15 acres of land, not including the woodland around it. It held many natural aesthetics such as fine-spun meadows, foreboding timbers, exhorting streams, and, regarding but not limited to, grand lakes. So, it was innate for people to be drawn to the serene atmosphere; women, men, and children alike, everyone devoured the tranquil realm.
In its glory, the manor hosted a large quantity of community get-togethers from simple picnics and cook outs in the summer and spring months to festivals and snow ridden games in the colder, later seasons. During the infancy of the town, the patriarch or matriarch of the Arendelle clan would welcome every citizen to exploit the beauty of the land and make memories within the iron gates. It presently became tradition.
Even still, all good things must come to an end. It was the last year of the festival for the events that transpired discouraged any other fête afterwards.
The middle of winter was just as beautiful as any other seasons during the year. The white crystals fell gracefully to the ground, covering in a thick fluffy blanket of snow. Mountains rolled in the flurries and bathed in the white flakes. It was perfect for peaceful excursions for adventurers, thrill seekers, and even naïve boys barely the age of thirteen. Somehow, they managed to slip away from the crowd of townsfolk, scale the fence, and race to the frozen lake. However, during the duration of their little escapade, the ice beneath the youngest brother's feet gave way and the current of a nearby stream swept him away.
The eldest, by only minutes, returned, blue and drenched. Alone.
The gatherings ended then and there. Now, the celebrations were just a reminder of the unfathomable loss of the one of the Arendelle family.
"Was the ice checked before the festivities?"
"Of course, the parents are very cautious."
Another entered the conversation, "No it was—"
"Maybe some dreary occurrence. Maybe someone was ice fishing earlier that 'marrow and forgot to mark off the place."
"—someone was there, please is anyone listening—"
"Poor lad, had a good life ahead of him too, him and his brother. Bright boys by the gossip."
"—hello? Please anyone, why can't anyone hear me?"
"How's the eldest doing . . . Marshall, is it?"
"Mourning, locked up in his room, like any brother would be. Poor, Marshall. Most likely weeping."
"—no he's not, well he was, but he saw me and he smiled! He's not sad anymore—"
"They were so close, too. Twins?"
"Yes."
"Must have been real close."
"—no we are close. 'Are' present tense!—"
"Such a tragedy . . ."
"—what tragedy? Why isn't anyone listening!?"
"May, Olaf be at peace . . ."
"—Anyone, please! What's going on? Why are Mother and Father crying? Why are so many people crying? Is this all about me? I'm here! Please . . . Marshall can see me . . . I just talked to him. Anyone? I'm here . . . why can't you see me?"
It was not until, he attended the funeral, his funeral, that he realized what was going on. A rather impressive grave stone stood before him, marking the end of his life and the being of his afterlife. He did not cry, not like his parents and brother. He did not try to disturb the reticent air around the gravesite, for he knew not many people could hear or see him. He only looked upon the ominous headstone, reciting and rereading the words chiseled across the smooth surface.
Here lays Olaf Arendelle, not in physicality but in spirit.
He once told that hugs were warm, yet now no one can feel the warmth of his anymore.
A beloved son, friend, and brother.
November 27th, 1888 to December 4th, 1901
Throughout the years, the young boy stayed in limbo, watching, and waiting until he moved on, and maybe occasionally chat with a fellow confide or even a family member who wanted to converse with him. He watched, out-of-the-way and invisible, as the generations passed by, as his family died, grew, and split. His brother, Marshall, married, had a child, and when Father Time permitted, died with his remaining family at his side—including the illusive twin.
But, Olaf's beloved brother never entered the world of oblivion.
Alone and confined to the Manor, the young boy eventually was just a distant memory of the townsfolk and a constant reminder to the Arendelle family that, even though they come from a mighty bloodline and superior to the humans in the town, they were still subjected to naïvety and whimsy.
So, being a constant in the estate, it was no wonder that it was Olaf that found Miss Elsa sprawled out on the polished floor, wailing in pure anguish. He did what was necessary, though with some dubious questions in his young mind, he picked her up with his translucent arms—making sure to materialize his body—and shuffled up to the woman's room. It was difficult due to the staggering height and weight difference, but with all that, the boy managed to plop her down onto the bed.
She withered in pain; beads of sweat sprinkled along her brow, and tears—rare in any sense—carved their way down her pale cheeks. And still, all Olaf could do was look on in horror as his great, great, great-niece moaned, cried, and twitched.
His large overbite seized his bottom lip in worry as he ran his hands through his dark, stringy hair, frantically pacing the room with nothing to contribute. Finally, he shouted, "Miss Elsa, please tell me what's wrong!"
All he received was a hair-raising, primal shrill. Then, slowly the cries languished away into pants, and they too shriveled away into the steady breathing of unconsciousness, exhausted from the torture, her body gave out in shock.
"Miss . . . Miss Elsa?" Olaf squeaked out, hoarse. Taking tentative steps toward the blonde, a see-through hand waved timidly in front of her face. No response.
Gulping, he backed away, old clogs—if tangible—scuffed the wood, and began pacing the room.
Was Miss Elsa envenomed? Cursed more so than before? And what of Miss Anna! She certainly must have—
No, Olaf thought dismissing the thought with a shake of a head, I remember her saying something about a courtship with a young man that evening. Isn't it now a custom for couples to dine with one another during one of their excursions?
He did not know, for time slips by a spirit like water in a palm. Years turn to seconds, and seconds are actually decades. Before he knows it Elsa and her dear sister Anna will be wedded and perishing before his lucid eyes, like his brother and his descendants.
Feet halted, hands fiddled their way back to the boy's sides, and he shook his head. It did not matter; all that mattered was Miss Elsa, the bedridden woman on the opposite side of the room, and her current ailment. Poison is a likely culprit, but that did not excuse the likelihood of a paranormal infliction. Olaf knew all too well of the influence of the Arendelle family in the Underworld of monsters and beings of acquaintance. Intertwined socially, economically, and politically, the clan was long-familiar throughout the lands, if be it human wise or its counterpart. Olaf shuddered as the images of assassins and back alleyway deals came to his nonexistent mind.
No, he argued with himself, I would have known.
Being the soul of the household, he recognized every person that came in through the door or otherwise. With that in mind, charcoal eyes flicked over to the window pane, where the intricate swirls and shapes reside on the century old wood. A mischievous smile made its way on his pale face, despite the situation at hand. He needed something to entertain himself with, if came as the winter demon's price. Decades of limbo can help one manipulate mystical beings—or plants—if done right.
A groan to the spirit's left tore him away from his musings, and immediately his sprinted to Miss Elsa's side.
"Miss Elsa! Are you alright?" He said in hurry. He watched her twitch, side to side, then signature crystal blue eyes fluttered open, dazed and confused.
"Olaf . . ." The way the word tilted up at the end made it seem more like a question, but the young boy did not seem to notice.
Standing by the bed, he asked, "Are you well, now? Do you know what happened?"
A weak smile stretched across the young woman's visage. "Yes, I am."
He waited for the other answer that was to accompany the first, yet it never came. Withal, the two settled into a tense silence, with Olaf stared intently and Elsa focusing her gaze on the pane with the fresh engravings from that evening. Her face was indecipherable at best; brow screwed slightly together, lips pressed into a thin line. The boy wondered if she was thinking or if her mind was still scrambled from the infliction previously.
Her breath was still haggard, coming in short inhales and exhales, and remnants of perspiration trickled down her temple. Even so, she did not seem fazed by her exhausted condition. Which, Olaf guessed, was a grand thing because the woman's usual grace and elegance was lost in the earlier escapade; wonted tight, flawless bun askew and disheveled with fly aways, clothing wrinkled and outlined in sweat in key areas. This was not the Miss Elsa the spirit knew. Especially, the woman, whose eyes glinted with disarray, then discernment, and ultimately fear.
And fear was something Olaf solemnly saw nowadays. This seemed to replete his memory of how it looked like. It was all in the eyes, he realized after a few more moments of silence.
Then, abruptly Elsa casted her legs over the bedside and stood, wobbly and disoriented. Her hand flung to her forehead as its sibling balanced her body with the support of the post. Olaf shuffled to the girl, eager to please the matriarch, but she waved him away.
"It's fine," she attempted, however her voice was husky and infirm, most likely from the wailing beforehand.
Even still, Olaf, with years of experience materialized his body and grabbed her bicep. He tried to reason, "I protest, Miss Elsa, you need rest from . . . whatever that was."
She peeked through her fingers and then settled her hand by her side, she replied, "Olaf, I'm happy that you want to help but I'm telling you: I'm fine. It won't happen again."
"How can you be so ascertained?" Rare defiance filled his voice, disregarding his respectable teachings from his mother.
Elsa gave a sad smile. "I just know."
With that, she attempted to walk across the room, the young boy still by her side, clinging to her arm. They made it halfway to the door when an all too familiar ringtone sounded from Elsa's desk.
I'm insane, I am smart
All it takes, is a spark, to ignite my bad intentions
And do what I do best to your heart
Sighing, the blonde made her way to her phone (Olaf cohering to her elbow). She gave him a meaningful glance before picking up.
"Hi, Belle I—"
She stilled. The hysterical sounds of cries, sniffles, and panting filled her ears, feminine by how high they were.
"Belle, what's wrong?"
All she got was a sob. Fear, greater than before she called, raced through her body. Belle never cries, let alone breaks down over the phone.
"Belle, are you still there? I need you to speak to me. I need to know what's going on." Elsa's voice unintentionally turned to stone, hard and uncaring. One of them had to keep a level head; one of them had to be in control.
There were more sobs, some banging around, and shifting as the blonde waited, desperately. There were a few sayings in French but they were too quiet and muffled for Elsa to translate. Then finally, the sounds subsided with only hiccups occasionally bubbling up. Elsa tried once more, voice giving way to the whirlwind of emotions inside her, "Belle . . ."
With all abandon, her friend cried out, "Adam's been shot!"
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I have no words to describe how evil I feel right now. I'm just going to leave this little chapter here in hopes that some may continue reading and (most importantly) review.
In all, I am pleased with this installment, hints why the sudden cliffhanger placed so diligently at the end. Oh, what I have in store for you guys . . .
Thanks. Keep READING and REVIEWING, my pets.