Soli Deo gloria
DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own Frozen. New chapter! :)
~ Elsa's POV ~
I breathe heavily as I push through the Lodge's front doors. Anna is going to be the death of me, not the other way around, at this rate. Our skiing expedition almost killed her! My little sister! My affection for Anna allows me to let her do more dangerous things than I should let her. I should've remembered: I am the elder sister, and I must protect Anna. After all, that's all I've ever wanted, or done. To protect Anna from ice, snow, winter. And I nearly failed. So quick into our trip and I let my mind slip into a blissful state of happiness as the cold wind sent me soaring down the mountain. Cold, smooth, rough, fast, ringing in my ears. For a moment, I was free, my eyes closed, a smile at my mouth, a near laugh about to escape for the first time in forever.
Then Anna zoomed past me and I tried to warn her, grab her hand, to keep her from hitting headlong into a snow drift. I ran down the mountain, keeping care to not trip and have my hands flail out to catch myself. A mistake like that, in a state of fear and panic, would send ice through into the heart of some poor passersby who had the misfortune of being within my vicinity. In my attempt to save my sister, I could've harmed someone else. The weight of the responsibility of what I hold in my hands, that which courses through my body like a poisonous river, feels so heavy, and my shoulders slouch as I hurry past strangers, reporters, and interviewers. All I want is my solitude, my room, away from people. Here I'm surrounded and I'm terrified. How easily can I hurt someone if I make one wrong move! I wouldn't miss a person; the Lodge's foyer is too stuffed with athletes, trainers, reporters, photographers, and Lodge staff for any extra space.
I am halfway up the carpeted stairs, panting, when I hear "Elsa!" and feel a hand on my arm.
I turn, about to admonish Anna to let me go, and freeze when I register that it is the tiny, gentle hand of Olaf on me. His face is screwed up worriedly, and he says, "Elsa, your parents wanted me to get you. You've got to get to the conference room." I can't even speak as he begins to guide me down, quickly, quickly down the stairs. "There are a big bunch of international interviews happening, with interpreters and representatives of other countries. You're the first to get interviewed. Hey, that's in your favor, right?" Olaf is blissfully unaware of anything besides the fact that I'm late. I keep my cool but don't speak as he drags me through the lavish hotel, full of marble statues and various paintings that are from the Middle Ages. Anna will love it here. She thrives off of culture and art, society and people. I am the complete opposite, unfortunately, and so we clash.
Down a long hallway are two double doors that Olaf grunts and pulls on. "Wow, they're really stuck. It's like they're trying to keep us out. Rude," Olaf says, shoving his body against it. But his slight, pudgy weight can have no levy against such heavy set doors.
"Maybe you should knock," I suggest.
"Give me a minute. I can totally get this," Olaf says, pulling out a large orange key. He bites his lip and fiddles with the knob, muttering to himself and scratching his nearly bald head as he does so.
I'm not even sure if knocking will work. After years and years of Anna's tiny fist rapped against the door, I haven't given in. Not once. It is because my self-control over my actions, save the ice powers, has increased in the last few years. If I didn't have such a strong will, I would've fallen at the slightest knock and hugged Anna until she couldn't breathe. But the knowledge of my own dangerous powers always holds me back. Knowledge is power, powerfully cruel.
I have grown selfless in that way. If I gave in to my emotions, I would've selfishly allowed Anna into my room, prey to my powers.
The agony that has built up in my heart, my chest, my entire body, is pure anguish.
I turn away from the double doors and fold my arms around my chest, trying to keep it all hidden away inside me.
"You know what?" Olaf says, exhausted. "That might actually work."
For once, it does. Olaf and I are escorted in by a few of the hotel staff, who instruct me to sit on a warm, smooth chair around a long, polished table. My mother smiles beside me and my father looks anxiously at my hands.
"We're sorry to spring this on you," Father says, "it was scheduled for Tuesday, not today."
"It's fine. I can handle it," I lie convincingly.
"Just breathe, darling," Mother says, brushing my hair back and wiping up melted snow from my brow. My makeup is mussed up. I don't care how physically beautiful I appear; as long as I don't appear anxious or frantic, I'll be fine and not raise suspicions.
The conference questioning lasts maybe an hour. The cameras flash bright lights in my eyes, and I blink so many times. However, my smile and my calm demeanor do not flicker. I answer professionally and calmly. I feel the tension fight with a want to be casual with my father. Mother doesn't say a word, but her moral support, her presence, is enough to keep a rein on us both.
Finally we exit our seats, done. I breathe easy until the doors open to show a strange group of characters. A large, foreboding presence of a man resembling Santa Claus takes up much of the hallway, all white beard and red clothes and black, daunting tattoos. Beside him is an olive-skinned young woman wearing too bright clothes, reminding me of a bird. A small pudgy man reminds me of Olaf; he wears his gold-colored hair in tufts and his clothes in gold as well. He looks tough. Taking up half of Santa Claus's space is a grey-threaded-haired man, tall, foreboding, intimidating. And in the center of this eclectic bunch is a white-haired boy playing with his carved wooden cane, full of swagger. His smile speaks of arrogance. I don't like it, or that he chooses to wear it.
"Elsa," he says. His white teeth gleam in the light. Too bright. He is perfect in the spotlight. How does he do it? He takes a step back, knocking into Santa Claus, and says, his hand extended, "Meet my team." He points and announces each name, each with amusement and humor. "Nicolas St. North"—"The one and only!" the burly man says proudly—"Tooth Fairy"—"Toothiana, but everyone calls me Tooth! I love teeth! Can I see yours?"—I give her a weak smile. She squeals and says, "So bright and shiny white! Almost as good as yours, Jack!"
Jack laughs an arrogant laugh. I close my mouth shut and press my lips together. I don't need his derogatory assessment of my person. But it is quickly made obvious. I don't like him and he doesn't like me. I am perfectly fine with that. Anyone close to me can get hurt. Keep the enemies far away, not close. At least, for me.
"I don't think anyone's teeth are as good as mine," Jack says.
"Well, you know sometimes you don't brush, Jack," Toothiana points out.
"And yet they're still better than everyone else's," Jack points out.
The pudgy gold-suited man clears his throat and tugs on a string on Jack's hoodie. Jack sees him and grins. "Oh, sorry, Sandy. Elsa, this is Sandy. He keeps me on a tight sleeping schedule," Jack says, amused by his friend.
Silence is left for me to make a comment. Surprised, I clear my throat. "Enough sleep can determine a performance," I say. My small talk is stimulating at most. It isn't very good. I cringe when the last words pass out of my mouth.
"Sandy is very strict about it," Jack says.
"Well, you need enough sleep to have the energy to perform your outlandish tricks. Wouldn't do for ya to doze and slip on your way down from a ballet leap," says the other older man. His accent is dry, Australian. He doesn't seem pleased by Jack's behavior. It's too rude for him.
"And this is the ever impatient kangaroo," Jack says, laughing. "My manager, Mr. Easter Bunny."
"Pleased to meet ya, sweetheart." I shake Bunny's hand without trembling too much. His grip is tight, though, and I quickly use my other hand to tug my glove into place. My constant paranoia about my gloves will be noticed soon. Hopefully I can pass it off as a strange quirk. There is no other explanation I can think of that can explain it well, without revealing the truth. Bunny takes a step back, says pointedly to Jack, "I've seen her performance on video. Kid, you've got competition."
"Really, Bunny?" Jack says, raising an eyebrow. "I thought I was just going to waltz in and they'd hand me the trophy. Now my plans are all ruined. Thanks, man."
Bunny rolls his eyes. "You need to take this seriously, kid, or else you ain't walking away with no trophy."
"I know, Bunny, or haven't you noticed me skating circles around you?" Jack wonders.
"North, would you shut him up before I wring his scrawny little neck?" Bunny asks.
Toothiana looks concerned. I clear my throat to gain their attention, however much I hate taking it. But I must get myself out of this situation. "If you would let us pass, that would be lovely," I say.
The men mutter and move aside. Toothiana gives me an apologetic smile. I pass Jack and he says, leaning in close, "See you on the rink, Elsa."
"See you at the competition, Jack," I say coldly. My eyes keep ahead. I will not give him the attention he thinks he is due. I am not entitled to give him more than he deserves.
My parents are silent as only the three of us escape into a small elevator. I breathe deeply but only allow that. My back rigid, my hands locked into a vice in front of my torso, I fake a smile to the cameras lining the halls to my bedroom. Father quickly opens the brown doors and allows enough space for Mother and I to squeeze through.
I gasp and sink onto the bed's edge. I wiggle my fingers and ache. They're lost, imprisoned in the heat of the gloves. But they want to spread ice everywhere. The icy power is built up in them, and I ache to release that curse, that delicious thrill of spreading beautiful crystals. But it remains hidden away.
I clasp my hands back together as my parents take off their big coats and hats, talking to each other quietly. My father paces the floor, wearing a hole in it, as Anna would say. I straighten and look around the room. This is my and Anna's room. Where is she?
Then I remember how she is with that man. Hans Otsi. One of my competitors.
Oh, the complications between competitors, and I haven't even started practicing yet. Been here only a couple hours and already I can feel the tensions that are produced between me and those I am against. Oh, joy. I need more burdens, obviously.
"That conference was so long," Father says. His figure cuts across the beautiful carpet. I keep my eyes down. I have no words to offer on the subject. He and Mother and I have had long, deep conversations late into the night when I first told them I wanted to do a sport. Something of talent, instead of locking myself away from everyone forever. Somehow I managed to pursue them into letting me actually go out into the world. That was only the first problem. Several compromises were made before any actions were done. Father had to overview my everything. Gloves were to be worn at all times. I had to get dressed and put on my skates hidden from everyone else behind the ice rink.
Father sits next to me. "Elsa," he says. I look at him, meet his eyes. He is my only hope, sometimes. Mother doesn't understand the enormity of the burden or the consequences we could face if my powers leaked through my gloves.
"Yes, Father?" I ask.
"You have done so well so far. I believe that you can make it all the way to the finals, and win," Father says. He glances at my gloves and holds my hands up. My Achilles heel. "Your competitors will put all their time and energy into perfecting their tricks and skating. You have to focus much of your concentration and energy into keeping your powers under control. I know it is a heavy burden, and I want you to know that I am proud of you for keeping up your end of the deal. You have kept your secret a secret through all of your labor-intensive training; you have upheld well under stress. I am proud of you."
Those words are a comfort, a soothing warm cloth on the cold ache of my heart. I can't let them go to my head, though. If I take one moment to relax, an accident can happen in a millisecond that could ruin many lives, including my own. I instead nod my head, say, "Thank you, Father. Without your help and training, I never would have made it this far into the competition."
"You have the heart of a true warrior, Elsa," Father says. "You are strong-willed, self-controlled, unyielding under mountains of pressure." He smiles and pats my troublesome hands.
If he only knew how I struggle. How I curl up in bed at night, covered in the smothering warmth of pillows and blankets that suffocate me, and cry. Cry because my curse is so hard to control. Cry because it takes so much time and energy to keep from flying out into a rage and spreading my ice into the far corners of the world. Cry because it makes me a freak, a recluse, someone who can barely interact with her own sister without worrying that she could freeze her heart.
I smile instead. I won't let any chink, any crack in my glass, appear. I will remain strong, because that is who I am supposed to be.
ELSSSSAAAAAA DARLINGGGGGG. :(
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