"Remember, she was made of
bravery and resilience. Women like
her will survive the storms that
raged before her... even the ones
she named after you."

..

Sarah Jean Bowers

Clasped hands, tightly wounded fingers, knuckles painted in crimson, face devoid of any trace of emotion, of expression. Stoicism was a colour she often wore as she aligned her spine against the backrest, straight as a pin, chin held high, thighs pressed together and legs crossed at the ankles. Her sapphirine eyes were crystal cut and defined sharply; a deep trench no one dared to discover its fathoms in fear of being swallowed whole, and not being able to resurface. A single tendril of the lightest flaxen mane hovered above one pale brow as she coerced herself to stay calm and to pocket the anger she had felt for the doubt the council have positioned at her feet.

Conceal, don't feel.

A mantra that had always worked, a talisman despite her choice to embrace what she was, who she truly was. She knew what she was capable of, and knew that it was vital to take precautionary steps, especially when in the presence of a council that had proposed nothing but questions of her commands. She supposed she needed better people for the job as most of them had burned out, and had done nothing but stick to traditions and superstitions that hadn't aided Arendelle in the most favourable way. It was a downfall, and the kingdom had been fortunate she had been able to push through their barriers.

Arendelle thrived, despite it all. A flourishing kingdom in the hands of a young maiden who knew more than just to weave ice and snow out of nothing. A kingdom monarchs lusted for, and had seen as a threat economically and politically; something she'd taken pride in despite the second guessing, something that had always protected her from the advances of the lords before her. Question her as they may, the status of the kingdom prevented them from doing anything but retaliate; she believed that it was the question of sexuality that had them held to their throats. A queen never reigned alone as tradition had always put it. Marriage before the crown; settlement between kingdoms had been a must. They wanted a king, but Elsa had been fortunate when Larvik's prince had chosen to sever the engagement and marry on his free will. It caused quite an uproar when the letter had been received and read, though nothing was to be rectified as the alliance between the two kingdoms was still in place, if not strengthened. But of course, this had been none of their concerns as they grieved over a decision that they believed she could have stopped, holding it as a grudge they dared to scar her with whenever they had the chance.

"Gentlemen," her voice had been as calm as the waves of the fjord, but held a certain depth that boasted authority. Her blue eyes flickered towards the members of the council, the lords that served her father — Lord Mallory and Lord Fredrik, the kindest and the only few that supported, if not agreed with, her decisions — and those that had been endorsed by Trødonheim and Stålvanger — Lords Andreas, Verøn, and Lars, the majority that dared push her buttons every step of the way.

The men had stated their pleasantries, in unison giving her the banal statement of the morn before proceeding to hush and to divert expectant eyes over at the monarch. She considered adding three members to even out the count as she thought of endorsing younger men who'd seen an adequate amount of the world, and who knew past the traditions held dear by the others.

"I understand I've caused such a panic yesterday. You had every right to meet in discreet," she paused as she gave them a glance, sapphirine hues ever so sharp as she studied every man present. "I also admit that my decision had been rather emotional for I have decided as a woman before a queen."

An apology was about to clamber out of Lord Fredrik's mouth, but this she had dismissed with a simple raise of a hand.

"Gentlemen, I am aware of the consequences of what my decision would entail. While a war would be unnecessary, I would like to remind you of the fleet that we possess and of the alliances we had been able to strengthen in both military and economic. We are stronger than the Isles, and I do believe that His Highness, King Klaus would be smart enough not to wage a war against a kingdom that'd usurp them in a blink of an eye.

If the economy is the problem that dared crease your foreheads, I would also like to remind you of how their numbers pale in comparison to ours. The Isles simply provides us with lumber and threads. Lumber can easily be found elsewhere, and with what I gather, iron is most preferred in the age of industrial progression. Threads are the main export in Fjorø and Corona; I'm reminded that both of my cousins reign in both kingdoms, to our advantage.

Gentlemen, I hope the meeting you held last night wasn't about your concerns about the aforementioned consequences, but about a potential charge for treason." The queen paused, tilted her head as one pale brow had been raised, asking a question that needn't to be mentioned.

"You are aware that as queen, I have been raised as an heir to the throne, faced books older than you are, and conversed with men my senior. I spent my days and nights by my father's side, taking notes even after the kingdom decided that it was best to resort to isolation. While you may have advised great kings and queens before I've had come of age, your opinions and suggestions fall second to mine. You are here to advice and support me, and you have not. You've disappointed me with talk of tradition and by making it a point that I do not fit in this position.

Therefore, I have considered of adding three more members into the council. Men who know what's out there, and know that traditions falls behind what must be done in order to prevail. I've toyed with the idea of replacing most of you, or simply ridding myself of a council, but that may be so bold and I sense that you would talk — not that I am naïve to believe that you wouldn't do so after this as I have put you in certain circumstances. I am the deciding vote." She straightened her back, unclasped her hands and smoothed her palms on her lap.

The men stared, some gaped as they tried to muster up the words to oppose her.

"And to address your concerns about the decision I've made, I will not wage a war against the Isles and would accept both brothers in my kingdom.

If that is all, then the meeting is adjourned. You do have a great day, gentlemen. If you'll excuse me."

The queen stood with grace, letting a smile slip past her lips in a manner of respect before turning her back and leaving the lords to process what had transpired in the hour.

In the afternoon when the softness had become a sharp blue, and clouds cleared the path for the sun, the queen had found solace in the gardens, surrounded by flowers blooming in abundance and trees that shadowed those below them. She sat by a bench, thumbing a petunia on her lap, sapphirine eyes trained elsewhere, out of focus as she listened to the whistle of the wind and the distant clamour of the stewards that went about the palace.

There was tension that had settled on the planes of her shoulders, far greater than what she usually had experienced on a daily basis serving as queen of Arendelle. The gravity pressing her further that had forced her mood to plummet, endorsing anger and frustration into her bloodstream. Though she had usually spoken her mind, what had transpired in her study was something she had frowned upon. At certain times, she'd have to put her foot down, but how she had addressed them seemed to have gone out of hand. She had meant to inform them about her decisions, but having confirmed her suspicions that they had more than doubted her, a fire was kindled, and that flame devoured gentleness when she had laid her eyes upon the sources of whispered words.

An exhale was let out; an exhale made out of frustration and exhaustion of having to deal with the same surmount of problems once more. The council had done nothing, but question her motives, intellectual suggestions thrown out the window as they raised speculative brows every time she opened her mouth.

She wondered how her father had dealt with this.

Her gaze had fallen onto the lone flower she held, noticing that it had taken up a hue different from what it had originally been. She mentally chided herself for letting her capabilities get the best of her, for unconsciously letting the ice capture something so delicate and ruin it. It was clear that she was bothered, and she was beyond the edge to retract her steps.

Toying the petal, she skimmed the pad of her thumb over the frost that ate away the petunia's warmth. The ray of different colours exuded by the combination of sunlight and ice eliciting awe and a smile upon her features, calming her even for a second. She wondered if it would get worse when the man would step foot on her shores, when she would finally become face to face with the person who dared to take her life and her sister's, the person who had the audacity to write to her. Would control be far-fetched? Would she have to retreat to her castle that sat at the top of the North Mountain? Would he be able to penetrate her walls and take her down?

She didn't have an answer for it, and before she could ever come to a certainty, she'd caught a figure through her periphery. The queen tilted her head, shifting to slightly face the man that belonged to her council, a man she could tolerate.

"Lord Mallory," she stated, a brow slightly raised as a ghost of a smile had encompassed her lips. "What can I do for you?"

He returned the gesture, the corners of his lips disappearing into the salt-and-pepper moustache, creases settling by the apples of his face. "Your Grace, may I join you?" He inquired, beckoning to the space by her side.

She nodded, permitting him to invade her time alone. "Does this have to do with the prince of the Southern Isles? Should you wish to know what punishment I have for him?" She allowed herself to incline an eyebrow, tilting her head as she covered a hand over the frosted petunia by her lap.

"Ah, I'm not here for politics, Your Grace." He replied as he settled in the seat, body turned to the side, verdant hues seeking the queen's.

"Then enlighten me why of all places had you chosen this certain spot in the gardens." It was posed as a statement, but there was a certain intonation that demanded an answer from the lord.

"Your father would be so proud of you." He supplied as his features had softened, and the exchange had diverted into an exchange between a surrogate uncle and a niece. "I know the council has put quite a pressure onto you, and I apologize on their behalf, but I want you to know that you are on the right path; don't let their doubts dissuade you from doing what you think is right."

The queen's features had softened and she'd let her gaze fall onto her lap, letting out a sigh. "Thank you," she replied, glancing back at the elder. "I... Did my father... How had he handled this with such finesse?"

Colour settled upon her usual pallid, highlighting Her Majesty's cheeks. In the presence of a man closest to her father, she felt much her age as though the weight of the world on her shoulders had faded into dust; and she was a mere princess with much to learn.

There was softness and fondness, one he had spared for both monarchs whenever he had the chance to be around them in the shortest of time. "Just like you have." He placed a hand on her shoulder, giving it a gentle and comforting squeeze before dropping it to his lap. "You are you father's daughter."

Elsa had smiled, her gaze dropping once more to the exposed petunia, picking at its petals and watching dusts of frost fall from where it had clung.

"So they tell me," she replied, at peace with it, knowing she's given her father pride even if he wasn't there to see it for himself. "Do you ever miss it, Fjorø? You've been here for too long; Arya must miss you." A change of topic, one she had always opened whenever they delved into this kind of conversation.

His shoulders rose and fell in a shrug as he cast his glance over at the bushes, finding interest in a lone squirrel. "We exchange letters routinely." He told her, a small smile flitting across his lips before he turned to the queen with amusement glinting in those verdant eyes. "Say, is this your way of trying to get rid of me?"

A chuckle had been emitted and she had shaken her head so as to deny it before thanking him for supporting her like a father would have a daughter. Later, they parted ways; the lord walking back to his section of the castle and the queen disappearing in the depth of her room.

When the sun had finally plummeted in its place behind the clouds and the moon had risen to illuminate the starkness that replaced the blue, the queen had found herself kneeling by the side of her bed, head tucked underneath as she crouched to the level of its gape. There was a lamp that sat beside her as she squinted her eyes, scanning through the space before her, trying to make out the jewelry box she'd hid from herself. She'd thought of circumstances such as this, but never really had imagined doing it as she had often been taunted by impulse. She only reached for it whenever she had to stack another letter to the number within its fathoms. What possessed her, it was completely lost to the queen.

Perhaps, she'd been compelled to read at least one of them to be able to assess the character that would grace her with his presence in two weeks time. To be able to appease the demons from her past, to forgive or to understand why he'd refused to apologize but went ahead with bombarding her letter after letter in routine; never failing to write in such length, often sending her with a thickness she never allowed herself to open until now.

She wanted to get to know the devil that swung his sword above her head; the fiend who humiliated her sister, and deteriorated her spirit of hope; the husk of a man she'd spoken to in the dungeons, and the sly snake that slithered when she had turned her back. Despite the disgust she had felt for him, there was still confusion that settled within her, that had made her wonder how can a man be so malleable. How can a man be so easily persuaded with what had surrounded him? She wanted to know the mechanics of his game before he'd set foot on her shores, and dare her to play a piece. She didn't want to be bested, not when he almost had, not again.

For Anna. For the people. For a peace of mind.

The pads of her fingers skimmed a slightly coarse object, the ridges of jewels adorned on its body accumulating little dust, clinging onto her skin like leather. She pulled the box closer to her, taking her head out from underneath, letting the sheets fall beside before settling onto her calves. She'd set the purple encasement on her lap, exhaling, closing her eyes as she'd tried to soothe her nerves, feeling the ice at the tips of her fingers.

Conceal, don't feel.

A shaky breath had been elicited and the temperature had dropped gradually, much to her displeasure. Carefully, she had lifted the cover, simultaneously fluttering her eyes open, blue meeting the purple and gold grandeur of what held his musings. What welcomed her had been perfectly stacked letters of beige, held together with a red ribbon, so vibrant it stood out even at the faintest of lights. The queen had undone the tie, freeing what had been held for so long, a confirmation that she was finally doing it, finally allowing herself to be acquainted with the thoughts of a man who almost robbed her sister's life, and hers.

She had reached out from the bottom, taking it out and into the open, ridding it off its confinement for her to see, to venture on its words. Another exhale had been let out as she then had cast a glance at the door before letting it fall onto the thick envelope she had held. Freeing the contents with a letter opener, she then had reminded herself that this was nothing short of prodding on old wounds that took too long to heal, and too shallow to be even considered as such.

Her Grace, Queen Elsa of Arendelle,

The death of a beloved had urged me to address you in this sense; the audacity being filtered by the sorrow of someone's passing. Your Majesty, I am not here for your pity, rather for the entertainment while I am at my wits end, having to spent most of my days in the royal stables and in the shelter of a cell within another bastille — a labyrinth, as I'd like to call it to make it more dramatic. An urge to entertain thyself (do I have a chance to be considered a poet such as Shakespeare and Maslow?) underneath the glare of a distant lamp hung outside these bars that confine me.

Letters are intimate, as said by those that sheltered themselves in the naïveté of books that illusion reality, creating a sense of sparkle — a fairytale, a happy ending for the souls that suffer. In this sense, perhaps you had been expecting an apology. Your Majesty, I do not wish to be so brusque or rude, but I will not be apologozing for the actions I have done. I do not regret it, nor would I ever do so in the distant future, and that would harbour insincerity, something I'm not proud of despite myself. And so, defeats the purpose of letters as intimacy is out of the question, and this was simply done to quell my thirst of having to converse with someone, or rather, write to.

When I had been young, I had always longed for a friend through correspondence (we are not the slightest of friends considering the circumstances of how we met and had left each other's lives, but this is the closest I could get), having grown up in a place sans companionship that bordered pleasant and friendly. I envied my brothers then, those who had been graced to have as such as they were betrothed to princesses from the farthest of countries. Being the thirteenth son, I didn't have such privilege. Perhaps, you've had, but I doubt it, Arendelle tending to break tradition, betrothal a concept so foreign. And if your kingdom had honoured such a thing, perhaps we may have been betrothed, and things might have end ed differently; garnering love that we have been deprived of, and quite possibly saving ourselves from our own kind of destruction. Becoming better people, especially I as you seem to have excelled in that despite the circumstances.

I applaud you, admire you, though I loathe you. You are the epitome of perfection; something seeming so pure that makes me want to taint, to bend. A part of me wished that I shouldn't have stopped you from the murder you were about to commit and to unfurl you from the layers of a saint. It would have been easier to kill you, but I had been too keen on preserving the purity you held, or the sense of it. Or maybe I had wanted to see the glint of rage in those blue eyes, and the hesitation you had exuded when I had spoken. I saw myself in you; a reflection of who I am, though you seemed to be a better version. A version of myself I wish to have had before I've miscalculated, and had let greed ruin what I had in mind. If I would have persisted being the man I had posed myself to be, perhaps I would have brought you back to your kingdom with a promise of courtship, and the opportunity to become a consort. Perhaps, I would have been like you.

You are strong. When you entered the royal court in the Southern Isles with your chin raised high, and hands clasped on the forefront, I've seen no trace of fear within you. You've spoken in such a great sense and power that I had chided myself for not even trying to pursue you as I had initially planned. I have to blame Anna for that. It was admirable, and it made me resent you, especially when you had declined the offer of sentencing me to my demise.

Why?

You aren't as good as people perceive you to be; true you have isolated yourself to protect your sister, but you have a flame within you, a certain madness only I can attest to. We both know redemption is out of the question, yet you answered in such a way that made you crumble into a fidgeting fool; a woman with uncertainty and pity clouding her judgment. You confuse me. You could have had my head, but you had reasoned out that it wasn't how your parents had raised you; you almost killed men who would have done the same thing as I, yet you denied the opportunity to have mine. A spectacle, that is what you are. I'd be a fool to expect an answer as you thrive in becoming a mystery; a woman with hidden agendas, much in comparison to myself.

Respectfully,
Hans Westergaard

A glower had been spared to the collection of letters within the encasement, frost being sewn onto the one she had held. A scowl had settled onto her features as she had been served questions she had long ago left unanswered, fueling the uncertainty she had within back when she had made a decision, back when she had acted on an impulse.

She had placed the compilation back as they were, sliding the envelope beneath the stack, and retying the ribbon. She glanced at the gape of her bed, deciding for a moment before she had closed the lid and stood with the box nestled in the coldness of her palms. She placed it on her boudoir before she could even think of feeding it to the flames of her hearth. Needless to say, curiosity had the queen held to the throat, and she hadn't had the slightest of pleasant feelings towards such.

I honestly appreciated the feedback I received the previous chapter, thank you! Reviews mean a lot to me; it helps me stay motivated, and helps me determine if readers like where the story is going. Any kind is acceptable, so if you have the time to leave me a review, please do so. I'd really appreciate it.

I wasn't supposed to write the part with the other Lord, but perhaps, I wanted to expand Elsa' s acquaintances or friends. I don't want her or Anna to be only confined with the Corona monarchs, and with Kai and Gerda. And I suppose that section of the chapter shows what's inside that hardened shell.

As for the first letter Elsa received from Hans, it's a confirmation that he has no interest in apologizing, and isn't the least interested in feeling remorse. Perhaps, the remorse he'd ever feel would have been towards the fact that he's chosen Anna instead of Elsa as stated in the previous chapter. Comparisons would come normal in his letters as he often feels as though Elsa and he are the same. This is inspired by a tumblr text post by lisuli79, explaining why Hans isn't the best character in the movie and why his sociopath-ic ways isn't something to be romanticized. Hans strikes me as a character who wouldn't regret his actions, rather the miscalculations he had made; needless to say, he's someone who'd do it all over again, only differently to get what he wants. And he thinks, there's a version of himself in her that could have been achieved if he had what she had.

This has become a long author's note, but I felt like I had to explain. Happy reading!