A/N: Still trapped five years earlier...picking up where we left off last chapter.


Days filled with nothing but sea and sky have left Elsa oddly restless, feeling like a caged animal as she stares out the window of her guest chambers at the castle, admiring the Scottish landscape. She has an inexplicit desire to lose herself among snow covered trees…but such longings must be denied. Mostly because those wants and desires also include a fair prince on horseback charging to her side and to save her from herself. And she can't want that. So instead, her guards fall in step behind her as she sets out to work off the anxious tension with fresh air and feet on terra firma.

She's tasked herself with trying to get a sense of who Prince Fergus IV is and the opportunities that Scotland may hold for Arendelle before the opening feast that evening (aside from what her Ambassador has shared). She's passed by many paintings of the Royal House along the guest wing walls, the majority of them red-haired. Evidently the Prince's name is centuries old, named for the Bear King who united Scotland under attacks from the Northern Kingdom - Arendelle being the instigator. Her Ambassador explained that her presence for signing the treaty would be a "symbolic gesture of good will". So her walk is with purpose - but it's mostly just to keep her mind of the fact HE is here.

She rounds a corner, ears perking at the sound of metal clashing with intention, accompanied by deep shouts and boisterous laughter. Her feet follow the noise until she stumbles across a large enclosed garden, a vast open space like a yard with green grass and evergreen hedges lining the walls, ivy climbing to the sky. The afternoon sun has burned through the mist from earlier and brightens the space like lights on a stage, illuminating the players: two men locked in combat with sabres, both with heads aflame with red locks and both bare chested, covered in sweat. A crowd of kilts and naval uniforms shout inappropriate remarks and observations at the warriors as they engage in a dangerous dance with steel and force.

OH MY!

Elsa's eyes blow wide as heart does some sort of awful flip-flop thing that causes euphoria to curl at the base of her spine. She can feel a hot blush booming across her cheeks as her lips part in awe of what she's discovered.

Hans.

He's on-guard as he shouts with calm authority, every syllable carefully controlled as he parries elegantly with strength and thought, "NO! Fergus! Think tactics, timing and adrenaline!"

Elsa is absolutely mesmerized at the sight before her, shamelessly sinking her teeth into her lower lip without thinking as she watches the corded muscles of Hans' broad shoulders and powerful arms as they flex and roll, his hair still longer and tied at the base of his neck, loose hairs escaping with the fight…Hans' precision is absolute perfection; like a strike of lightning he ripostes the goliath in a kilt. Prince Fergus is likely double Hans' weight and a good head taller, yet the Scotsman struggles for control as they spar. He clumsily attempts to deflect the thrust, stumbling with a broad smile and contagious laughter that has Elsa grinning stupidly.

"Aye! Enough of this, Hans! Let's go toss cabers instead for a bottle of your Caribbean rum!" Fergus shouts back with animated arms, irritation exaggerated as he chuckles gregariously.

Hans's grin is sharp and knowing, "I cannot best you in strength, Fergus – that's obvious, and thus I must politely decline." There is an uproar in laughter at Hans as he continues, "So do you yield to the Southern Isles? You're ready to forfeit your seventy-five year old scotch?"

Fergus' booming laughter fills the yard, "What? To you?" His accent thickens as he raises his voice an octave and pretends to flip his hair daintily, "With your lovely flowing locks?" His voice deepens to its natural timbre, filled with a conviction that contradicts his jovial smile, "Never!"

Elsa suddenly chortles, drawing the entire yard's attention to her with deafening silence. The fingertips of her hand cover her lips like a reflex, hiding her surprised gasp and she is mortified.

She's been caught.

Before she can offer her silent prayers for something to fall from the sky and strike her dead, the yard of men begin to bow, kilts dropping to knees and uniforms folding formally in her direction. Words such as, "Your Majesty…" and "My Queen…" quickly fill the still air.

Except from him.

Hans' eyes blow just as wide as hers as delight dances across his features, blushing bright red as her name escapes his lips - she's taken back by how wonderful it sounds. She can't seem to stop her adulterous eyes from lowering momentarily to take in his half-nude form (her subconscious no doubt filing that image away for use in the dark of night when she can't stop it) and her smile suddenly drops.

His left chest is bandaged, wrapped tightly.

He's hurt?

Hans pulls himself to attention after nodding (not really a bow), the glint in his eye telling her he did that on purpose (his quasi-bow), as if he can never seem do as she tells him. Someone throws his shirt to him to shrug on quickly, his posture shifting as he turns back to her. There is a challenge in his eyes as his sabre lowers to rest at his side and his lips twitch, resisting a grin.

Her feet propel her forward into the thick of men, humour lost from her eyes and she stops before Hans, forgetting entirely how she stormed away furiously from him the last time she saw him. He seems to sense her concern, his own gaze begins to search her for clues regarding her worry. She's unable to overt her eyes from his chest of wrapped bandages now hidden by the thick linen of his shirt. "You lied," she whispers deflated as she raises timid fingertips to touch his chest before she can catch herself, curling them tenderly across the fabric of his shirt before dropping her hand quickly.

"I lie about a lot of thing, My Queen. To which are you eluding to?" his voice very soft, reassuring affection twisted in his words. As if he is genuinely comforting her (she'll decide later she can't need that).

For the life of her she can't keep the hushed words from escaping, regardless of how badly she wants them to STOP, "Unharmed. You promised you'd return unharmed."

Confusion flashes as his free hand raises to cover his chest where her fingertips had touched as he leans in, practically a breath away. "This?" he whispers.

Good grief he's daft…No Hans, not the bandaged chest – that's perfectly normal, I'm sure.

Elsa realizes she's just staring now, irritation replacing the concern as she rambles sarcastically in her own head (sarcasm is behaviour unfitting a Queen and she has an audience at the moment, thus she must play the part. It is absolutely not for Hans' benefit she holds her tongue.)

"I explained in my letters," he says gently.

"I received no letters, aside from the one telling me your father had commissioned you to deploy southward."

Hans straightens, his eyes wide and searching her then the space between them as something like realization sets his jaw tightly. "Oh. Of course," he frowns.

Of course?

Hans implores quietly, "May I have some of your time later, to explain properly?"

Elsa is terribly curious and can feel the twist of anticipation in her gut at the intrigue he's presented to her, but she isn't going to let him know that just yet. Not with an audience. She presses her lips flat before she decides with a bored sigh, "Later."


"Later" is difficult to quantify.

Evidently this time, later is after ten days of her patience wearing thin…the occasional heated rhetoric between her and Prince Fergus has left her tightly wound and looking for release. There would absolutely be NO possibly of considering a courtship with Prince Fergus – they can't agree upon a tariff, let alone share a meal without her cringing (she's disgusted by the way he feeds his hunting dogs from his plate, dog tongues lapping up torn bits of meat right off his fingers). And since there would be no appeasing the Arendelle court with a Scottish Prince as a suitor for their Queen, she's determined not to return empty handed, without what she wants for Arendelle put to paper and his signature below hers. And she's been so good, denying herself the luxury of seeking Hans out, to satisfy something she doesn't understand. Because she promised herself "later".

Later is suddenly now, she decides as she exits the dining hall, the sounds of barking hounds growing fainter as her feet carry her towards the guest wing.

He's been scarce during her visit, overseeing final work-ups for getting underway again and confirming that yes, his ship is indeed sea-worthy. She's only caught bits and pieces of stories (she's here for that bull-headed Scotsman and a treaty that she's about ready to rip in half and throw back at him). Evidently there were pirates and battles and him practically sinking his lead ship because, in his words, he was "…too stubborn to back down". She didn't appreciate the pointed stare at her as he said it.

She's suddenly at Hans' door, not remembering how she got there with her hand poised to knock with a flick of her wrist. It's now or never, and she briefly ponders the possibility of never before she realizes she needs to do something so she can stop feeling a breath away from an ice storm. She stares at the door as a pleasant excitement flutters in her stomach, steadying herself to tap knuckles to wood –

"Is it later, My Queen?"

His door is suddenly transformed into a treacherously jagged sheet of ice as adrenaline races, causing her to shriek and whip around to face Hans, clutching her hands protectively to her chest.

It only takes a moment for her mind to process that it's likely he takes pleasure in her loss of control.

Hans is grinning madly at her, childishly giggling as his eyes dart over her head to his door. "I suppose we won't be entering my chambers, My Queen," he sighs as his grin widens, eyes falling back to her as he gently takes one of her hands in between his gloved hands, "I'm terribly sorry, Elsa. I couldn't resist." She stares flatly at him as he continues, "I love your reaction, however."

She opens her mouth to protest, but clicks it shut as she realizes she needs this. Someone safe to fight with. So instead she gives him a hard shove with her free hand, forcing a loud laugh from him as she makes contact with his shoulder.

"Tsk, tsk. Very improper behaviour, Your Majesty," he reprimands while guiding her arm into his as he leads her away. Elsa smiles at the strangely wonderful thought that she sees him as someone safe to fight with, "You do realize, there will be consequences, dear Prince."

"There always are," he says happily as he raises his chin to pass her guards and continue onward down the hall and into a richly appointed study. It is lined with shelves of leather bound tomes and there is a roaring fireplace already ablaze with an oversized davenport centred before it. He leads her to the davenport and releases her, continuing onward to a liquor cabinet in the corner of the room and begins rummaging around before selecting a decanter to pour an amber liquid from into a pair of crystal lowballs. "You've had scotch whiskey before, My Queen?"

Elsa glances over her shoulder at him, "No."

"There is a wonderfully smooth burn to it for the first few sips," he muses, handing her a tumbler. "Cheers."

She stares into the crystal lowball for a moment before raising it to clink, "Cheers."

He watches her intently as she takes a sip from the crystal, she cringes and her voice becomes hoarse, "Whoa – that. Oh. Burn is the right word for it."

He chuckles, "Too strong?"

She likes this. His challenges, the way he treats her as an equal – no one does this.

Except Anna.

And him.

Elsa rolls her eyes at the thought she will have to explain this to Anna and takes another sip, fighting to keep it down and her expression neutral, "No. But I prefer something colder." She conjures an ice snowflake, perfectly proportioned to fit inside the crystal lowball.

His eyes widen, "That's a brilliant idea. May I have one? Any shape you'd like, but I'd prefer a frigate."

She smiles coyly, waving her fingers at his crystal tumbler to conjure a tiny replica of her Royal Flag ship.

The booming melody of his awe fills the room as he becomes mesmerized by the ice ship in his drink, "Even better. Is there a tiny Elsa in there?"

She smirks, "Use your imagination."

He regards her with amusement as he sits at one end of the davenport, motioning for her to be seated, "So you haven't received any of my letters since my deployment?"

"No."

His frown returns as he watches her icy ship in his drink, his silence making her overly aware of the fact she's still standing after he's made himself comfortable (no manners what-so-ever). She take another slip, this time it goes down with less burn and more smooth, so she decides she likes it and sits at the other end of the davenport and waits for him to respond. His eyes flick back to her finally, "Had you written me?"

"No. I tried many times, but I was never able to get onto parchment what I wanted to say. As the weeks went by, I received no further word from you so I assumed you were waiting for me to reply and it became harder and harder until I stopped trying to write. Then Anna's wedding was celebrated and it became impossible."

She sees no point to lying, after all, she's smiled and laughed and touched him all in the last few minutes…not to mention she's siting privately with him imbibing in the daemon spirit, as her Bishop would say.

"Ah," he sighs as he looks at her hands holding her lowball, then to the fire. "She sent me to the Caribbean to control my correspondence with you."

Elsa can feel her brow furrow, "Excuse me? I'm not following."

He smiles without humour as their eyes meet, "My Mother. All letters with a Southern Isles seal are processed through official channels which means it's controlled by the Crown. My parents have never expressed interest with whom I corresponded with in the past. I mean, I assume the content of the letter were screened from time to time, but in general I was seen as relatively benign and subsequently ignored." His jaw clenches before he empties his lowball, leaving her tiny ship without a whiskey sea, "Being so far, letters take months to transit. She knew I was writing you, with no response. It would seem our friendship is a threat to her. Or she has something to gain by interfering."

Elsa is dumbfounded, unsure of how to respond. Unsure how to feel about the friendship or the threat part.

So she take a sip of her drink, staring down into the crystal and watching the snowflake reflect the glittering light from the fire. Silence blooms around them, the faint whine and crackle of the logs in the fire interrupting from time to time and before she realizes it, her lowball is empty and he's refilling it.

She accepts it with a giggle, Hans quirking a questioning eyebrow at her. She smiles, "I can't feel my fingertips."

"Have I ever told you that you're my favourite Queen?" he breathes with a chuckle.

Elsa laughs at that odd confession, "How many do you know personally, besides your Queen Mother and myself?"

He huffs a laugh as he sits back down, this time beside her. His head drops to the back of the davenport as he stares at the ceiling, "Touché." He sighs as he lifts his head, taking a sip and dropping it back, "I revise my previous statement. You're just my favourite."

"Favourite what?"

"Everything." Her eyes dart to him and he's still staring at the ceiling and not at her.

This is something she doesn't want to talk about. Something that feels too intimate and too forbidden and something she wants, so she doesn't. Instead she teases him about his silver tongue and honeyed words.

Eventually she manages, "How were you hurt? Your chest?"

"Self-inflicted," he replies simply, resting his crystal glass to his left chest and dropping his head to the side to look at her.

Her fuzzy mind races after the implications of his word but can't seem to settle on anything or understand his meaning. Dark thoughts surface of a time when she was under such a cloud of depression she believed that Anna and her Kingdom would be better off without her, hopeless and wanting nothing more than to sleep eternally. She would never acted upon it, though. She frowns at the memory as she becomes horrified he would, "Hans, why would do that? Try to take your life?"

He smiles sheepishly as he confesses, "Oh. No, Elsa – nothing like that. I really wish you had received my letters. This was so much less awkward on parchment when I didn't have to see your upset expression."

Her lips pull slightly in something like relief, "I can appreciate the draw to using our letters as confessional, I fear I poured too much of my unfiltered thoughts into my correspondence with you." The scotch hasn't helped – it only seems to lower her inhibitions and push her closer to her instincts of stupid.

He wets his lips with a huff as he takes a short sip of the whiskey. Finally he murmurs, "It isn't an injury, Elsa. It's tattoo that's healing. It's my way of making penance to you and Anna, to serve as a reminder of what I must never become again."

"What?"

Her breath catches as his voice practically caresses over her with his reply, "A snowflake. As best I can remember, your snowflake. A reminder that I once had a hardened, frozen heart and must never…" he pauses as his eyes flutter closed. "I'm sorry. I failed to demonstrate noblesse oblige, or compassion." He wets his lips again and begins again, "Just, I know you forgave me years ago, but I never actually said those words to you or to Anna. I'm so sorry."

Her visit with him in the Arendelle dungeon comes to mind, his confusion regarding her forgiveness then his blasted attempt to flirt with her. Her lips quirk at that, how inappropriate it was and she really should have known better than to get herself in this situation. So she decides to follow suit (Anna will be livid, and Elsa will blame the scotch whiskey).

"Thank you. You are truly too….magnanimous," she purrs seductively.

Hans' eyes fly open with his surprised laughter, causing her to erupt into a fit of much undignified giggles.

Their laughter calms and as Elsa studies his profile she decides the warm buzz of the scotch has loosened her tongue far too much. She's finding it oddly comfortable (and not unsettling) that she's sitting beside the man who once raised a blade to her with the intent of ending her life so he could rule her kingdom, encouraging him to share with her his thoughts, "How did we get to this point, Hans?"

"Once upon a time, there was an ethereally beautiful young Queen with magical powers to control ice and snow, who was truly magnanimous." He cracks opens an eye at her with a smirk as she pokes him hard in his side. "Oh. Is that not what you meant?"

Her lips part with her soft laugh, "I suppose it is." Elsa heart flutters fiercely against her rib cage when Hans stands and offers his hand to her, his gaze intense yet soft as he leans closer watching her lips and she can feel some sort of terribly wonderful desire.

HE'S GOING TO KISS ME.

She feels as if forces of biology pull her to him before she has enough sense to STOP. Elsa stares at her hand in his, eyes startled wide (she doesn't recall placing it in his gloved hand). She whispers, "No." This can't happen. Shame and guilt suddenly tugging at her as she watches Hans' expression shift at the word "NO".

Confusion creses his brow, "No?"

Elsa pulls herself tall and rigid, her voice still a whisper, "No."

"I don't understand."

"No," ghosts from her lips as she wets them again, now staring at his confused smile.

He stand silently for a heartbeat as he regards her, and in that heartbeat understanding sets. His eyes soften again, his voice tipping toward an apology with his smile, "It's late, My Queen. May I escort you to your chambers?"

Okay.

She stands, nodding dumbly as she realizes she can't really feel her toes, either. Hans notices her swaying steps as he guides her around the davenport and chuckles, "Your listing, Your Majesty."

Her mouth quirks, feeling cruel (Anna would approve of cruel and absolutely not approve of amorous) remembering how he found her earlier in the evening, "I'm not sure what you are implying, but I suspect I don't like it. I think I shall leave your door frozen for the night and you can go sleep on your ship. As it lists."

She did.

And he slept on his ship.


Her visit successfully came to a closure, she was never so relieved.

Hans' ship had another week of preparations before getting underway, so he saw her off with a reverent press of his lips to the back her hand. She found herself promising to write and offered excited sentiments regarding the peace summit and war games in the spring. Hans smile was sad and genuine and everything she wanted (but didn't) as she set sail. As Scotland faded away, she returned to her quarters and found on her pillow his letter and a small vial of golden sand.

How?

She left the letter untouched as she sat in the center of her bed, studying the feel of the sand in her hand and imagining him on a beach collecting it.

And wondering what she was going to tell Anna. Or herself.