Soli Deo gloria
DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own Frozen. Next chapter, guys! :)
~ Elsa's point of view ~
The international banquet is an affair I put off of my mind as quickly and quietly as possible, as to not raise a fuss and my heart rate. I am adept at taking on certain events, abilities, and pressures, for what purpose accorded to me. I wish to not think of the dinner, of Jack's attempt at getting my attention, but mostly of being the center of attention. It was a stressful situation: a thousand things could've gone wrong, triggering my almost uncontrolled secret power. I couldn't enjoy the event as Anna was so clearly doing, for I was too self-possessed and aware to give way to any relaxed frivolity. I saw each person not as a friendly man or woman wishing good greetings, conversation, and light laughter ringed with humor, but as someone I could potentially freeze to death.
I clutched my hands under the table for as much as the duration of the dinner as I could allow. Even inside my lovely gloves, I am not safe. No one is safe. I felt the cold curling in my veins as I'm sure warm red blood runs the lengths of other people's. It never bothered me, how cold it feels, but it bothered me the way that it controlled my thoughts and mind. I could think not of much anything—the food I ate, the things I saw, and the words I exchanged with Anna and my competitor, someone I should not associate with but can only tolerate as my power overwhelms my mind and renders me unable to use common reason to call him away from my younger sister. I am too tied up to get involved emotionally in anything, from this competition to the relationship this Hans is developing with my little sister. The risk is too great.
Even the little out-of-corner-of-eye glances I give them three days later are making my powers surge and concentrate in my hands. I stand in the middle of the ice rink, recovering from a session on core breathing and powerful swoops with a coach my father hired specifically for this competition. Father is not here; he left soon after a two-hour practice to answer phone calls in his hotel room, and talk to Mother. I reassured him that I could keep an eye on Anna, who sits on a cold silver metal bench in the stadium's staircase seating. She's been there for hours, talking with no end to Hans. He skated most of the time, getting in my way most often, as his eyes kept solely attached to Anna and gave him no forethought about the future of his skating path until two seconds before he hit the merciless wall of the ice rink. I skated past him with narrow eyelids, sure he cannot be so much of a threat in the actual competition: he is giving delighted, unsolicited, undivided attention to Anna, which is a curious matter.
I am not one to belittle Anne, but I cannot imagine what about her could capture his attention so. She, as a matter of fact and not of me being critical, is clumsy, stumbles over her words, is immature, and also naive. I do not begrudge her these traits of hers: I love her with them and all, even if she does not notice it, but I know that these traits are of those that only family can love because they love the girl who owns them. No mere stranger of four days ago could be so completely enamored with the frenetic powerhouse of my little sister.
He is a weak man if he is allowing himself to truly be caught up in my little sister and not in the folds of the competition, which I try to solely put my energy and time into. I focus my mind on that, and also in keeping control of my anger and other heightened irrational emotions. Therefore, it is quite grating seeing this man able to not safeguard himself like I have had to do my entire life. I am used to it, yes, but . . . it seems quite envious and childish to admit jealousy, but I possess that feature. All I ever want is to be normal, to not live in constant fear that one ordinary day I can potentially hurt beyond any retrieve a person, even a beloved family member. Just by existing, skating around that ice rink with eyes only for a clumsy redheaded girl, he irritates me for simply possessing the life that seems to come so easily to everyone but me.
I've been cursed since birth. Ever since then I have been on my guard, watching, waiting, for disaster to come. And even now, I know that is my endpoint, and yet I try as I might to stop it from becoming a reality. Fighting fate each day, and look at him—flaunting his easy going nature in my face.
I cannot hold it against him any more than I hold it against anyone else. I cannot fault Anna for being herself, or Mother, or Father. But I hold it against Hans, because he could be me, in another life—a life I'll never have.
I throw my eyes away from Hans, determined to not allow such self-pitying thoughts to overcome my focus, and I skate straight into Jack Frost.
If I had done so intentionally, I could've gotten up with a politely cool apology, and skated away with satisfaction that even my power couldn't pull me away from having. But my running into him in nothing more than an error of navigation and daydreaming on my part, and I feel the true shame of having committed an accident.
Jack untangles from me. "Careful, Ice," he says. I realize he's calling me that and I stare at him with darkened eyelids. However, he ignores completely my icy glare and pulls carefully apart our legs and sharp ice blades. "Like we need a bloody cut, with the first round tomorrow, eh?"
I stare at him in silence and stillness, allowing him to wretch us gently apart, fraying our braid. "I would've thought of all people, you would've been able to keep on your feet and not run into unsuspecting victims," Jack comments as he stands up. His cane has appeared out of nowhere, and he leans against it like a tree he's hugging. His hair and air is light and curious.
It cannot help but feel like he is rubbing it in, especially since I monologued and held against Hans in my mind for not keeping an eye on the path ahead of him.
"Usually I can. I was distracted by my . . . my thoughts," I say, as I control my hands and powers, balance a conversation, and also balance getting up. Without some outside support for my hands to cling to, balancing on my ice skating blades is harder than one would think.
Jack frowns and I allow him, because of my need, to grab my arm and help me to a state of balance. "What you were thinking about must've been pretty important."
His words are quiet and a statement, but I am not going to divulge in any personal details. Instead, I say, "Thank you, but that will be all."
He steps—or slides back—and leans against his cane. His quirky lips slip into a corner smile. "You are so uptight, it's kind of funny," Jack says.
"I am glad you find me amusing," I say coldly. "Now, if you will excuse me." I slide away smoothly, hands hidden beneath the crooks of my shoulders, to the ice stands. I ignore the fervent waving from Anna standing in the stands. I walk onto the rink's edge's floor to one of the benches. The white lights shining down from the top of the rink go out in rows. It's late tonight, and I'm tired. Hours of practicing under my father and my coach combined with Jack Frost does not equal a good time for him to talk to me.
Yet that persistent boy joins me as I sit on the bench and wrestle off these shackles.
"Are you usually like this, or is this attitude reserved for yours truly alone?" Jack Frost wonders.
If I didn't dislike him immensely, I could see that he is flirting.
"You are distracting me when I am trying to practice for a worldwide international competition. It would be much appreciated if you would no longer continue to do so," I say in plain language for his convenience.
"Oh, so you're a competitor?" Jack says. His gangly legs bunch on the bench, his knees up to his cheeks, and he holds onto that cane like a lifeline. He looks amused.
I look at him like he's daft. "Of course. We are in a competition."
Jack's quirky mouth was at smiling again. "Are we competing right now?"
"Excuse me?" I ask, now confused.
"Are you and I competing against each other right now? Are there cameras, timers, referees? Are you sweating under hot lights because you've got to beat my lap time?" Jack asks.
His tone is meant to be teasing, I'm sure, but it's coming off as derogatory.
He's right, but I will not admit that. I stick with silence that comes off as petulant.
"You don't talk much, do you?" Jack questions. I can tell he's finding extreme amusement in this. "Well, according to Bunny, I can keep talking until I say something inappropriate and even making Sandy talk." He leans too close to my ear: "Sandy's on my team, and communicates in sign language. And facial expressions. You know he's mad when he's mad, I'll say."
I refuse to answer him.
"There's Bunny on my team. Yes, his name is Bunny. It's hilarious because he'll look at you serious, like this"—he leans into my face with squinted eyes, the most serious look on his face, and for some reason or another, I don't shove his brilliant blue eyes away from me—"and say, 'I'm the Easter Bunny.'" He adopts an Australian accent when he says this, and keeps his gaze, even squeezing his eyes tighter when it comes to the end.
I cannot help the laugh that bubbles up inside of me. Instead of cold reeling in my hands to be thrown at his face, I find the humor in him, and decide something then and there: it takes too much time and effort, effort that should be concentrated into concentrating on the competition, to stay angry at him. If I instead find him amusing, perhaps he won't come across as so . . . aggravating.
"Don't laugh at me. I am the Easter Bunny," Jack says strictly, sternly, in that same accent.
I hide my mouth in my gloved hands, hiding my infectious giggle.
Jack backs away and smiles quietly to himself as he hugs that wooden shepherd's crook of his. "She's human," he says observantly.
I straight my back and pose. Hands clasped in my lap, ice skates tied together next to me, I allow myself to recompose in a straight proper posture. "I am always human. It's just . . . there's a lot of pressure on me, and I don't divulge in many opportunities in being . . ."
"Not perfect?" Jack guesses.
I purse my lips and don't meet his eyes.
"Ice, that's so boring," Jack says. "Seriously, what's the point of life if you can't actually live it?" He squats on the bench, looking like he's going to spring into a game of leap frog at any second, and says, gesturing with his nice white hands, "On that ice rink, you live. I've seen you. But the second you stop, shhhh!" He sweeps a hand away. "That girl is gone, and replaced with a statue. And believe me, you can't have a fun conversation with a statue, at least not not a one-sided one. Believe me, I've tried."
I stare at him, somewhat perplexed by this boy. He's under a piece of the pressure I am, to live up to expectations and perform well, perfectly and expertly, in the ice rounds. There are kicks, motions, timing, swerving, balance, twisting, pirouetting, tricks, and twirls to remember, like an intricately designed dance to pull off on an unreliable surface, and he knows that. We both have to execute that—yet look at him. Once again, in the time range of ten minutes, I find myself envious of another one of my male competitors.
"I'm just a quiet person," I say.
Jack shakes his head. "You'd like to think that; you're holding back, Ice. That's all you're doing."
"I'm not on the ice, though," I point out.
"And that's why I'm scared. You're going to be hard competition, Ice," Jack says. He smiles, like we're friends.
I think I like that friends' smile.
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