Soli Deo gloria
DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own Frozen.
~ Anna's PoV ~
The past three days have been nothing but heaven. Mom and Dad don't seem angry against my hanging around with Hans; Dad's focused so hard on Elsa he's in the ice rink and in bed, just those two things; Mom knows that Elsa isn't buddy-buddy with me, and is somehow okay with me hanging out with Hans because he fills in several roles Elsa would've if she'd, well, just wanted to: best friend, peer around my age, good listening ear, someone to hang out and laugh with. I've had all those things in adults or even Elsa a bit all my life, but to have them all combined in one person? Awesome!
Not to mention I've got the biggest crush on Hans and I can't hide it; it's too hard. I'm a loud person with my heart on my sleeve; you can pretty much tell my feelings concerning you just by looking at my face. Which is the exact opposite of Elsa, who's apparently playing poker all the time.
He lets me watch him as he practices with his coach, who is, for some reason, called the Duke of Weselton. I think it's pronounced 'Weaseltown'; or maybe that's just what we call him as a joke. It's so nice to be part of a 'we'. For so long it's been 'me', but now I'm half of a 'we'. Hans finds me very humorous, even when I'm not trying to be, or am clumsy and should come across as clumsy. It's nice, to have someone who doesn't mind all my faults and instead plays them off for my benefit.
When Hans isn't earning some spectacular muscles on the ice rink or throwing some weird faces behind Duke's back, we spend a lot of time roaming the entire Lodge's property. We ice skate, we ski, we sled, we toboggan, we snowboard; we build snowmen (it's so nice to have someone who actually wants to build a snowman with you!), throw snowballs against other teams (but never at each other—which is good, because I have terrible, terrible aim), make snow angels, looking up at that clear blue, blue sky. We drink too much hot cocoa (I'm gaining a few pounds, but with the amount of clothes I wear, it doesn't look it!) and spend every second outside our hotel rooms with each other! It's so great, but I feel bad about it sometimes, like when Olaf wants to go watch Elsa's practice and I'm on the other side of the ice rink watching Hans and his wickedly coordinated legs, or when my mom wants to go sit in front of the fire with me and I'm too hot to do so from hours of talking in front of it with Hans. But . . . after this he'll go back to the Southern Isles and I'll go back to being a nobody in Arendelle and it's nice while it lasts, and I don't want to waste a single second of it, because every second counts for something and when it's gone it's gone forever.
Finally, finally, finally, it's the day: THE DAY; the day Elsa's been practicing for for literally years; the day that'll start a series of days: the day of the first ice skating heat (heat—isn't that funny?) I put on my Elsa T-shirt, green pants, and coats (notice the plural there) and go downstairs in the Lodge; off to the ice rink I go! It's a bit yet before everyone has to be ready to watch in the stadium, so I'm going to hunt down Hans first, congratulate him, give him a big pep speech and a punch in the shoulder (wait, is that acting too platonically? Elsa, you're my older sister, I should be able to ask boy advice from you!).
The competitors' entrance to the ice rink is on the other side of the rink from the door entering the rink, so I walk over there, hoping to find Hans there. Instead, it turns out that I'm a bit too early—besides me, there's only one other person in the entire ice rink—Kristoff. He's on that ice lawn mower smoothing the playing field out before the competition—just about finished, too.
So I decide hey, he's the only one here. Might as well talk to him. I wave to get his attention but I think he's voluntarily ignoring me. So I wave harder, call out "KRISTOFF!" loudly. There's no one here for him to be embarrassed in front of, so there's no reason why he shouldn't come over and engage in some civil (hopefully interesting) convo with me.
He just continues smoothing ice out; probably humming under his breath, ignoring me with every fiber of his being; seriously, I'm the loudest thing in here, even louder than that THMMMMMM of the thing he's riding. Honestly, he's being jerky.
Kristoff finally rides over and I breathe in deeply 'cause I am tuckered and outta breath. Like, a lot.
"Hey, Kristoff," I say cheerfully.
"Miss Kingman," he says politely.
"It's—it's Anna, just call me Anna. It's what everybody else calls me," I say to his back, as he keeps walking around the thing. "What are you doing?" I'm really curious now, 'cause he drives it out of the ice rink and down a wide hallway. Is he literally just ignoring me so hard right now? Well, I dunno, so I follow him, determined to not let him just ride away from me.
He takes me outside the rink, through some doors that open with a button—hey, this button is for people in wheelchairs only! A ice mower isn't a wheelchair!—I don't think Kristoff really much cares what everyone else does—whatever. I follow him out into the bright white sun, cloaking my eyes ('cause I kinda need them to see, so having them not suddenly able to blind me is ideal) with my mittened hand. It's pointless, 'cause when I can finally see ten feet in front of me, Kristoff isn't in those ten feet. "Kristoff?" I call, uncertain. Dang, I feel kinda lost, and I'm five feet away from my new daily haunt! I take more steps forward on the trampled snow and call between a tunnel made of mittened hands, "KRISTOFFFFFFFFFF!"
Yeah, I'm pretty sure he can hear me, but he's ignoring me. Yeah, that's gotta be the reason. I laugh and say, "I know what game you're playing, Kristoff; I know you can hear me. Believe me, I would love playing hide-and-seek at like, any other time, but my sister is competing in the Olympics in like, two hours, and I gotta go find her and be her biggest fan. Yay for morale support!"
Still, no answer. Which is weird. Usually I can annoy people so much that they admit defeat and at least ask me politely to my face to go away. Well, it just seems that even Kristoff is too good to do that. I crane my neck around—I will find him. Half of me wants to walk away—two can play the silent leaving-alone-slash-ignoring game. But I want to talk to him, because now I'm curious, and my curiosity will kill me someday, like that one cat in that expression.
Speaking of cats (or at least of cute furry animal pet dears), I discover besides the runs of the ice mower's footwear little circles with more circles attached to them—pawprints. "Kristoff, do you have a cat?" I wonder, but my answer doesn't even have any time for him to avoid speaking it because a big tongue comes and licks warm spit all over my face. It's not Kristoff doing that, though (thank goodness, 'cause that would've been freaky weird)—I pull the animal back, and it's Sven, Kristoff's big grey dog. "Hey, Sven, is it?" I say (I don't know if I say it for conversation's sake or whether I should be worried about my memory at all). I pet him fiercely, 'cause we don't have a dog at home. At all. (I don't see why not—I could really use a companion, but I don't think Dad, ever proper and all, would give in. At all.) BUT HE'S SO FURRY AND FLUFFY AND FRIENDLY MY GOODNESS.
"Don't talk to him like that," Kristoff says.
Wait—Kristoff!
He stands away from us, his mouth twisted in a disgusted snarl. I've been muttering all sorts of baby talk, full of dumbed down hard-sounds and stupid pet names. But hey, Sven's a pet, so it, you know, makes sense!
Normally I'd be a little freaked out that I'd been caught doing something really, really stupid in front of a guy, but Kristoff isn't a guy. Okay, wrong, I lied—he's like the most guyest guy I've ever seen. I saw him pick his nose from across the ice rink once—O-ffensive, UN-acceptable. But like, he's not a guy to be worried about. He isn't Hans, a crush-worthy guy that makes you stand up, flustered, and straighten out your skirts, and discover that heyyyyy, you're tongue-tied, for your convenience! He's too . . . Kristoff-y. Kirstoffensive. HA.
"Hey, Kristoff. Did you hear me calling for you?" I say cheerfully, smiling point-blank.
Sven thumps his tail and smiles at me before flopping his head around and giving Kristoff a look. I assume it's a 'She caught you, bro' look, but then again, I don't think dogs' looks can be translated into straight English.
"Well?" I say.
"Yeah. I did. What did you want to talk to me about? Was it important or can you just not tell me ever?" Kristoff says.
Well, isn't he chatty. Friendliest guy I've ever met.
"I just wanted to say thank you for saving me from falling on the ice rink the other day," I say.
Kristoff's face creases and he scratches it. "Really? I just did what anyone else would've done. Seriously, I couldn't live with myself if I stood there twiddling my thumbs and whistling while you cracked your skull."
"Oooh. Bad mental image," I say, wincing.
"Hey, could've happened," Kristoff says. He pockets his hands and shrugs. "Um. Yeah. You're welcome, I guess." He looks away and I figure wellllll, he doesn't want to talk. So Sven and I face each other and I pet him like I'm scrubbing him down for ticks. "Who's such a good dog? You are, you are!" I say gleefully.
"Okay, just stop," Kristoff says, walking towards us and waving a hand. "Just—don't talk to him like he's a baby. He can understand plain English. Right, buddy?" The two meet eyes and Kristoff says in a funny voice that causes his lips to bunch on one side, "Yeah, Kristoff. I'm not stupidddddd or something." Kristoff straightens and I look at him and realize he's got a weird side too. Cool. Hands on his hips, he says, "See? He can. So we're good now. Sven, c'mon." He waves his hand. "We're leaving."
"Where you going?" I ask, with bad grammar. Sven gives me a sloppy kiss and then troops next to Kristoff. I stand up, brush myself off, and decide that no, I no longer want to be ignored. I scamper after Kristoff, who keeps looking over his shoulder nonchalantly at me, trying to act like I'm not there—you cannot avoid me! When he catches me looking at him looking at me, he instantly turns away. "The run's going on soon. You've seen the competitors; surely you want to watch them actually compete," I say.
"No, actually, I'm good. Go ahead without me," Kristoff says.
His brush-off and sped up step doesn't slow down Sven, and it will not slow down me. I pick up my pace (WOW—ALL THESE CLOTHES ARE HEAVY) and say, "C'mon. It's entertainment, and fun, and the Olympics. Everyone in the world is watching!"
"Except me," Kristoff says.
"Wow, you're so cheerful," I say, almost sarcastic.
"That's what all my friends say," Kristoff says, amused.
I think he might be kidding, but what if he isn't? "Wait, you have friends?" I cannot believe that.
"Okay, not friends. Sven would say that, if he could talk. Oh wait," he says that last bit in Sven's exaggerated voice, giving me a look that makes me fold my arms and give him a look, "he can."
"You realize that's not Sven actually talking?" You know, I think Kristoff might be a little crazy in the head—what if he actually believes that? That would be worrisome.
He avoids the question and looking away, he says, "My family, then, say about the same."
"Your family has to," I say matter-of-factly, feeling smart as I keep pace with him. He makes really big footprints. "My family does it with me. I mean, I'm not exactly at the top of the social ladder either, but they hang out with me. Family does that." My voice fades as I register the lie I'm telling—Elsa doesn't find me cheerful, or someone to hang out with, because she loves me. I'm ninety-two-point-eleven percent sure she loves me, but if you love someone, you want to hang out with them, right?
Well, Elsa's just a conundrum. That's for cert.
"Hmmm," Kristoff says in reply. We round the cold snow path off to the right, to a big shed full of those mowers. In there are snow shovels, a snow plow (IT'S HUGE), hoes, axes, everything you could want for managing the outdoors of the North Pole. I control my absolutely amazed first-impression face and force it into a serious one.
"You prep for the biggest games of the year and you won't watch them?"
"There's the TV," Kristoff says, gesturing to a block of a TV from the '50s. Probably gets reception in black and white.
"But it's live, five minutes away from here!" I say. I slow down to take everything in as he walks around casually, like this is his normal haunt and he's so used to everything. A part of the shed, I realize, is like a cozy outdoor office, with a big pile of hay covered in canvas and tarp and blankets. Rope circles are hung on hooks, and a black pot-bellied stove is in the corner. There's the distinct smell of old coffee coming from an old coffeemaker off in the corner of a dirty tiny counter. A disrumpled bed covered in dark grey dog hairs is in one corner, covered with awful smelling clothes.
"Is this where you live?" I ask.
"Yeah," Kristoff says. He doesn't meet my eyes as he continues putting away equipment. "I room here when there's work here. It was clean and nice when they gave it to me, but it's a bachelor pad, and Sven's messy."
"No, I'm not!" said Sven.
"Yeah, buddy—those are your hairs, not mine," Kristoff corrected him.
"Wow," I say. Then I recover myself—what am I saying?! Focus on the mission beforehand. "Lots of people would kill to have the opportunity to watch the Olympics live," I inform him.
"I hear the legal way is to pay enormous quantities of money when they could simply sit in front of a screen and never leave home" is the smart reply by Mr. Bjorgman.
"This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!" I almost yell.
Kristoff's back to me, but I can tell by the way he sighs and his shoulders slump that his face matches the rest of his mood. He turns to me and says, "Princess, I don't want to go watch it because I am not a people person—I don't like crowds. Excuse me for voluntarily avoiding them."
Oh. He's people-shy. But wait, I've got the perfect solution—I say, "You can sit with me. You don't have to talk to anyone or even acknowledge any of the crowd's existence. You can sit with me and cheer for Elsa—unless you are not pulling for Elsa and are therefore my number-one enemy," I say, ready in a combat stance.
Kristoff takes one look at me and actually smiles. No—I am imposing, and scary, not laughable.
"Says you; your sister is in the Games and yet you spend every spare second you've got with that Otsi guy," Kristoff accuses me.
"Not for lack of trying to spend every spare second with my sister; I've tried in the past, but she likes being on her own"—"Apparently you got her message"—"or else I totally be hanging out with Elsa every second of every day. Most of every day, or else it'd be weird," I say defensively.
"Hey, just leave me alone like you're leaving Elsa alone, and everything will be perfect," Kristoff says. He waves his hands at me, like he's gently shoving me away, and I stand up straight and look at him. "Fine," I say. I walk away from him into a dog sled.
"OW!" I say, rubbing my knee. I turn back to Kristoff and shake a finger at him. Oh, he would look amused. "That hurt, but I will not let on how much," I say sternly.
Kristoff grins—dang, he actually looks kinda cute, with his huge hands lost in his pockets and his eyes looking distractedly at mine. Well, I will not find him cute. I search for something to demand of or yell at him about, and so I demand, "I want a ride in your dog sled."
"Yeah, that's not happening," Kristoff says calmly.
"I think Sven is big enough to pull me," I say. I wave a hand to his grinning, tongue-out-y dog, and say, "if he can pull you, it shouldn't be a problem for him to pull me."
"Just because he has the ability to doesn't mean he will," Kristoff says matter-of-factly.
"Well, I think Sven can decide for himself," I say decidedly.
"Um, no, he can't. He's a dog," Kristoff says. He puts his mittened hand to his chest and says, "I'm the one who decides what he can and cannot do."
Sven's head, meanwhile, is being jerked back and forth like he's being repeatedly slapped on the front cheek. He looks from Kristoff to me and Anna to Kristoff with a look mixed with concern and like he finds this funny and fun.
"If he can talk," I say darkly, 'cause I have the obvious upper-hand here, "then he can decide."
Kristoff shifts in a standoffish stance, and I just might be getting a cool sled ride pulled by a vivacious happy dog, when I hear someone calling out in between pants, "ANNA! ANNNNNNNNA!"
"Olaf." A word and a thought all at once. His voice sounds worried, and now I'm worried—everything that could and would ever go wrong fill my mind—and I have no time for Kristoff and his arguing. I quickly run out of the shed (without slipping—kudos for me) and call, "I'm right here, Olaf!"
Olaf emerges from the direction of the ice rink. He pants and his shoulders sag. "Anna!" he says, waving his stick-y arms in relief. He stops walking and holds up a finger. "Whoa; I'm really out of shape."
"Are you okay, Olaf? What happened?" I ask worriedly. (I chose to ignore that that curious Kristoff and Sven have come up and stopped behind me, waiting for an answer like I am.) I kneel next to him and wait anxiously for him to catch his breath. "What is it, Olaf?" NOW I'M REALLY WORRIED.
"Okay, okay," Olaf says. He straightens and darkens his eyes at that person behind me. "Hello, KRISTOFF," he says pointedly. He shrugs and says, "Whatever," before gripping my shoulders and saying, "Anna, the worst thing that ever could've happened happened."
"What?" I ask.
"Brace yourself, because it is super big and scary and we're all worried and—"
"Would you just tell her already?!" Kristoff says behind me, annoyed.
While I am not supportive of the tone he's taken with Olaf, there is definitely some gratitude to extend to him.
"ELSA IS MISSING!" Olaf doesn't yell, but it has to be said in capital letters, because what he says has such a big impact on me.
Thanks for reading!
