We do not own "Frozen" nor any of its characters.
"Frozen Again: 'Faith, Hope, and Love"
Act I
Chapter 9
"A Morning of Revelations"
"A-ha! Now I'm talkin'! Who da man?!"
In the wee hours of the morning, Flynn Rider's triumphant whisper can't help but cry out in pride as he, after a long night playing with his locks, finally succeeds in cracking open the final latch of the last difficult deadbolt he'd been tirelessly working on.
There had been seven (Count them!) difficult types of all makes and model of lock—two of which were so old they were nearly rusted out, never mind the three deadbolts that had been clamped on his cell door fully designed to keep the master thief from escaping.
But these boys don't know who they're messing with!
A smug Flynn was so full of it as his excited hands remove the last despicable barrier to his freedom, his arrogance was palpable in the air…
As was that pungent stench, suddenly pervading the entire already none-too-fragrant cell hold.
P-U!
"I wondered how long it would take you."
That insipid smooth voice again! Man, if I didn't have bad luck…How do I get this jerk off my back?! He's everywhere! Like horse puckey!
"So what's the procedure here? Are you gonna sound the alarm? Or are you planning on keeping this cell door between me and my freedom shut—all with your own namby-pamby bare hands, pretty boy. You just got lucky before." Flynn drawls the challenge to the thinner, in his opinion, scrawnier man. After all, he was endowed with big muscles, which he counts on, though his own hands, fingers and wrists were raw, painful and pounding—and had somewhat lost sensation from the hours of being strung up yesterday. (Thanks, pal.) His flexing muscles could still manage a mean left hook to wipe the simper off that guy's face.
And with his freed legs, Flynn powerfully kicks the unlatched cell door open with a smile on his bumptious face.
"Who said I was bare handed?" Prince Hans of the Southern Isles displays his own prowess as his haughty imperiousness rears its magnificent head once his pride in his own abilities was questioned.
For Hans knew every inch of this ship backwards and forwards by now—especially this brig's contents as he ducks into a siding where a secondary cage cell resided near the ramp entrance he came in.
"Hey! I know I'm good but I didn't really expect you to tuck tail and hide, Handsome." Flynn Rider's voice was full of mocking bemusement at this interesting dandy fop of a cabin boy.
"Ooo-kay…That is a BIG sword…"
As he walks out of his cell a free man Flynn loses some of his starting bravado by the end. His normally lowered eyes bulge out when Hans swiftly reemerges from the dark barred cove with a rather dangerous and deadly looking broadsword wielded in his 'namby pamby' bare hands.
"Please return to your captivity, Sir. It is unwise for you to attempt an escape at this time on the open seas. Return to your confinement or I'll be forced to run you through."
Flynn swallows hard as the resoluteness in Hans' voice expertly shows off his proficiency at swordplay by slicing the long blade in throwing in a few practice swings that appeared redundant as he tosses the wide bladed weapon back and forth between his ambidextrous hands.
GULP. Where's a frying pan when you need it?!
"Since I'm truly growing rather tired of cleaning the dirty floors, I'd prefer not to draw your blood here."
The casual way that Hans Westergaard spoke of blood-letting was a bit disturbing to Flynn, who 'preferred' to keep all his blood in his veins—thank you very much.
However, he had a ship to commandeer with a pair of females, a talking snowman, and a color-changing frog—that he was single-handedly responsible for bringing safely back to land.
"Well, I don't do the housekeeping here, so I wouldn't mind spilling yours all over the floor, good lookin'." A mocking, courageous Flynn, having more than a bit of observation skills of his own thieving variety, recalled seeing that one of the metal bars of his cell looked stressed and loose and—
"Urghhh!" With a loud grunt, he utilizes all the strength in his equally half-paralyzed and half-frostbitten arm to rrrrippp that wobbly bar the rest of the way from its cage structure.
"Impressive." Hans gives credit where credit is due. His own cold, calculating eyes widen at this interesting prisoner's singular feat of wrenching one of the iron bars from his cell with his hands alone.
"Yeah…I didn't know I had that in me! Maybe after all these years, Blondie's magic hair powers did give my hands super strength! Who would've thought it?! Hah!" Flynn Rider puffs up with pride as he makes this happy discovery of his newfound manifesting massive strength.
Hans pauses before speaking. His clever mind decided it would be more to his advantage to have his opponent imprudently believe in some 'magic' superpower that didn't really exist. Hans personally knew that particular cell bar was already loose in its mortar base. Some past occupant obviously already put in the time to chip at the mortar holding the bar in place, but failed to finish the job before he was probably a goner.
"Come on, Sideburns! What're you waitin' for?! Bring it!" Flynn, feeling powerful, armed with his long metal bo-staff runs, lunging forward at Hans who deftly sidesteps out of the way of Flynn's first punishing blow.
Clang! Clang!
Iron staff deflects sword. Sword blocks staff.
The two able-bodied men go at it with a vengeance. Hans Westergaard's years of honed fencing and trained sword wielding skills pay off dividends; though Flynn Rider's wild improvisation techniques of attack and bob and weave style give the experienced swordsman a run for his money.
POW! Clang! BANG! Slice~!
Hans' sword comes within millimeters of gashing a serious wound across Flynn's concaved, avoiding chest, as his tight black shirt's sliced tear flips open to reveal his rather hairy and very masculine chest heaving wildly with all the effort.
"Hey! That was my—Ungh!—slickest shirt!" Flynn idly comments as he whacks his bar into thin air, then glances down at his trashed, favorite black shirt peeling off his exposed chest, as if he was not in the middle of hand-to-hand, life in the balance combat.
"If I ever get back home—ugh!—I'll be sure to purchase you a new one. Ungh!" With his natural acerbic wit, Hans smiles. His own normally held back male testosterone levels enjoyed this sparring rematch more than he had imagined he would.
"After all—ugnh—black is the color always worn at funerals—even for a thief." Prince Hans lets his darker side peek out again, as unleashed in their fierce battle, a man's ferocity could not be quenched by mere words anymore.
"Oh, yeah? That is hitting below the belt!" Whack! In synchronization with his choice of words, Flynn uses Hans' diving momentum to spin around from the sword's vicious blade thrust and horizontally hold his long iron bar to hit just the correct spot.
Bam!
Flynn's iron bar, though not swinging with as much force as it was crashed into with precision, connects painfully with Hans' lower torso. The auburn head bends over as he backs off, clutching at his no doubt bruised hipbones with an angered expression on his pained face. His breath comes out ragged and hard.
"You, Sir, are no gentleman…" Feeling this man was his wily equal again, Hans retorts with a grunt, eyes to the top of his skull as he doubles over trying to catch his breath back.
"Well, I never claimed to be! Just a good looking orphan boy with magic fingers!" Flynn answers with a conceited chuckle as he lords over Hans' doubled over form, deciding on how hard he would clobber the guy.
But when he nears, Flynn's precious nose wrinkles in disdain at Hans.
"Ewwww! That smell is on you! What have you been wallowing in, pal?" Flynn covers his nose with the grossed-out question.
"Forgive me. As I stated before, I just came from my most favorite weekly task on this vessel—scraping the extremely full between deck. I merely was going to peer in to enquire of your well-being before changing my work clothes when I caught you escaping." Hans apologizes, as the conscientious neat-freak in him looking rather embarrassed of the dirty and most odorous of his shipboard responsibilities.
But someone had to do the filthy deed and of course the worse chores fell to the paid-for 'slave.'
"Hngh…I'd do more than change my clothes if I were you." Flynn backs away, pinching his offended nose closed.
"Yes, thank you for your kind advice. Could we please get back to our joust?" Hans asks this most exasperating foe.
"Only if you stay downwind." Flynn demands under his breath, still holding his nose with the back of one of his hands.
"Then, the advantage is mine." Hans swiftly takes this opportunity of Flynn's single hand holding his iron bar, to suddenly make a grab for the metal with both of his own capable hands, after he sheathes his sword in his belt.
With determined resolve to win, Hans capitalizes at Flynn's shock to his quick, underhanded actions unbefitting a proper sword match. While the two men vie for control of the struggle, Hans' energized, sinewy arm muscles bristle in raised pumping veins, forcing the larger man backwards to trip and crash into a remote area of the bilge.
Flynn's head bashes into a solid steel wall. It smarted, but he was actually knocked out cold, as his luck would have it, by the heavy metal staff they'd been fighting over clunking down on his poor noggin for good measure as his dazed body sinks to the ground.
"It's not time for you to show your hand, Rider. Believe me, I know. This pirate Captain Houtebeen possesses a cache of many weapons onboard this ship—too many deadly firearms that have become his pride and joy in his dwindling years. Both he and Job are expert marksmen. You wouldn't stand a chance against a lead bullet for all your deft skills of maneuvering and thievery." Hans speaks in respected deference, not knowing if the semi-conscious man was understanding his recommended advice of non-aggression until the right moment.
"If I were you, I'd wait until we were docked to make my move. At sea, this pirate has the advantage. On land, we may just be able to outwit him—once his intent us revealed in his weakness- lust for greed."
An astute strategist in his clever brilliance, sagacious Hans finishes dragging the heavier man back into his cell, then relocking each of the locks that Flynn had so tirelessly slaved over to open. He even reapplies the handcuffs to Flynn's wrists again to ensure his wily digits could not master the locks again so quickly.
"We only have a few days left of ocean travel, if I correctly perceive the ship's course settings. You should be able to have these sorted out by then. So, don't try anything rash again to alert the Captain of your betrayal as his henchman—for the sake of the ladies—err, lady—please." Hans leaves the now completely secured cage. Though uncertain of Flynn's ability to hear his shrewd pointers, he had ascertained with his keen periphery that there was an audience to which his voice grew to a louder volume would hear, and who might have more pull than he in convincing this sly thief in the wisdom of his warning.
"I leave you now, to go and bathe—as per your advice. Good day, Sir." Hans pauses as he returns his sword and sheath to its rightful owner (another skeletal former prisoner) to make a clipped bow to the man who had nearly bested him again.
Hans had never felt so equaled by any other man than this Flynn Rider in artful cleverness.
"Be therefore as cunning as serpents, and as gentle as doves."
The phrase of Christ-like wisdom stabilizes Hans' stalwart heart and mind.
Now Elsa, who had been calm and composed all morning, after she had helped the breakfast meal to be prepared and her dishwashing completed, had sat in Hans'—now their shared—sleeping chamber, (the very combination of words gave her goosebumps yet) to gaze about at what Prince Hans had been subjected to for these past two years.
In the morning's daylight, the surroundings of his small, galley cabin had a more quaint, cozy atmosphere than the dark claustrophobic mystery it retained at night.
She walks over to touch each of the items there with a delicate finger on the small table that served as his wash basin stand. A crude bar of soap, that shaving knife and those small towels were all carefully arrayed and neatly stacked as they were awaiting her this morning when she had awakened to find Hans already busy cooking at the stove.
Upon walking out into the kitchen, she almost felt domesticated to find him there, yet again harmonizing a pleasant tune. She even almost joined in with his singing but the shy reserved side of her held back.
Looking around now, there was another littler night stand piece made of a thick wicker type basket material at the head of the bed she had slept shockingly soundly upon last night.
And not a trace of the dreams either…How puzzling…
As she was in passing thought, Elsa's eyes catch sight of a bit of yellow paper with some small printed words transcribed upon it, peeking out from some of the basket's weaves beneath the candle in its wax holder.
Though she knew she shouldn't pry into someone else's business—her dear mother had taught her better etiquette than that—Elsa still felt compelled to open the basket to see what was hidden inside.
Slowly, cautiously, regardfully, Elsa picks up the candlestick with her left hand and lifts the basket's lid with her right. Her gaze was surprised to see the multitude of pieces of paper, most of which were torn and uneven scraps that appeared to be folded and battered as if read over and over, then crunched in a pocket or leaned on a food stained kitchen pot or pan numerous times each.
Gingerly delicate, Elsa chooses one paper shred with particularly neat handwriting to peruse with a guilty bitten lip, as she secretly desires to discover the mystery to her who was Hans Westergaard.
"'Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth where moth and rust do corrupt and where thieves break through and steal. But lay up for yourselves treasures in Heaven where neither can be corrupted or stolen. For where you treasure is, there will your heart be also. - Matthew 6: 19-21'"
Elsa quickly grabs up another scrap and reads to herself in a whisper. "Come unto Me all ye that labor and are heavy-laden and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn of Me; for I am meek and lowly in heart and ye shall find rest in all your souls. - Matthew 11: 28-29."
And once more, her eyes dart across the small, uneven scribbled missives written all in the same hand.
"Whoever wants to be great must be your servant first; and whoever of you is a servant must be a slave to all. For even the Son of Man comes not as a master, but as a servant—to give His life for a ransom to many. – Mark 10: 43-45"
The unmistakable penmanship was the same as that on the note she'd read yesterday that said 'Everything I have is yours.' By now, tears were biting right behind Elsa's beautiful eyes as she realizes the voice of the Bible's wisdom showed there was truly beauty in Hans' soul amidst the torment, and he was reaching, through the Word for God's guidance—guidance, path and forgiveness.
Elsa reaches her hand in the basket for another crumpled text. "If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves and the truth is not in us. If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive our sins—to cleanse us from all unrighteousness."
Elsa's eyes were opening to a new aspect of Hans that she had not known existed. It was one that she found, to say the least, admirable, as she reads his written words obviously jotted down from memory that looked so worn and tattered with food stains and dirt splattered across each of the no-longer white papers that it could be seen he had pored over each many times on his long, lonely penitent journey.
"So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary but what is unseen is eternal.' 2 Corinthians 4:8"
Elsa pauses here to consider.
Prince Hans, you found solace and forgiveness in the same place I did…Is this part of why I feel so connected to you? We have both been searching alone for so long—but do I see something more in those pleading eyes of yours in my dreams…?
"Queen Elsa? Are you in the kitchen?" Hans' voice breaks through her circumspective inner thoughts. A guilt-ridden Elsa, feeling prevaricatively indiscreet at peeping through his private affairsuninvited, quickly gathers all of the papers from her lap and shoves them (Forgive me, Lord) back into the wicker basket used for a nightstand.
She glances about wildly, looking for the candle to sit on top again as it was, but in her haste she knocks it over on its side.
"Yes! I've been here cleaning up!" Elsa tries to hide her breathless rush back to the kitchen's cutting table. The reserved, shy little girl in her was still afraid to be caught doing what she was not supposed to be doing.
She was telling the truth, after all. She had been in the kitchen cleaning.
"Oh, I thank you for that. May I impose on your kind nature a bit more and ask you to…Fetch a rutabaga from the further back larder box where it's kept? And then chop it up finely…please?" Hans' normally steady voice sounded a tad perturbed as it cracks, emanating from somewhere outside the galley entrance.
"Certainly…" Elsa answers, confused. He had shown her earlier where the winter vegetables were kept, buried deep in a thick wooden box, stored behind the stove and cutting board, in the dark, to retain their freshness.
She just wondered why he was not actually visible as he was speaking to her.
Oh, well…
In his apron, in his oversized shirt, she kneels down, quite unsuitably for a queen, on all fours, as she had seen him do, to pry open the somewhat heavy wooden lid—
Whoosh!
What was that?
Elsa's tense mind mildly notes, then dismisses the gust of breeze she felt vaguely blow across her bent over brow. She was having enough trouble distinguishing which rooty vegetable was which (a Queen wasn't normally trained to know raw veggies by name). She was distressed to find that he couldn't tell a rutabaga from a radish.
"Prince Hans?" Elsa stands up and dusts her apron, holding two brownish, bulbous roots, one in each hand. She wanted to ask him which vegetable he was requesting before she cut up the wrong precious commodity on a ship. Or if she got either right at all.
But upon a glance about the kitchen and not seeing him returned, she quite innocently strides into the bedroom—err, sleeping chamber—becoming more acclimated to just waltzing in and out and just seeing him here and there.
But not like this.
The modest young girl in Elsa verbally squeaks aloud upon entering the small room. For even in the dim lighting, she could clearly make out Hans' basic silhouette form from the backside.
And he was not wearing much yet on it—save for his tall, trademarked pair of black boots and a towel slung over his shoulders.
"Ohh! Please pardon me." Elsa just about can excuse herself as her wide, ashamed eyes soak in every slender line and well defined toned muscle perfectly intersecting along the curving arch of his gorgeous back—all the way down to the incredibly tight flats of his divine thighs.
"—Elsa!" He calls out after her retreat.
"Err, Queen Elsa! I should've dressed more in haste. I am so sorry you had to see that! I just expected you to take longer in cutting up that—" Still pulling on his billowy white shirt over his open chest, his pants firmly on, Hans comes into the connected kitchen to find his blamelessly, faultless, innocent and untainted angel named Elsa—
—had taken to her wings and flown the coop.