Author's Note: Another short installment for you all to hold you over until the longer, penultimate chapter. And in reply to a reader question from the last part: the final, italicized sentence was originally spoken by Hans in Part VII, and the repetition of it in the last chapter took place solely in Elsa's mind. Hope that clears things up!
Three days.
The thought made her skin run even colder than usual.
Just three days until we're out there, hanging from the gallows.
She imagined his body hanging limply from the rope, the long drop having broken his neck, and his grey face staring out emptily into the square below.
For some reason, it was easier to imagine him there than herself.
"Don't eat that . . . garbage they brought today," he said suddenly, cutting through the silence. "It stinks of rotting meat."
The smell hit her as soon as he'd described it, and she shuddered. Coupled with the gruesome picture her mind had just drawn, it made her feel intensely unwell.
"Just push it towards the far corner of the cell," he instructed her softly, as if sensing her disgust. "It doesn't get rid of the smell completely, but . . . it's better than nothing."
She stood shakily to her feet and covered her nose and mouth as she made her way to the tray of food. Seeing the raw piece of meat—flies swarming around it and white spots of mold growing in various places upon its surface—made her feel even worse.
Still, she did as he'd suggested, pushing it with her foot until it was safely tucked into the corner of the cell. Once this was accomplished (and this was no small feat), she returned quickly to the opposite side of the room, sitting down again by the grate.
"Thank you," she said, though she found it difficult to get out even that simple phrase as nausea lingered in her throat.
"The sick feeling should pass soon," he assured her, and she closed her eyes tightly, her skin still pale. "Just breathe as normally as you can until then, all right?"
She nodded even though she knew he couldn't see the gesture, and she tried to follow his instructions, her lips trembling as she steadied her breathing.
In. Out. In . . . and out again.
It probably took her longer, she mused, than it had taken Hans; but all the same, after fifteen minutes of repeating this simple exercise, she managed to calm herself down again, and her face returned to a healthier pallor.
Or maybe I just got used to the stench.
She sniffed the air again, and her nose wrinkled in revulsion.
No—definitely not.
"You feeling better?" he asked.
She breathed out slowly, and answered: "Yes, I'm better now."
He sounded relieved. "I'm glad to hear that." He added, after a moment: "I was getting worried."
She smiled, though her mouth felt too stifled by the putrid air in the room for it to be genuine.
"I know."
The quiet following this remark was remarkably peaceful; she supposed that, in the four days since their initial imprisonment, they had become accustomed to these long pauses, and even learned to enjoy them somewhat.
It's not as if we have much of a choice.
It was difficult to find opportunities to speak through the grate, though they tried as often as possible. She was thankful, at least, that the two men who came to watch their cells at night often simply fell asleep at their posts, leaving her and Hans to talk all through the evening and into the early morning hours when the guards finally rotated shifts again.
These clandestine conversations in the darkness had become something of a strange thrill for her, and she awaited nightfall eagerly. Even knowing, all the while, that they were destined for the noose didn't detract from the pleasure she derived out of these discussions.
In some ways, it made them even more precious to her as the days leading up to their deaths dwindled away.
It wasn't as though they even spoke of anything particularly significant or interesting, most of the time—rather, they reflected a little upon their childhoods, the books they had read, and art and music they enjoyed. All of them served as effective distractions—or "time-killers," as Anna used to say—from the darkness closing in on them day by day.
But it's not enough, is it?
There remained a gnawing sensation at the pit of her stomach, like vines creeping up the walls of the castle, and despite her quiet whispers in the night with him (or perhaps because of them), she felt it eat away at her with alarming speed.
Sometimes he picked up on it—her hesitation, her dread, her terror—and try as he might to alleviate her distress, she found, time and time again, that his words had little effect.
Because it's not about what he thinks it's about.
Nor was the feeling what she wanted it to be about: her imminent death; Anna's demise; her parents in their graves; her neck snapping in the coarse rope.
No; it's not about any of that.
Instead, it was about everything that she didn't want to think about, much less allow to consume her from the inside out.
My feelings for him; not being able to tell him before we go to the gallows; him not knowing when they put the rope around his neck; watching his body twitch as he dies.
She swallowed dryly at the string of unpleasant images, and her lips turned down into a frown, repulsed by her own emotions.
When did I become this . . . weak?
"Elsa."
Her gaze snapped downwards again, though she felt more perturbed than relieved to hear his voice at that exact moment.
"Yes?"
"Just making sure the smell hasn't suffocated you," he joked, though this elicited only an irritated blink from her.
Poor choice of words, she thought gloomily.
"I'm fine," she said, perhaps a little too roughly.
"If you say so," he replied sceptically, and then paused in thought. "You just seem so far away, when you go quiet."
That's because I am.
She imagined herself back on the North Mountain, ice crystals sparkling in her palms as she constructed her beautiful palace, and held back a trembling breath; but in the next moment it was gone again, and she was back in the cell, facing the grey wall.
"There's nowhere for me to go, Hans," she said bitterly.
He sighed, and she bit her lip to keep from scowling.
I hate all this sighing.
"Well, wherever you are," he said, suddenly petulant, "you'll have to come back to reality in three days."
The remark was cold, and it left her feeling sick and angry.
Why do you have to say such things?
"Sorry," he said promptly, contritely. "That was uncalled for."
Her face burned at the apology—it was all happening too fast now.
"No—you're right, Hans," she said coolly, glaring at the grate. "I can't just run off back to the mountains, now that everyone knows I'm actually alive."
There was a hard edge to the comment—an edge directed at him.
He was silent for a while as a result, and she was thankful for that.
"I should've let you go."
Her heart slowed in her chest until she wondered, absently, if it was beating at all.
"I shouldn't have kept you locked up in here."
Her mouth went drier—if that was even possible, by that point—and her jaw hung uselessly in dull shock.
She could hear him swallow as he continued. "You would have been safe there, in the mountains. You would have been able to take care of yourself." The guilt in his tone was inconceivable to her, but it was there all the same. "I know that, now."
Her eyes were dismally blank at the confession.
What is he even saying, right now?
His words seemed to bounce off her skull without ever actually entering it through her ears; she supposed that the lack of visual confirmation on account of the wall between them didn't help her state of disbelief.
"In fact," he continued, not seeming to care whether or not she was fully processing all of this information, "I've known that for a long time."
She wondered if she looked like the lifeless doll she imagined herself to be in that moment, her back slumped against the wall and her legs splayed out before her haphazardly.
For a "long time"?
Her brain sputtered to compute the phrase, to uncover its meaning; but she was no closer to understanding it than she was to regaining the crown and the love of her people.
"This is the part where you tell me you hate me," he remarked after a while, and his self-loathing seemed more real to her than anything he had actually said in the past five minutes (or had it been hours?). "And then you take off your gloves, and break out of this hellish place while you still have the chance, never looking back."
Her lips cracked as her teeth set in an uninviting, straight line.
What are you saying, Hans?
"I don't understand," was the only sentence she could muster, her voice coming out as a croak.
He didn't sigh this time, mercifully; nonetheless, what he said brought no clarity to her broken, clouded thoughts.
"You don't deserve to be locked up in this cage, Elsa," he said more slowly, as if that would make her understand him any better. "You should leave, now, while the guards are asleep."
She shook her head, which now ached terribly.
"No," she said quietly. "No, Hans. I can't."
He sounded confused. "Of course you can. Don't be a fool, Elsa."
She winced at that word—fool—and her eyes shut tight as she pressed her hands to her forehead, trying to ease the pain stinging behind it.
Ah, Elsa! You foolish, foolish girl.
She gripped her gown tightly in balled-up fists.
"No, no," she repeated, wanting to muffle the sound of her own voice with the dress fabric. "I can't. I won't."
Suddenly, his voice grew angry.
"Stop it, Elsa—stop it."
She shook her head again to herself, feeling the beginnings of sobs working themselves up in the pit of her stomach.
You foolish, foolish girl.
"Listen to me," he said forcefully, "and do this one thing, Elsa. You have to, for your own good."
You have to, your highness. It's for your own good.
She wanted to scream.