Author's Note: One last, short chapter before our pair finally meet again! But you'll be pleased, I hope, to see a bit of a moment between them at the end. (Sort of.) Thanks for the reviews!

Chapter 9: The Mirror

She tapped the quill agitatedly against the paper, her eyes fixed on her own script.

Dear Anna,

I'm sorry if this letter reaches you later than expected. The North Sea seems to be unpredictable this time of year, and we had quite a rough journey on the way over.

She frowned.

That's it?

She'd been sitting at the desk in her room—no, his room, she reminded herself, her frown growing—for over half an hour after finishing lunch, and had only managed those two sentences in all that time.

Maybe I just started it wrong, she reasoned, and carefully folded the draft before disposing of it in the wastebasket beside her, sighing. She withdrew another loose sheet from under the paper weight at the corner of the desk, dipped her quill in the inkwell, and began again.

Dear Anna,

You've probably been wondering why it's taken so long to receive this letter from me—and, I admit, I'm writing it to you on my second day here, since I didn't have the time on the first to do so—but I hope that, upon reading this, you'll be reassured that I am safe and well-looked after here. The Queen, in particular, has been—

Elsa paused, staring at the paper.

Has been . . . what?

Her lips pursed, dissatisfied.

And why did I only write "the Queen"? Surely I should mention the Queen and King, so as not to raise suspicions.

She sighed again, crumpling the second draft with cold fingers, flurries falling gently onto the table. She shook them off, clearing her mind as she threw the paper away and then smoothed out a fresh one.

Dearest Anna—

Her nose wrinkled at the address—would that really help anything?

She'll probably just think I'm hiding something.

She crushed the paper, threw it away, and started again.

Dear Anna,

I'm sorry if you get this letter late, and if you've been worrying about me. I hope things are well with you back home, and that Kai's been helping settle you into your new role. I know it must be difficult, but you're probably doing a fine job.

How is Kristoff? Olaf? Sven? Has Prince Eugene called at port yet, or is he late (as usual)? Give him my best wishes whenever he arrives.

As for me, well, it's only my second day at court, and so I'm still getting used to everything here. The King and Queen have been keeping me very busy since I arrived, though: a welcome dinner and ball last night, and a tour of the city this morning. I'm already exhausted, but, if can you believe it—there's going to be another ball this evening! I know you love them, Anna, but I'm beginning to wonder if I can handle all of this for the next two weeks.

She stopped there, again, and her forehead creased in consternation. Something was . . . off about this one as well.

What's wrong now? her logical brain asked, annoyed—but it wasn't long before the answer came to her, abrupt and stingingly obvious.

You're not being honest, Elsa.

She bit her lip, irritated with herself. She'd made so much progress—nearly three paragraphs!—but, as usual, her self-doubt nagged at her until she was forced to toss the draft in much the same way as all the others before it, and placed another sheet by the quill.

Merely looking at the blank page, however, made Elsa groan, and she splayed herself over the desk, resting her head resignedly on her forearms as snow pattered around her.

At this rate, nothing will get written, she chided herself, and glanced at the page through her folded arms. Reluctantly she drew herself up again, dissolving the snow cloud above her, and moodily stared at the desk, tapping her fingers impatiently against its varnished surface.

You have to tell her the truth.

Her lip curled, aggravated at the idea.

She's going to find out anyway, eventually—but you should be the first one to tell her.

Rationally, she knew her brain was correct—and that, if her sister found out from anyone else but Elsa about the traitor's return to court, she would be even angrier than at the news itself.

After all, I promised her that we would never close the gates again.

It was this thought that finally propelled her to take up the quill again, sighing for the umpteenth time; but, of course, the minute she did so, she distracted herself by looking around the room, searching, as before, for any sign that he had once occupied it.

As always, though, there seemed to be no stone left unturned in the refurnishing of the place—and somehow that didn't surprise her, when she thought of the Queen's dark expression at the mention of the thirteenth prince.

She ran a hand through her long, white hair as she wrote, frazzled.

Dear Anna,

I don't know when you'll receive this letter, but I hope it's not long after I've written it.

I wrote others before it—telling you how I'm faring at court, about the weather on the seas, what events they've held in my honour—but I threw them all away, because those things . . . they're not as important as what I really have to tell you.

You see, yesterday was my first day in the Isles, and I met everyone then—the King, the Queen, and all their sons—but something else happened, too.

I was standing in front of them, and we were about to go around the palace, but I felt as though something was wrong with it all. I was unhappy, Anna, with the way they were speaking to me; with the way they treated me, as if I were this little, delicate flower who would be hurt by just hearing his name aloud. I felt like I had to prove to them that they were wrong about me—about both of us—but I didn't know how to do it . . . except for one thing.

So I asked them, then, to allow him back—to allow Hans back—for my visit to court. I told them it was so we could finally move past what happened, and so that I could see his penitence in person, but . . . honestly, I'm not actually sure why I did it, and I'm still wondering about it now, as I write this letter to you.

I know what I did will upset you, and I can't blame you for that, since I don't understand my own feelings that well yet. But maybe it is just about "confronting the past head-on," Anna—maybe I do just want to feel like things are finally resolved, even if it hurts us both.

I'm sorry, Anna—but please believe me when I say that I miss you more than anything else in the world.

Love,

Elsa

She exhaled deeply as she laid the quill down again, and closed her eyes, meditative.

I hope that's enough.

"Queen Elsa?"

She nearly toppled her chair over in surprise at the sudden knocking on the door, and she quickly folded the letter and shoved it into the first drawer in plain sight, her heart racing.

"Y—yes, Finn?" she answered as she stood, trying desperately to compose herself again.

"Sir Leif here to see you, Your Majesty," he replied from beyond the oak barrier, and she breathed out, a little relieved.

At least it's not the Queen.

"Let him in," she said, watching with calmer eyes as her adviser entered the room with an apologetic expression, the door closing behind him.

His dark head remained bowed as he spoke. "I'm sorry to interrupt you, Your Majesty," he said, sounding genuinely contrite, "but I had to come and apologise in person for my long absence today thus far. I've only just returned from my tour of the Council chambers, the library, and the attached study hall with Sir Anton, you see, and—"

She held up a hand, halting him mid-sentence, and smiled patiently. "It's fine, Leif. I was worried that you'd be bored here, actually, while we were gone—though it seems as though you've been kept busy as well, which is a relief."

He stared at her with some surprise at this, finally raising his head again. "Your Majesty, I—your tolerance of my shameful behaviour humbles me," he said quietly, averting his eyes as his cheeks pinked. "I hope you can forgive me."

Her smile was the same as before. "Forgiven and already forgotten, I assure you," she told him. "Actually, I'm glad to see you, as there is something I wanted to discuss with you."

Leif gazed at her curiously, and she motioned for him to sit down by her at the desk.

"Did something happen during the morning's tour, Your Majesty?" he asked, concerned.

She shook her head, though her smile faded. "No—nothing to worry about, anyway," she replied somewhat vaguely, looking away at the window. "I just . . . needed your advice," she admitted finally, turning her gaze wearily to her adviser. "About the Queen."

A look of understanding passed over his features. "The Queen," he repeated, and crossed his arms.

Elsa nodded, her brow furrowing. "The King retired early during the tour, you see, leaving me with her and the other Princes," she explained, holding his stare, "and she was just so . . . familiar with all the commoners." Her lips pursed again in thought. "It was refreshing, of course, but also somewhat . . . strange, compared to her behaviour at court." She eyed him curiously. "I'm—I guess I'm finding it difficult to understand her, is what I'm trying to say."

Leif shrugged, to her surprise, and sounded nonchalant. "We've only been here two days, Your Majesty," he pointed out, his brow rising sceptically. "I don't think it's particularly worrisome that you don't 'understand' her yet, given the circumstances."

Elsa reddened in embarrassment.

He always manages to make me feel foolish, doesn't he?

She swallowed, smiling uneasily. "Yes, I suppose you're right," she allowed, rising from the chair again. He followed suit out of propriety. "I—I'm just overreacting, probably."

Leif sighed a little. "It's all right, Queen Elsa," he reassured her, though even that sounded somewhat patronising. "We're in a strange land, after all, and the stories about the Queen are not particularly flattering," he noted with a frown, and went on, "and you're likely still exhausted from the trip here—I know I haven't fully recovered yet myself—so it's natural for you to be overcautious."

His expression was lighter than before as he finished. "Besides, I'm happy to be in your confidence, whatever your concerns may be."

Elsa held back a frown at the comment, forcing herself to smile again. "And I am lucky to have you by my side," she returned with some effort, and she'd never missed Kai more than in that moment. She turned away and walked to the window, looking out at the bright daylight of the afternoon; absently, she wished she could be back in the streets again, sitting in Gustav and Alma's bakery with a biscuit in hand.

"Anyway, that's all, really," she concluded awkwardly, glancing back at him. "Was there any other business you had with me, Leif?"

He shook his head. "No, Queen Elsa—just the apology," he replied simply. "I'll see you again at dinner."

"Until then," Elsa said, if absentmindedly, and barely kept her eyes affixed to the scene long enough to watch him bow deeply and then depart.

As soon as the door was closed again, she glowered.

He's already quite taken with the Queen, she thought, remembering how awed he had been during their first meeting in the throne room. And I doubt she'll be anything but on her best behaviour around him.

The notion made her want to roll her blue eyes in annoyance, and she wondered, then, if Leif was really going to be as useful to her as she had hoped. Her gaze cooled, and she glanced back at the desk, her fingers curling into a fist.

I should send it.

Light from the window filtered across its smooth surface, but the drawer within which she had tossed the letter remained engulfed by shadows.

She turned away from it, and pressed a bare hand to her forehead, a trail of ice brushing against the skin there.

But not now.

He stared at the suit laid out on the cot, his feelings torn between irritation and resignation.

A servant's attire—just as I expected.

Black boots and breeches, a white undershirt and cravat, a black vest, and a black jacket on top—but, of all these, his eyes fixed themselves on the pair of white gloves resting by the jacket, and he picked them up carefully, pressing the fabric with his hard, calloused fingers.

He frowned at the sensation, and threw them back on the bed.

I don't feel clean enough to wear those.

It was strange to think that, he supposed, since had long since washed and shaved as per the Queen's instructions. But when he looked down at the worn skin of his hands, it only served to remind him of the conditions related to his "return" to court.

You did this to yourself, and thenceforth you will suffer the consequences of your actions.

He scoffed upon replaying his mother's words in his head, and promptly stripped off the simple clothes he had been wearing all day, pulling on the outfit prepared for him with a hard, set look. It felt less comfortable than his loose, breathable clothes back on the farm, and it had been so long, after all—too long, really—since he'd last worn something so fitted.

I still think like a prisoner, even here.

He snorted derisively at his own discomfort, and ran a hand across his newly-smooth jawline, his eyes sharp as he observed his reflection in the small mirror provided him.

It was strange to see his face again, undistorted by grime or cracks in the reflective surface. He looked practically burnished under the dim candlelight in the room, his skin having darkened a good shade or two during his year in exile. It was hardly as tan as those of his "relations" back on Vollan—and hardly so wrinkled by years of exposure to the sun—but the former rosiness in his cheeks had disappeared, as had the relaxed skin around his eyes.

At least I was able to get some sleep before this farce begins, he thought grimly, somewhat appeased by the reduction of the otherwise permanent dark bags under his eyes.

Truthfully, there had been nothing else to do after he had been unceremoniously dumped in the servants' quarters with the bare minimum of supplies needed to clean himself up. After being escorted with a full flank of guards to the washroom and then back to his room again, someone had only come in once to bring him a meagre lunch of bread and thin soup (likely from the bottom of the pot, he guessed) and to inform him that he would be expected at the ball that evening.

And after that . . . well, he'd been left to his own devices.

He had been too awake, at first, to sleep—which was understandable, given since the sudden, unexpected events of that same morning, not to mention the ones that had taken place since his arrival at the palace under cover of night—but even when the bustle abated, and he felt tiredness seep into his muscles, he found himself agitated by the lack of anything to occupy himself with in the tiny, nearly unfurnished room he'd been placed in.

A wooden cot with a mattress and thin sheet on top, a tableside dresser . . . and a mirror.

What he would need the dresser for, he had no idea—he'd been brought back to the palace with only the clothes on his back, and whatever other garments he would receive there, he doubted they would fill an entire dresser—even a small one.

Eventually, however, he'd succumbed to sleep (or, perhaps, plain boredom); but his sleep, of course, had been just as fitful and unpleasant as his waking state.

That damn woman.

He scowled at the memory of the Queen's unbearably smug look—of her dangerously knowing eyes, the same colour as his own—and her imperious scolding, much as he tried to ignore it, echoed in his mind long after she had gone back to her own bed, never sparing him even a parting glance.

You should have been satisfied with what you had—and you already had the world at your fingertips.

He could still hear that grating edge to her voice which appeared whenever she was annoyed at him, or made some typically patronising remark. Worse yet, he could still see her sneering at him as she said it.

But no—you had to go and be the ungrateful brat that you are, and ruin any chance you might have had for lasting contentment.

Nothing could push her words from the front of his mind—not boarding a carriage and then a boat for the first time in almost a year, nor feeling the sea air against his dry skin, the waves rolling tempestuously, nor even seeing the palace as they arrived at its private dock in the shadow of the very early morning hours, the kingdom still covered in a veil of darkness—and as he sat down on the side of the cot, now fully dressed in his dark suit, those words pressed down on his skull more fervently than ever.

If you had only been a bit more persistent, you could have won the heart of the Snow Queen herself.

He suddenly barked a short, harsh laugh at that, and the sound, he recalled with an uneasy shudder, was not unlike the Queen's.

She doesn't know a thing about it, he thought bitterly, and finally snatched the gloves from the bed again, grasping them tightly. Suddenly, he didn't care that they felt alien in his hands, like relics from an ancient world he had long since forgotten. Instead, all that mattered was what they symbolised—and that, he knew, was everything that she didn't think him capable of being ever again.

A man of character—of nobility.

Even if they were servants' gloves, of cheaper and thinner make than the ones that had been hand-tailored for him as a prince, there was still something about them, he knew, that held a kind of power—the power to be someone else, if only for a few hours.

A power that she can't take away from me.

He put them on carefully, just like he used to, one finger at a time; and after each one, he smoothed out any visible creases, his brow furrowed in intense concentration.

I don't have to prove anything to her.

He breathed in with more confidence, his posture straightening as he took in his appearance once more. This time, however, his expression did not twist, nor did his eyes narrow discontentedly.

Strangely, in fact, something happened which he did not expect.

She'll be wearing them too, won't she?

He suddenly saw her staring back at him in the mirror—Elsa, the Snow Queen of Arendelle—and though it had been a long while since he had last seen her, her image was startlingly clear.

A dress of ice, gloved hands, pale skin, white hair.

His gaze travelled up, and stopped.

Blue eyes. Those blue eyes.

To his own surprise, he smiled—but his smile was almost a grimace.

I'll be seeing you soon, Elsa.