Anna only slept for a few hours that night, thanks to the alcohol, and when she awoke while the sky was still dark the princess bolted out of bed to empty the contents of her stomach in her bath chamber.

When at last her heaving had subsided, Anna crawled back under the plush duvet, seeking unconsciousness as an escape from the pain. Her head pounded and her belly churned, not at all pleased with her behavior the previous evening.

But sleep evaded Anna.

She wasn't sure how much time had passed, but judging by the early morning sun that had begun to filter in through the window, she had been laying there for hours, unable to fall back asleep.

At last, she gave up, and rose to groggily greet the day. She dressed herself in her day clothes and tied her hair back in a clumsy chignon before trudging downstairs, trying her best to forget the throbbing behind her eyes and push all thoughts of Kristoff to the back of her mind, burying them deep.

When the thought of food made Anna's throat lurch, she found herself passing the dining hall to wander over to the gallery, her psyche numb from the events of the previous day and looking for a distraction.

Anna found the gallery devoid of life and welcomed the peace. The impressive royal collection of artwork spanned the length of the room, the dark green walls adorned with dozens of paintings by the likes of Fragonard, Serrure, and Bruegel the Elder, all hung with meticulous care. Save for a settee or two, the room was unfurnished, leaving little to distract the eye from the visages of lovelorn young gentlemen and blushing girls laid down in oils. One painting in particular caught the princess' eye, and she sauntered over to it to inspect it more closely, the echoing of her heels clicking on the marble floor the only sound in the otherwise silent room.

On the great canvas that hung before Anna was an image of a young lady, dressed in finery, being courted by a nobleman, who took her dainty hand in his. The nobleman's hair was slicked back and on his face was a wry smile; over his waistcoat and sash he wore a fitted jacket, which was decorated with golden ornamental shoulder pieces and colorful military brooches, as well as matching trousers, white stockings, and shiny heeled shoes. On his hands were clean white gloves.

White gloves.

Anna audibly gasped as a sudden vision flashed across her mind's eye: it was the same man with white gloves she had seen before, but this time, she could see him as clear as day. He was twirling her about the floor, his arms encircling her in a dance. As she focused on the memory, she could just make out the color of his hair, the shape of his ears, the length of his neck. Most importantly, she could see his face.

Anna hurriedly passed through the door at the far end of the gallery to the studio and took a seat at the easel, eager to get the vision down before it slipped away.

"Okay, I've done this before," she murmured to herself, deciding on which brush to pick up first. Arbitrarily, she plucked one from the bunch, and then began mixing oils on her palette.

"Like riding a bike..." the princess mused as a fleshy apricot tone began to form on the wood. Muscle memory took over from there. Taking a healthy glob of the color on the tip of her brush, she swished it across and began to cover the canvas, spreading the color with languid strokes, keeping her wrist flexed and grip light. She worked quickly, mixing colors as she went, putting down as much of the substance as she could while simultaneously centering her consciousness on the man's smiling face at the front of her mind, to keep the memory from fading, despite the occasional unwelcome intrusion of the smiling face of a certain fair-haired mountain man.

Apricot flesh, fire burnt hair, peridot green eyes–

"Who's that?" came an abrupt voice from behind her, causing Anna to whip around in her chair in fright.

There stood the living snowman, Olaf, staring at the painting-in-progress with unblinking black eyes.

"Oh, Olaf," Anna breathed with relief. "It's only you. Jeez, you startled me. I didn't realize I was so in the zone."

"Who's that?" Olaf repeated again, this time pointing to the canvas behind the princess with his stick finger.

Anna exhaled loudly and pursed her lips, shrugging. "I don't know."

Exasperated by the deeper meaning behind those three simple words, Anna smeared a flat palm over her scalp, smoothing her hair down in frustration. As if fixing her hair might help her memories come back. Sensing her discomfort, the snowman took a step back, awkwardly twiddling his thumbs in front of him and rocking back and forth on his feet.

"So… you still don't remember anything, huh?"

"Yeah."

"That's too bad," Olaf drawled sadly, shaking his head. "You know, I don't remember anything about where I came from, either."

Anna raised an eyebrow. "Didn't Elsa create you?"

"She sure did, but I don't remember my life before that."

That's because you didn't have a life before that, Anna thought to herself, amused by his naivety. But she said nothing.

"I don't mind, though. All of my memories of my new life begin and end with you and Elsa," the snowman continued matter-of-factly, his beady eyes taking on a dreamy look, clasping his hands together over Anna's knee. "As long as I have the ones I love by my side, I'm okay with not remembering the other unimportant stuff. I can always make new memories, but my family is irreplaceable."

Anna couldn't help but crack a smile at his words, surprised by their depth, and gently placed her own hand atop his.

"You're right, Olaf. Thank you."

A young guard named Lars suddenly appeared in the doorway, and politely but loudly cleared his throat to get the princess' attention. He had brunette hair and deep chestnut eyes, and wasn't much older than Anna herself. She had met him one night at dinner when he had interrupted to deliver an important message to Elsa. Something about reopening trade negotiations with Weaseltown.

"Your Highness, your sister the Queen requires your presence."

Anna nodded her acquiescence, giving Olaf a parting hug before rising and leaving with Lars. Olaf stayed behind and gazed at the nearly completed portrait for a time afterward, but when nothing happened his attention span maxed out, and he simply shrugged and waddled out of the studio to seek out something fun somewhere else.

Lars escorted Anna to her sister's royal chambers, bowing and departing without another word. Anna entered the parlor tentatively without knocking, cautiously pushing the heavy oak door open with a long creak. The Queen sat behind her desk, eyes turned downward, focusing on making marks on an imperial document, her ink pen scratching the surface with a quiet skrit skrit skrit skrit. Behind the desk hung a larger-than-life portrait of their parents, the former monarchs, smiling down on their eldest daughter as she worked.

"You wanted to see me?" Anna asked, stupidly, not sure of what else to say.

Elsa laid the writing instrument upon the desk and looked up, beaming at her younger sister. "Yes. Please, Anna, have a seat."

Unnerved by the unknown, Anna took the seat being offered to her, the wave of nausea in her abdomen threatening to make a reappearance. Did Elsa know about what she had gotten up to the day before? Did she know about Kristoff? Was she in trouble?

"Didn't see you at breakfast," Elsa said, her tone light. She stacked the parchments she had been working on in a haphazard pile and set them to the side.

"Wasn't hungry," the orange-haired young woman mumbled in response.

Elsa's smile waned, her expression becoming quite somber. Reaching across, the Queen took her sister's hands in her own, leaning in closer. "I know… I know this has been rough. But we love you– I love you. And I only want what's best for you. You know that, right?"

Swallowing thickly, Anna nodded, inwardly urging her stomach to settle. Elsa pressed her lips into a thin line before speaking again.

"And that's why you are leaving. Today."