a/n: well this chapter got away from me and became like twice as long oops

so again, thank you thank you thank you for the support! please continue to review—i read them all and they keep me writing! :) i'm going to try my darndest to get the next chap up soon (aka before my school starts back up).

thanks, guys!

"I need to speak to Prince Albert."

"Well, beggin' yer pardon, majesty, but he's below decks now goin' over the 'ull—"

"Immediately."

"Yes'm."

The sailor rushes up the gangplank. Her anger is palpable, no matter how she tries to control it—seeping into the dock and arcing across the water, written in the thin line of her mouth and the rigid posture of her hands. There are two children back in the market square who, being watched by two guards, want to see this man. This unassuming, unappealing, good for nothing—

Not even the amiable Master Olin dared approach. She could feel the harbormaster's eyes on her from afar, down the dock, where he no doubt waited to intervene should it come to that—

"Queen Elsa?" Prince Albert's disheveled head emerges over the railing of the ship. He's slightly out of breath, and there appears to be grease, or tar, plastered beneath his left eye. The rest of his body comes into view, and he looks entirely un-presentable—a loose white shirt rolled up to his elbows, and his pants ripped at one knee. He's wiping his hands on a cloth. He ducks under a large plank of wood being carried across the deck and hurries down the gangplank to the dock, nearly tripping over his feet in his haste. There is a shy smile around his lips. "I didn't think—I mean, after—hullo! I mean, hello, your majesty." He bows clumsily, upon leveling with her. "How are you?" He attempts to lean backwards against the ship but the gap is too far; he nearly falls.

She doesn't respond, keeping her face smooth, blank. Cracking, and ice is blooming in angry red sheets beneath them on the water.

"Is—is something the matter?" Prince Albert asks, smile dropping. She does that a lot to him, doesn't she? Elsa thinks grimly, then realizes it doesn't matter, because tucked against her side was the letter, because he was—was his brother—no one was getting anywhere with her—and no one could possibly be this daft, could they?

Could they?

Those eyes—his eyes—are confused. Elsa takes a deep breath.

"This," she replies coolly. She pulls the letter from her side, holding it like a wounded soldier. "This is the matter."

"What's that?" Prince Albert asks, frowning, and then his eyebrows shoot up his forehead and he pats his pockets. "Oh, dear."

"I trusted that you would see this safely to your shores, but if you insist upon throwing it aside then I can only assume that reflects the ground upon which our people stand—"

"No, it's not—I didn't—" the prince runs a hand through his foppish curls. "I didn't mean—"

"I granted you safe harbor, but I can take it away—"

"No, Queen Elsa, I didn't—"

"And I do not wish further relations with any member of the Southern Isles—"

"Queen Elsa!" He takes her upper arms in his hands. They're very warm, and the ice around her feet suddenly stops. She blinks, taken aback, and then he blinks, taken aback, staring open-mouthed at her, and her guards were back in the square watching Klara and Petter or they would be on him in a heartbeat—

He lets go immediately, practically jumping away, as if burned. He gulps a deep breath, pointing to the letter still perched in her hand.

"I swear to you I did not drop that letter on purpose."

And his eyes—those eyes—

She can see right through them. There is anger, but she feels, from the sloped curve of his shoulders, that it is mostly directed at himself; a little disbelief; a lot of skittish nervousness; and something sitting at the edges, something as he stares at her face; something like awe. He doesn't say anything about the snow gathered around his feet, or the ice in the harbor, or the way the air turns ten degrees cooler as he nears her. She still feels the imprint of his hands on her arms.

The letter sits like gunpowder between them.

She shakes her head, She blinks at it. She whispers, "I just don't think I can trust you." There is a part of her that dearly wishes to trust someone, and a part of her that is screaming get out, get out, get out—

"We have this thing, back at—back at home," he says after a beat, where the bellows along the dock weave between them, says just as quietly, so she is forced to lean closer to hear over the men shouting on the deck above them, "my brothers and I—"

"I do not wish to hear of your—"

"No, it's not—look, it's just—where I come from, swearing means something. You're held to it. We say, swear on something you value. I swear," he begins, finally looking up into her eyes with those ones, those ones she can't figure out, that don't belong in his freckled face, above his crooked nose, and for the first time those eyes don't glance to his forearm for help. She thinks he'll say gold. She thinks he'll say his kingdom. His princedom. His life. Instead he says, "I swear on happily ever after that I'm not lying to you."

She straightens, fist involuntarily closing around her neat scrawl, crushing the emblem of Arendelle. In her disbelief, the ice retreats. "Happily ever after?" Are you kidding me? she wants to say, but she isn't—can't be—Anna.

He's flushing, across the bent of his broken nose, and now he's rubbing his forearm almost violently, like he's praying a speech will appear there by magic. "It's the thing I value most, because it means there's hope." He almost mumbles it. Practically barrels through it. "Hans would always say that happily ever afters were for children's stories and fairy dreams. Would always say that they didn't—didn't have any bearing in real life. But I had to hope," he exhales. "Because if I didn't, there wasn't anything." And then, as if remembering she's standing there, he straightens and repeats, "That's what I swear on."

Beat. Two. "I don't understand you," she sighs, and she's so, so tired.

He cocks a half-smile. "It's alright. I don't understand me either."

"It's a horrible place to be, not understanding oneself."

He looks at her for a long moment, then coughs uncomfortably. He fiddles with his forearm again. "I'm sure I dropped it leaving. I'm always losing things. Felix used to say I'd lose my head if it wasn't attached, but then he—well, never mind, that's not—I must've dropped it back near—" and then it dawns on him. "But how did you get it?"

"Petter and Klara came by the castle to tell me off, for confining you to the ship," Elsa almost-smiles down at the letter, even though she feels very much like she wants to be ill. "Klara had this. She meant to return it to you."

"Are they—" he looks around the dock, eyes skimming the bustling workers.

"They're back in the market square, I didn't want—them to see," she finishes.

"See me get impaled?" He grins, tapping the ice by his foot, then—"Sorry, bad joke, I just. Yeah. Yes, I mean." He looks back at the men swarming over his ship. "I can take them back, if you wish. You can put a guard on me and everything."

"No, I'll—" but as she's about to finish she realizes with a start that she couldn't take the children back, even if she wanted to; couldn't find that square without asking. She clasps her hands, feeling the rough of the parchment between them. A bad taste in her mouth. There had been so many closed doors, for so long, and she was floating above them. Anna was somewhere back in the palace. She should go apologize—

But Petter, and Klara—

But Prince Albert—

"May I?" he asks softly, after a beat. He motions to the crumpled letter. She lets him take it, watches as he smooths it carefully over his knee. "There. Practically new."

Get it together, she thinks, looking at the harbor, watching the ice collapse into the warm summer water, get it together.

"No, I'll send the guards to take them," she says at last.

"Alright. Well, tell them—tell them I say hi, then—if that's not too much to ask. I mean, not too much trouble."

"Of course."

Her anger is nearly spent, leaving her bone-weary once more. She had never reacted like that to anything before—with anger. She had not recognized it, creeping up her throat, making her feet ring with frost, until she had been out of the palace, in the fresh air of the town, until she had realized that she had spoken out of turn to Anna, had, perhaps, overreacted, and by then it was too late—

But it had been good, she thinks with a start. To feel.

"Queen Elsa," Prince Albert ventures after an uncomfortable pause. "It's not my place. But you—you seem—tightly wound."

"You're right," she feels her hard, icy anger returning. "It isn't your place."

"Before my brother Fredrik left to fight," he begins, glancing back at her, as if waiting for her to snap no more brothers—but she remains silent, hating herself in her curiosity, in her nicety, in her politics—"well, we used to sneak out of the palace to look around. To get a feel for the people. Felix started it, really, but it was just a way to see—happenings and—sort of forget, maybe, that we were royalty. For a few hours, at least."

The thought is startling. The thought is unheard of. She is queen. If she took that away, who would she be?

Just Elsa?

Unthinkable.

Leave.

Leave, now.

"Goodbye, Prince Albert." She turns on her heel. Pauses. Glances over her shoulder. "I'm sorry for any miscommunication."

"I know she's the queen," Anna tells Olaf, spread-eagle on the floor of the gallery and watching the hand of the grandfather clock. She feels nine again. "That doesn't mean I can't, like, help or anything—I can do loads of things, like—like—"

"Like slide down mountains!"

"Exactly!" Anna shouts in agreement. Olaf squirms next to her.

"Or, you know, find pungent reindeer kings."

Anna smiles. "Exactly exactly," she sighs, so heavy and loud her bangs flutter and flash and disappear. "I mean," she groans, flinging an arm dramatically over her eyes. "Why can't she just let me help?"

"Would you please escort Petter and Klara back to their homes?"

"Yes, your majesty," the guards reply.

"What about Albert?" Klara asks stubbornly.

"He is very busy at the moment. I'm sorry, Klara."

The little girl pouts, turning away, stomping forward, and it was alright, really, she did not need to be liked by everyone—

Petter stands before her, and holds out his grubby hand. She takes it, and he bows, small and boyish in the square. "Majesty," he says, very formally, sounding too old, too young, too everything, "thanks."

Elsa smiles, and it isn't almost.

The king says, "You are about to do a great service to the Southern Isles, Hans. A thing to erase all errors; to raise you," he finishes slowly, "above all brothers."

Hans licks his lips, and feels, through his glove, the sore tip of his left index finger, which his brother had pricked yesterday. A drop of blood, red as the sunset, in a wooden bowl. Then a dismissive, "You can leave. I'm sure your chambers are as you left them."

Hans wants to ask, will it raise me to king, but doesn't; can't seem to get his mouth to work. His days of back talk are stuck in his cell.

He almost misses them.

He says, "May I be of use, brother."

"All this talk of brothers; you think someone had died!"

King Alfons stops his heavy, sure footsteps. Hans slows next to him. Leaning against the red-wallpaper, half-hidden between suits of armor and outlined by the dying twilight, is Lukas. Hans had not seen him since the day he had visited the cell, to scold and admonish in his horribly obtuse way. He feels disgust settling at the edges of his thoughts, around the upper corners of his mouth.

Lukas unrolls himself from the wall. Standing in the middle of the hall, he could not look less like his twin, Hans thinks. The king was dark-haired, heavily-mustached, well-built; Lukas was a slight as the breeze, his dirty-blonde hair settled over sharp, straight features.

He fought in lies and trickery and wits and cunning. Hans had never had any respect for the man.

"Lukas," King Alfons drawls. "What are you doing here?"

"Just inquiring after the state of our newly freed baby brother. How fares the summer air, Hans?"

"I am well, thank you," Hans bows stiffly.

"Excellent, excellent. Completely excellent. Tell me, Alfons," and there was only one person who could get away with calling the king such, "I seem to be missing some of my topographical maps. The ones concerning the Dragon's Strait, the Black Ocean—Arendelle. Have you seen them?"

"Of course not," the king snaps.

Lukas shrugs his shoulders. "Just checking, then." He wanders past them, ruffling Hans' hair as he passes. "Adieu, baby brother. Oh, and Alfons?"

"Hm?"

"Have you heard anything from Albert?"

"He is well."

"Ah. That is ever so wonderful."

"Indeed."

"Well, then! Ta, brother."

His footsteps echo down the hall. The king says, without much emotion, "He is a nuisance."

And Hans asks, "Why don't you just kill him, then?"

"Because, Hans." The king cracks his neck. "To each death, their own time."

Forget we were royalty for a few hours—

A few hours—

Forget—

Elsa looks down at the papers scattered across her desk and purses her lips. It's a wonderfully quaint notion, from someone—what, she thinks coldly, twelfth in line? Of course he could do it. It was a different world without the weight of a kingdom. She could fly without the weight of a kingdom. Soar, into the stars.

She can feel the bite of her nails against her palms, little crescent moons digging into her skin. The words across the parchments and letters are blurring, melting, running—trade and taxes and merchants and guards. She closes her eyes, putting two soothing fingers to each of her temples and calling her curse to her. It settles near her eyes—cool, frosted relief.

She would walk down to the entrance hall and out into the courtyard. No, glide—she would glide down to the entrance hall and out into the courtyard, and the stares of the rulers previous would slip off of her like oil from water, slick, harmless. There would be the sky, wide awake above, pulsating greensbluespurples over an ocean of stars she could reach out and cup in her hands. She would go out the front gate, across the bridge, and there would be Arendelle, alit and beautiful and wonderfully alive. She would listen to her people and feel their heartbeats, their hopes, their dreams. She would fly up, up, up—

She forces her eyes open. The fire is nearly embers. Outside, the sky is darkening twilight. In a perfect world, she thinks, brushing the papers before her into a pile and placing her quill atop it all, in a perfect world she would rule from her ice palace.

She wonders, standing gracefully from her stiff-backed chair, if it's still there, or if it's beginning to melt, like a wilting, dying flower. She wonders what will happen to it, alone in the mountains, and then she wonders if it will remain there forever, or drift away when she dies—fall to water and skid down the slopes.

Will that happen? When she dies, will everything just—disappear?

Olaf opens the door. She starts. She'd been staring at one of the model ships displayed upon the shelves. She loathed ships.

"Elsa?"

"Hey, little guy," she smiles. The second full smile that day, and it's doing a number on her. She's just so tired. Tightly wound. That's what Albert had said. Tightly wound. She was in no way tightly wound, that was utterly, horribly ridiculous—

She turns, reaching for another log to throw onto the flames, and ice shoots from the tips of her fingers in five perfect, frosted arcs. The crystals slam against the stone hearth and shatter, raining dewy drops on the dying fire and extinguishing it completely.

Well.

"What can I do for you?" she says quickly, trying to cover up her gaff, squinting to find the long matches in the dark. She strikes one against stone and throws it onto the embers, and another log atop it, and another, until she can almost feel the heat. She lets her hands rest nearly against the flame, then thinks that she must soon be done with these self-indulgent moments.

She turns.

Olaf is blinking wide-eyed at her, in front of those white library doors. He says, "Well, nothing, really. Just sayin' hi. How you doin'?" His childish mouth breaks into a side-splitting grin, and he waddles to the window, to peer out of the leaded glass. "Did you give that prince guy a stern for-what's-it?"

"A what-for?"

"Yeah, that. Well, did ya?" Olaf's nose is sinking further and further into his head the closer he pushes it up against the glass.

"I suppose not. Maybe. I don't know."

She doesn't want to sit back in that chair. She wanders over to the snowman instead, gathering her skirts around her and perching at the window seat, like she used to when she was small and learning about trade and taxes and merchants and guards. Outside the city is coming to life in the way it only ever can at night, lights beginning to burn in windows, men shouting after a long day at work, children racing out to greet fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers. Family. Olaf says, apropos of nothing, "You know, Anna's good at lotsa of things. Like finding gross men and sliding down mountains."

"Is that all you two could come up with?" Elsa replies blithely, watching the setting sun glitter across the fjord. She side-eyes Olaf, but he isn't paying attention, so she pulls her knees up close and wraps her arms around her legs, setting her chin atop them.

"Mayyybeee," Olaf whispers.

Elsa laughs. She laughs because she hadn't apologized to her sister yet. She laughs because of course they would only think of that—"Anna is good at talking to people. She's good at being brave. At being open. She's good at caring. She's good at a lot of things."

"Huh. Well, you know," Olaf sits back, trying to reach the large bulk of his nose at the back of his head with his stubby stick arms, "you're good at lotsa things, too. I mean, you made me."

Elsa gently presses his nose through his skull.

"Head rush!"

"I'm tired, Olaf," she whispers.

"Get some sleep, then," Olaf says with a smile and a friendly pat on her arm. "That's the best way to be untired."

Elsa, very quickly and before she can think twice, reaches forward and engulfs the little snowman in a hug, her cheek pressed to the side of his head; she can feel the tickle of his flurry, knows it is getting flakes across her shoulders, and skirt.

"Warm hugs!" Olaf shouts gleefully, returning it. "Ooo, I love these!"

Forget, Elsa prays, closing her eyes tightly.

Forget.

The room smells like piss; carrion and rotting flesh. Outside the sun is sinking. There is a fire burning in the grate and tea set before it. It looks like a mockery, the white china shining almost yellow in the half-light. Hans watches the king walk slowly in that direction; watches him reach the first chair and turn it with the flat of his boot, so that it faces the center of the room; watches him begin to pour.

"Tea, Hans?"

"No, thank you," Hans says, just as Niels declares, "No substances before." He materializes from a dark corner. There is a crow on his shoulder. Something is wrong with its eyes. Something is wrong with its body, too, but Hans can't make out what in the poor light. "I don't want him getting sick all over the floor."

And there is certainly a lot of it, Hans notices, fighting to keep his face blank, to keep the rolling of his stomach in check. The tables, the bottles of floating substances, the piles of books—all had been pressed to the sides of the room to make a large clearing in the center. There are chalk markings across the wood. Symbols he doesn't understand. Writing in runes. In the center is a smaller circle, and inscribed in that a star.

Niels points to it. "Stand there."

Hans looks at the cool, calm gaze of the king. Expecting. Unyielding. He says. "Of course."

"Does this look ok?"

Sven blinks.

"You're right, you're right—too much. Flowers? Is that a thing, should I bring her flowers?"

Sven bends down for more hay.

"You're really unhelpful sometimes."

Elsa looks at the covered plate before her. She reaches for her water, managing a bare-bones sip before it freezes in her hand. She sets the glass back down. There is an empty seat next to her, and another next to that, and another, and all the way down the long table. Kai is standing somewhere behind her. He coughs. He says, "Do you want me to send someone—"

"She'll be here," Elsa replies, watching the steam rise from the covered basket of rolls. Just as she finishes the door to the dining hall opens, and Anna scurries inside. She's not dressed for dinner. She's dressed like she's going to find her way up the North Mountain. Elsa blinks.

"Hey, how are you?" Anna flings herself to a stop behind her usual chair and grabs the whole basket of rolls. "I'm just gonna take these—"

"Where—where are you going?"

"Out, just—it's nothing. I mean, it's not nothing, it's something, but it's nothing in that I'm not like, doing a nature hike or anything." She examines the basket of rolls pressed to her hip. "Is the butter in here?"

"Anna—"

"I know, I know, I should've said something before." Anna collapses in her chair rather gracelessly. "But I didn't want to irritate you."

"You don't irritate me."

Anna raises her eyebrows.

"Often. You don't irritate me often."

Anna says, "So do you mind?"

"I don't even know what you're doing!"

"Maybekindofadate."

"A date?"

"You know! It's that thing, where the people do the stuff, together—like, you know—like ice harvesting."

"You're going ice harvesting?"

"No! No, no way, I don't think—you'd be a good ice harvester, you know? No, I'm having a picnic! Well, a dinner roll picnic. Does that still count? It should still count, right—"

"For what it's worth," Elsa breaks off, looking at the metal covering over her dinner, "I think you're good at a lot of things."

"—and I mean, wine, but I think that stuff is nasty—what?" Anna shakes her head. She has half a bread roll hanging from her mouth.

"I'm sorry."

Anna smiles. She smiles so easily, Elsa is almost jealous. Almost. "Hey. I know. I get it. Well, I mean, I sort of get it. I guess I won't ever actually get it, get it, but—you know." She reaches across the table, accidentally knocking over the frozen glass of water with an oops, and grabs Elsa's hand. "I want to help."

Elsa squeezes back. "I know." They look at each other for a second. The face she knows better than her own. The face that she doesn't know at all. Anna says, setting the rolls down, "Hey, you know, I think I'll have a desert picnic date. So what're we having for dinner?"

Elsa shakes her head. "You are having a nice picnic." She turns to look at Kai behind her. "Can we prepare a basket for the princess?"

"Of course, your majesty."

"Water, I think," she says, giving one final squeeze and letting go, "instead of wine."

"Elsa, I can't!"

"You can. Queen's orders. Just—don't do anything you'd regret."

Anna grins. "I know, I know. Reputation. Princess. Got it."

And when her sister leaves, laden with food, Elsa finally uncovers her own. There is a slab of steak, bloody, pink. Some asparagus, and potatoes. Elsa reaches for her fork and knife.

The clank of silverware. The flicker of candles.

She's alone.

Kristoff is waiting for her in front of the door to her room. The basket in her arms is heavy. She feels bad, leaving her sister to eat alone, but then, she would've actually said that she didn't want to eat alone, right? But then, also, this was Elsa, who really didn't say much of anything ever and—

She's an idiot, isn't she? Not Elsa. Her. Anna. She was an idiot. She bites her lip and sighs, 'cause, like, how was her sister supposed to give her stuff to do, to trust her, if she—Anna, she-Anna—couldn't even notice stuff like this—

"Uh, hey."

Anna stops. She's nearly to the hall of portraits, having wandered straight past Kristoff. She turns on her heel. "I completely meant to do that."

"Did you?"

"Yeah. Totally. How are—" she stops, finally taking in his appearance. He's wearing his summer gear, and his clothes are almost presentable. He's holding a daisy in one hand, and looking nervously to one side, and she laughs, practically skipping forward. She kisses his cheek. "Hi."

"Hi. I got your flower. No, that's not what I—"

"It's lovely," she laughs again, smiling to cover the flush across her cheeks. "I brought dinner."

"Picnic?"

"You know it. Come on." She slips her elbows behind the handle of her door and shoves it open. Her room is slightly mussed. She staggers forward and drops the basket on her bed, looking at the pink canopy over it. So much better than navy. Like, way better.

Kristoff is standing at the door rather uncertainly. He looks too solid, too real, among the rosemaling of her blankets, her floor, her vanity, the little white daisy in his large hand. Something stirs across the lower half of her stomach. She bites her lip.

"What's wrong?" Kristoff asks, suddenly wary. He looks down at himself.

"Nothing—you're not wrong. Nothing's wrong. You're perfect. Wait, what?" She shakes her head, feeling her flush return. "No, I mean—it's my sister. I just—do you mind if we eat with her? Just dinner. She's just—all alone."

Kristoff looks thoughtful. She wonders about what. He shrugs. "Sure."

"Mmkay, I'll be—right back, just—don't move, don't move an inch—" she swings out into the hall, pauses, nearly runs back into his back, "I'm going to know if you move!"

"Go, Anna," he laughs.

Anna races out the door and down the hall and hops on the bannister. Down she slides, landing at a fast run and barreling into the doors of the dining hall. "Elsa, come on!" she shouts, but then she stops, because there's no one there now but a few servants, clearing the table, and Kai.

"Princess," he starts. "Is something the matter?"

"I just wanted to invite Elsa along, 'cause I'm an idiot, did you know?"

"I—"

"Don't answer that, never mind. Where'd she go?"

"She decided to take the rest of her meal in the library. She asked specifically not to be disturbed."

"Oh," Anna nods slowly. "Oh, ok. Well, I'm just going to—I'm going." Kristoff was waiting. Kristoff holding that delicate little flower, and were they ever going to get things right? she thinks.

And then wonders who she's thinking of.

Elsa leans out the open window. The air smells fresh, and wonderful. The sky twinkles overhead, calling to the city below, and everything is awake. She tugs the hood further over her head, feeling—

Wicked.

She takes a deep breath, looking behind into the dark folds of the library—the stacked parchment, the books, the fire in the grate. Then out at Arendelle. At the stars dotting the sky. She spreads her fingers. Ice slicks the roof. Elsa swings back up onto the window seat and out onto the ledge, so her feet are dangling in the air, and before she can think of anything else, she pushes off.

Forget.

Somewhere far away, Niels says, "Don't worry, brother. This shouldn't hurt."

Somewhere far away, Niels laughs.

Somewhere far away, Niels amends, "Much."