The last day

The castle seemed to buzz with life the day of the ball. Even though it was early, and even though Anna was normally a late riser, she could not ignore the noise coming from beneath her room. The chatter and movement of the servants stirred her to life. On any other occasion she would have been gleeful. However, as of now it was hard to feel anything but dazed. She lay immobile as the remembrance of yesterday filled her every particle. His half attempt at an embrace, and how he was going to kiss her.

To kiss her.

Where was that kiss she so desired when she needed it the most? All at once she felt bitter.

Of course now he decides to, she thought, swinging her feet to the floor, landing harder than necessary. She undressed carelessly from her nightgown; it took her a while to unbutton, as her fingers were shaking with fury.

She didn't ask for this! She didn't ask for any of this. If he was going to keep playing her like this, she'll make sure he's sorry by the end of it. After all, she wasn't some porcelain doll that he has the pleasure of twirling, round and round. It made her slightly sick, the fact that he might be feeling pleasure in doing this to her. Right before departure too, as if he was determined to wreck the current image she had of him.

She stopped and did a once over near the mirror. She frowned.

All things considered, if she was honest with herself she would admit she didn't know what sort of impression she had of him now. She didn't dare get her hopes up, but she wanted to believe - maybe it was the way he was with her this past few days - he was…genuine this time around. Brash yes, but at the very least, honest.

As she struggled into the dress she would be wearing for the ball, she wondered how she would approach him, or whether she should approach him at all. If he was doing all this for the twisted glee of seeing her reaction, she should act like it never happened. Talk to him as she normally would and give him no satisfaction that it got under her skin.

She patted down her dress and brushed through her unruly hair.

But if he was sincere?

Her fingers fumbled with braiding her hair into a complicated updo. However, not once did they twitch; they remained steady and firm.

It should make no difference to her. Those feelings he has now? He no longer has the right to feel them.

He had tried to kiss her.

Now, more than ever, she wished he hadn't.

It's half past eight when Hans wakes up with a bad headache. He gets up dully, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Something had bothered him awake, he's sure of it.

He sat up, trying to think as the sun rose ever higher and his room colored gold.

His mind drew a blank, but he was sure he messed something up yesterday. His head wouldn't stop throbbing, and moreover his dream last night took an unexpected turn for the worse.

He dreamt about his mother.

Or, at the very least, who he thought of as the late Queen of the Southern Isles.

See, he's never met her.

It was very hazy. No matter how much he screw tight his eyes, her barely there image refuses to come back. He knew she was there, just a little out of reach but there all the same. Her presence didn't alarm him, and he didn't think much of it at the time. But now, somewhat conscious, he had to admit it was mystifying. Because the dream wasn't about her at all.

The dream was about him.

When Hans was a month old, he had multiple nursemaids. He was hard to care for, fussy and sensitive to nearly everything. From the start, nobody came to see him - nobody celebrated the birth of the newborn Prince. They were too busy attending the burial of his mother. The nursemaids were his only company, but they did their jobs in turns. Daily rotations, shifting in and out like gears of a clock. By the time he was one, he called each and every one of them mama. He stopped when they gave him a stern look.

When Hans was five, he saw the King for the very first time. The man with the crown on his head was passing through the halls with other young men wearing high collars. They always seemed busy, even during those rare times Hans crossed paths with them. As usual, the maid with him would usher him along to his next lesson, but not before bowing deeply to the royal group.

He spent much of his time indoors, as he couldn't venture out too far because of his condition. He seemed quick to be short of breath, and the slightest amount of running winds him. He did try multiple times though, sneaking away in what he thought as nonchalantly as he could, but there always seems to be men and boys in fancy clothing calling for the maids to rein him back in. He later heard the staff address them as Prince so-and-so, or Prince something-or-another. He had to settle for watching them fence or ride through the windows of the vast library.

When Hans was seven, his tutor was pleasantly surprised to see him have a knack for understanding geography, mathematics, history and English. As an experiment, his instructor gave him materials far more advance each session.

"You don't find this hard at all?" the teacher asked one day, grading Hans' paper. Today they continued to study the Norwegian language, in which the little prince made a fair amount of mistakes. Yet considering his age, it was still remarkable.

"It's okay," Hans said dully.

"I'm quite happy with your results. It took longer for all your brothers to learn up to this level. Not one of them, at your age, could understand this so fast. I'm impressed."

The boy continued to study the royal portrait that hung on the hallway. He didn't seem to have heard his teacher at all.

It was a mistake leaving the library door ajar. Often, the young prince's mind seemed to escape his lessons, and he had a longing look to be far away. The instructor made to shut the door, until he saw what Hans was looking at.

It was a royal portrait of the King and the late Queen of the Southern Isles.

"Now," he said while closing the door shut, blocking it from view, "let's get back to the lesson. You've made a mistranslation again, young master…"

It took a while, but reaching the double digits signified a turning point. Hans health got better and he was allowed to go outside for longer periods.

When Hans was ten, he was taught to shoot. It took him three days, from mid-morning to noon, to hit a bulls eye on the target. Compared to his brothers, that set a new record. The current best managed the same task within the span of a week. Hans could have sworn he heard mutterings about his accomplishment, but every time he wanted to talk to the other princes about it, they had already gone ahead.

When Hans was eleven, he went on his first hunt. He had a small party with him, and the person leading them was an older Prince, his brother named-

By the end of the hunt, Hans shot down two birds, three squirrels, and a fox. He could have sworn, as he held the gun to the nervous thumping of his little heart, that the older Prince examined his prizes with content.

Later on during that same year, much to his confusion, the tenth, eleventh and twelfth in line refused to past him the salt at dinner, or visit the stable, or practice french with him. It was like they wanted nothing to do with the thirteenth Prince. When they thought he was out of the earshot, they proceed to call it the "invisible game."

When Hans was twelve, he was shipped away to the navy.

It was an order from the King, his father, who really didn't seem to care much at all. He got the news from the ninth brother, who was curious as to why he didn't already know.

"But his Majesty did say…"

Hans was always the last to know. It was a small affair getting his things ready, because all he could remember from that night was buzzing in his ear, cold numbness as hands that seemed to be his folded and packed, and his body setting foot on the ship.

The year seem to go by sluggishly. It's like time had halted, or maybe it was just him. He went as he pleased, learned and expanded his knowledge of warfare and command. Slowly, his body changed, and really, if anything, it was all for the better. He loved the sea, the travel, working knots, taking fire.

He soon discovers his talent with swords.

And if nothing else, he was doing something; his peers said nobly: "Enemies of the Southern Isles need to be vanquished by the first line of defense."

As he grew skillful with money and trade, sometimes he wondered wistfully, if the King knew of his deeds, and if he was rising to his father's expectations.

Days grew longer still, with everything crammed in all at once. On his spare moments he thinks of home. There was strangers all around him, because he hardly knows the men aboard, even if they knew him.

"Prince Hans," they'd say, while placing him on a pedestal in which he was force to look down from.

He can't say he's happy, but it might just be one of the better things that could have happened to him. The thing he yearned for, he couldn't say.

But there must have been some truth in always being alone.

When Hans was thirteen, he had come home for a small break after much travel.

He heard rumors about a wild horse just beyond the forest.

"Oh yeah," said one stable boy to another, "it's the most fierce thing I've ever seen. Wild as anything goes, and can't be tamed. You heard that bloke from the west wing? He's a horse tamer, and just last week he broke his neck trying to ride the crude thing."

"I think they should just let it be," said the other. "No sense of getting any more. I mean, just look at all this shi-"

"You don't understand," the older male shook his head sagely, "You never seen it - It's a thing of beauty. Don't forget how fast it can go - I've never seen a horse that could compare with its speed."

Hans waited until nearly noon for them to be done. As easily as ever, he managed to slip in, unnoticed. Borrowing a horse from the stables, he set forth.

It was a little hard going without dinner, and by nightfall he was ready to go back. Admittedly, it was poorly planned on his part; he hadn't packed so much as a torch. But he assumed, maybe a bit too arrogantly, he would capture the beast before supper. He was the best tracker in the family, or so his party had said occasionally. He went stumbling back home, with various cuts and bruises, his borrowed horse not faring much better.

The only thing that consoled his injured pride was that nobody asked any questions, as nobody was waiting on him. He sneaked back to his room, careful not to disturb anyone's slumber.

A whole week went by and he was still unsuccessful. His traps were untouched and the horse proved tricky to track down. He's close though; yesterday he found a trail of hooves tracks on sodden dirt that led deeper into the woods.

By the eighth night, he had no choice but to switch horses. The borrowed one he kept riding on was strangely getting heavier, and what's more, it grew tired easily and had to take breaks. Hans was beginning to think it's had enough of him as well.

Then again, he thought brushing its mane, I'd be sick too if I had to keep wake up for some stranger.

It whined once and held its back to him.

"I said I was sorry…" he muttered impatiently, holding oats up to calm it. By then a party of stable boys and a veterinary physician came and ushered him out.

He switch to a darker steed. If he's not mistaken, this particular horse belonged to his brother, Prince-

It was a tougher challenge riding an unfamiliar horse with a bag of supplies slung at his chest. For an hour they went without stopping until they reached a recognizable stump. Hans lit his torch and kneel down to see that one of his traps was set off. He traced the hoof print next to it, to discover the earth had yet to harden. It was fresh.

"Come on, we can't be far," he urged, tugging the reins of the black steed, who looked mournfully at the bag of uneaten apples slung across his shoulders.

The roots began to twist haphazardly around the grass, the trunk of the trees growing thicker. They had to be careful not to trip and fall. After some time, Hans reached a point where his horse refused to follow. No matter how much he tugged, the stallion resisted.

"What is the matter with you?" he huffed. He was so close he almost didn't care if the stupid horse decided to stay. He'll make the full trip on his own. Just when he set to do exactly that, he heard rustling to his left.

He turned around curious, and eyed a bush.

It took him a moment to understand, and when he did, he jolted back. Heavy breathing was coming from it. He tried to step away, as fast as he could, but there was hardly any time. He stumbled and fell, his supplies scattering everywhere. The wild horse he's been seeking erupted forth, with its front two legs flailing dangerously close to his face. His own stallion seemed to realize there was a threat, and swayed, unable to decide whether to fight or flee.

He wanted his black steed to do defend him, but at that moment it turned and trotted away. Hans felt his heart leap to his throat before a dreadful sinking feeling submerge his fallen form. He waved his torch around wildly, forgetting completely about the sword that hung across his waist.

He rolled over quickly, and not a moment too soon. A single hoof hit the ground with so much force he could feel the vibrations. It landed just where he was moments ago. He scrambled to his feet, and unsheathed his sword-

Only for it to be knocked out from his hands. Frantic, he dived the same direction, grasped the hilt, and barrel rolled out of the way. The horse stayed in one place, whiny loudly. For some reason it stood still at a particular spot, not daring to chase after him. It's hooves dug on the grass menacingly, it's beady black eyes continued to follow Hans' movements.

He could run. Now was his chance, while the horse was limping, undecided-

Limping?

Then he saw it - the hind leg of the beast was bruised. Right now there was the perfect opportunity to escape. He would probably catch up with his stallion even, and ride back to the castle before the sun rose.

That would have been the more pleasant, easier route. But his pride seemed fixed, and the thought of going back empty handed got the better of him.

No matter how he sliced it, now was also the perfect time to capture the creature. If he played his cards right, he could very well wear it out and take it back home. The thought of success gave him new found strength, and he approach the horse despite every instinct telling him otherwise.

He rose both hands up tentatively, slowing his steps and making eye contact. The nearer he got, the more the animal hooved the dirt nervously. Finally, he was within range to stroke its muzzle. He let out a sigh of relief when it allowed him to, and quickly reach out with his other hand.

Perhaps he was too eager; his abrupt movement allowed the moonlight to shine unceremoniously on the metal of his sword. The horse veered back hastily, and then proceed to kick him straight on his chest.

It knocked the wind out from him. Before he could register the pain, he was in a haze of dizziness. His body felt far away, and the only thing he knew was that he was sprawled flat on his back. Above him was a great terrible shadow. He could barely see, could barely think-

In a drug like state, he pulled out his sword and held the hilt close to his chest. It was shaking, he could barely hold it right.

He was going to die. He felt it more than anything, the fact that he was going to get stomped to death made him give out an anguish howl before he used the last of his strength to thrust the pointed edge forward.

Drops of hot liquid hit his face as the sword pierced straight into the horse's barrel. The animal gave a wounded cry and staggered wildly. Horrible, horrible noises issued from its mouth for minutes on end, and Hans was forced to hear, if not see the creature die a slow painful death. Hans retched twice during it. Only when it stopped moving did he pull the sword out, which shone wickedly with blood. His chest ached, and when he unbuttoned his jacket, he saw an angry red hoof imprint. Just as he gathered everything and set off to leave by foot, he once again heard a whiny. For a second he thought it was the dead horse, but plucking up the last of his courage, he pushed back a fair distance away from the bush and saw a small colt.

It looked like a miniature of what he realized now with appalling sickness: its mother. It was fierce enough for a horse not more than four years of age, but by dawn's break he broke into it. With both the colt roped by the neck and supplies at hand, he found his earlier steed drinking by a small creek and rode it back. The smaller horse tittered to keep up with his stallion's pace, but at last they made made it back to the stables.

There he discovered precisely why he had to change horses; the horse he rode for a week earlier was actually a mare. She had given birth to a newborn the same night.

He watched, as she struggled to nurse the foal. A heavy weight seem to fall on top of him, as he realized exactly what he deprived the once wild colt of - he had killed its mother. The heavy guilt still churned, days on after, as he brushed, fed and watered it. Unconsciously, perhaps that feeling never did go away, even when he was grown.

Six months later, when they truly became rider and steed, he named it Sitron.

When Hans was fifteen, he was at last old enough to participate in various hearings and councils. When he visits home from time to time, with nothing much to do, it became apparent there were much better ways to preoccupy his time. His brothers agreed on his competence, and if they heard correctly, the thirteenth in line was currently under the wing of the state admiral.

Under the condition he was not allowed to speak, Hans accepted gladly to watch the ordeals. He experienced first hand the judgement made by his brothers, as their absolute words settled even the manner of death with the criminals. Their cool, crisp voices rung during trial, and still yet was the little prince's fascination with how neat and orderly the procedure was: a number and seal stamped, and then grown men thrown into a dingy cell. It was a type of power he both feared and revered. For a while he was content in sitting back and watching his brothers carry out the good will.

Similarly, the council allowed him to get a small glimpse of the King. Discussions ranged from the mundane - whether or not to tax certain things - to intricate plannings - this kingdom shall be an ally against the enemy. Some individuals they could afford to lose, while others came with a price too high. To wage war right now would be economically unfeasible…

Then came the day he messed up everything for himself.

A visitor came to the Southern Isles around late winter, when the exportation of the country was at its highest. The stranger was a short, seedy older fellow who was balding but had an impressive amount of facial hair. He said he was from Weselton.

Hans heard a few interesting things about Weselton from his tutor, before the royal guards and the King arrested the instructor for teaching things that proved to be heresy towards the church. The idea of science over religion was still planted firmly into Hans' mind, several year over into adulthood.

Just like how this idea never left him: Weselton was nothing more than a conniving country, much like a leech, latching on wealthy kingdoms to exploit its riches.

Although he always had two burly men flanked on either side of him for physical protection, the Duke of Weselton was not protected from his own careless slipping of words. He had a bad habit of muttering things under his breath - things that could ruin him, and fortunately, Hans caught it all.

Unfortunately for him, he was fifteen and lacked credibility. He ought to have known that it was his words against another, more important figure, one who had far more years of experience in commerce and politics. The thought never occurred to him that rather than looking gallant during the big reveal at the council, he'd look foolish with his outlandish claims.

The Princes stare at him, some tight lipped, others with an amused air, or otherwise alarmed. For the whole of five seconds, Hans felt his confidence slip away, as there was no agreement or even questions as to how he got the idea rooted in his head. Somebody coughed at the far side of the room, and one of the Princes leaned over to the Duke of Weselton to apologize for the thirteenth's extremely rude behavior.

"Pay no mind to it," the Duke said, but all the while his eyes never left Hans. A tiny smirk, hidden by his beard irritated Hans just so. "I'm sure you royals will have better control over your tongues the next time around. That is, if there is one. I would rather take my business elsewhere if that's the case."

His wheedling voice was just enough to draw all the Princes to try to convince him otherwise. Hans felt glares being shot across at him, but he was so blind sided he could hardly react. Once the dipped quill met the parchment, it was over.

When the King was told of Hans' outburst, the Prince was called into the throne room days later.

Hans never thought there would be a day when fear consumed him completely. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that he had never spoken to the King before; the unknown made it that much more frightening.

As he walked in, a cold feeling of dread settled in the pit of his stomach as he locked eyes with the King who sat regally on the throne. The King had a set of brisk, calculating eyes that pierced him numb. His aging face, once handsome, looked as if it was carved from marble. As Hans got nearer, the height between the two men got more pronounced, because even though the King was sitting, the throne was elevated just so that Hans had to dip his head back to get a decent look at the older man's face. He bowed, unsure what to do, and waited for his father's acknowledgement.

He never did get to raise his head again.

From that moment on, the silence remained so thick Hans didn't know how to cut in. All he felt were a pair of cold eyes gazing on to his hunched back, while his own flickered to stare determinedly at the floor with shame. It stretched so long, the quietness like a dull nagging pain.

Finally, when he couldn't stand it anymore, he gave a small cough and raised his head a fraction of an inch. One passing look between them was enough for Hans to bubble forth and try to explain himself: the possible treason, the schemes and lies, the crown-

Many years later, he would not remember what he said for verbatim, but he could soundly hear, in absolute clarity, the first and last thing his father ever said to him.

"Will neither stand a chance nor amount to anything," his father seethed, before he died, four years later, when Hans was still at sea.

Of course his father meant the crown; Hans was thirteenth in line for it. So why was he putting in the effort the next in line should be giving? The truth of it stole any defense he wanted to give.

He'd never be king.

He overstepped a boundary that was clear to everybody else but invisible to him. God, he was stupid if he ever thought his input mattered. He kneeled, still full of humiliation that he didn't want to look up even if he could.

And that was it. The King got up, in one fluid motion, passed him without so much as a glance back. It didn't matter if he was a Prince. At that moment he was a boy standing in a room too big for him.

Shortly after, he was sent back to sea again. He came back only to see them put his father to the ground, and a brother he barely knew crowned.

When Hans was nineteen, he had already led the navy to a handful of successful victories. It made little sense that there should be anyone with a position higher than him when it came to the sea. The state admiral dutifully backed down, and for once the whole kingdom quietly rejoiced for the commander they've been waiting for. Of course, his name escaped them, but they've heard stories. Hans remained fair-minded with his new found position, however small. Whether or not he was satisfied was a different story.

Letters of communication with the current King was a monthly thing. Important arrangements and follow ups were all decided by the benevolent ruler, those in which Hans had no choice but to agree. It didn't matter if most of them could never hold a candle to Hans' plans or decisions, that if made possible, would have brought more success. He remained tight lipped and signed his letters dutifully as always: "Long live the King."

When Hans was twenty one, he heard the tale of the two sisters of Arendelle. It was months before the elder became of age, which would be closely ensue with her coronation. He got word of it from the letters written by the King's advisers. They told him to mark the date, and when it came, introduce himself and give good name to the Southern Isles. The fourth brother would come forward shortly after and pursue for her hand in marriage.

As Hans read this, he couldn't stop the gears in his head from churning, and although he wrote in agreement, his thoughts lied elsewhere.

Four months after his birthday, Hans docked his ship at the harbor of the Kingdom. Arendelle had that balmy air and sun bathe look about it. It had the bustling people, the air of excitement.

What a country to rule over.

He slipped on his gloves, straighten his boots, and saddled up on Sitron. With striking vigor, he set off, wondering exactly how to approach the Queen. To court her would be no easy task, but was it wrong of him to already envision the crown, so neatly placed on his head?

He patted Sitron gently to get the horse going, but no sooner did it start moving did it slam breast first into someone.

That someone falls back in an instant, landing on a small rowboat. Because of the sheer momentum, it slides over the wooden planks and almost falls into the waters. Sitron - bless the clever stallion - slams his hoof to steady it in place.

"Hey!" The frustrated voice the carried from below him sound like it came from a woman. He peered at her, and saw that she had her skirt bunched up. Their eyes met, and her gaze softened.

"I'm so sorry. Are you hurt?" he called out, already envisioning her as one of the many he would rule over. It would not do if a civilian of his Kingdom was hurt.

As he climbed onto the small row boat to fetch the pretty girl, he was caught between concern and exasperation. The latter because although he had no uncertainty about his abilities, there were no room for setbacks on a day as important and fleeting as one celebrating coronation. He takes her hand, nevertheless, and upon closer inspections, sees that she has a rather kind face.

"Hey. I-ya, no. No. I'm okay."

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"Yeah, I just wasn't looking where I was going. But I'm okay," she said, all the while biting her lower lip slightly. "I'm great, actually."

"Oh, thank goodness," he said, helping her to her feet.

She looks at him with ardor that he's never experienced before.

"Prince Hans, of the Southern Isles." Introductions must be made, even briefly. But really, he had ought to be at the gates by now, looking for the would be Queen.

He was eager as everybody else was to get into the castle. He must see to that he meets the Queen and offers her a dance. Enraptured by his own planning, he almost misses what she's says entirely.

Her eyelashes flutter. Her hairs looks soft and her body inviting. Youthful freckles dots her skin, and it occurs to him how pleasant her voice sounds. She gives a sweet curtsey and even sweeter words. He'll never forget how he stumbled across such a rare opportunity. Her lips part, and it brings him such bliss to hear her say:

"Princess Anna of Arendelle."

It was near eleven when Hans' head continued to reel for sometime before flashes of yesterday came back to him, bit by bit. He groaned, willing himself to forget. When it came down to it, it was absolutely pathetic. He wish he hadn't made such an impulsive decision, wish he would just go back to hating the Princess entirely.

A small knock on his door got him to break cleanly off his muddled musings. Maybe it was her-

His door opened slowly, and he let out a small breath of disappointment before turning away. The delegate closed the door without much noise and stood primly to face him.

For a while they said nothing, both of their eyes fixated on Hans picking out a cravat.

"I didn't see you at breakfast," the delegate began, picking off imaginary dust from his shoulders. He moved to sit on a chair, and eyed the snow globe that lays on the table.

"I wasn't hungry…" Hans muttered, barely audible as he chose a simple white necktie.

"She wasn't there either."

Hans paused for a bit, before feigning that he didn't hear it. Rustling ensued, and he wanted nothing more than privacy to brood about what was just said.

"Now, I can't help but wonder about that."

"Are you implying something?" Hans ask, not wanting to beat around the bush.

The delegate squinted his eyes into slits. He cocked his head to one side.

"Brother, dear - I hope you realize the woman you are currently chasing after is the same you tried to kill a year ago. Let's not be difficult."

The certainty within the delegate's voice caught him so off guard, Hans didn't know how to respond. And with that, he gives himself away.

"I'm not…I don't-"

"Good," the delegate said, laughing softly. "I was beginning to think you've grown attached to the Princess, right under the Queen's nose too. But then again, you and I both know you can't love. You don't even know what it is."

Hans said nothing. He knew better than to rise to the bait. The delegate continued to plow on, this time changing his direction.

"Father never did love mother," he said, while plucking the snow globe off the table and swirling it around. "But he did love what she stood for. Its a shame she died so young - just as it was a shame that he could have had her first."

Hans, despite his anger, felt quizzical at the older male's choice of words.

"What?"

The delegate continued, slowly and deliberately, "It's strange, I'll admit, that we all called her mother when she was anything but. The whole kingdom knew. Everybody did. She only ever had one son."

The delegate looked pointedly at Hans. "Ironic that he's the last to know."

Hans didn't know what to make of it. He knew what the delegate was saying, but all the same it was hard to grasp. Words floated around, in tangled heaps, and he stood, forgetting completely about the cravat. His eyebrows knitted together. The thought was so absurd, it must be some elaborate joke.

"You have her eyes," he said, and simultaneously, the hazels met the greens. The images of his brothers weaved in and out of his head, but not one of them shared his eye color. His father, hard and unforgiving, had sharp blues.

He felt his breath hitch as memories of his mother's portrait came circling back, how the artists always captured her lovely lens, green like grass and leaves.

"Ever since she left, father did act in the most peculiar of ways. It's almost as if…" His mouth curled into a sneer, "He did keep you down for more than one occasion."

"Will neither stand a chance nor amount to anything," his father had seethed, before he-

"This has nothing to do with anything that's happening right now," Hans said, forcing his voice calm. "You expect me to believe this?"

"It has everything to do with right now," the delegate cried suddenly, leaping to his feet. "And you want to know why? Because you were born with everything - armed with the most skill and wit and looks. Nobody could fit the role of a King more than you can.

"Perfect, clever, and yet a no name prince. Imagine father's anger that the most competent of his sons was the most least likely to get the throne. The most worthy of heir is the one he looked down on frequently."

Hans didn't know how it happened, but in the next three seconds, he had the delegate pinned to the wall.

"I'm not in the mood for jokes," he growled. The anger blinded him, made him completely forget that once they both got home, he'd be at his brother's mercy again.

"Neither am I, but here it is, right in front of me no less." The delegate did not look alarmed.

"Why would I lie to you about this? Denying the Queen as my mother if she were…it'll be too shameful, and at what expense? I'm doing you a favor simply because our Kingdom can not have you mess up again."

A twinge of humiliation was added to the fray.

"And this time it's out of sentimental, foolish reasons. So I'll tell you again - you are not to pursue her, or it'll be both our heads on the mantle if the Ice Queen finds out, and worse yet, our King…"

Although Hans would very much like to throttle the delegate, it would not be wise. He would rather deny than admit his steady feelings of involvement with the Princess. The shock of being the only son to the late Queen of the Southern Isles allowed his grip on the delegate's collars to lessen, and the older man pushed him aside to head for the door. When he spoke, his voice lost the taunting flavor and came out short and clipped:

"You were conceived out of need like the rest of us. The only difference is that it wasn't from a whore. Save yourself from the silly notion of crazy yearning and come back to reality…father would be very ashamed if his most capable son put the Kingdom in further red out of something he can't even begin to understand."

He jerked open the door, and both men heard distant hums of the castle as the people within got ready for the night. Somewhere inside, the Princess was there, getting ready too.

As the noise reverberated, it only served to emphasize the finality that would come with night. They continued to eye one another; the delegate surveying Hans with muddled pity.

That poor unfortunate bastard, he thought.

"Oh Hans, if only you were born first," he said, before turning and shutting the door without a sound.

But Hans heard differently.

Oh Hans, if only you didn't kill mother…

When Hans was twenty two, the Princess of Arendelle fell in love with him, but he didn't love her back.

When Hans was twenty three, he felt a strange pull that gravitated him towards her again, and he wishes with all the fiber of his being she still feels the same way.