Chapter 11: Fury

"We found Everett."

"Are you certain this time? I grow tired of chasing geese."

"Report just came in. The descriptions match. Same scars. Same disfigurement."

Contemplative silence.

"Where is he?"

A humourless laugh.

"Turns out he never left Corona."

"Very well, Spymaster. Bring him to me."

The soft sound of a door clicking shut.

He cannot see.

It is dark. A thick, wet fog wraps around him, saturating his clothing, chilling his skin. He walks forward tentatively, his footsteps muffled in the heavy air.

His aren't the only footsteps he hears.

He feels something else moving through the darkness. Something stalking him. Instinctively, he clenches his hand. He feels the familiar cold of the hilt of his sword as he closes his fist.

A force slams into his back, knocking him onto his hands. He whirls around as he feels a fist smash into his chest. He raises his sword arm in defense and feels it met by another blade. He scuttles backward on his hands, trying to escape his hunter's reach.

He hears the blade whistling down toward him again. He instinctively angles his sword to parry.

He feels his sword shatter.

Thomas awoke to find himself drenched in cold sweat. Gritting his teeth, he pulled the covers off his body in a single swift motion, wincing at the creaks of complaint made by his frozen sheets. He sat on the edge of his bed, back heaving with heavy breaths.

That fateful night in Corona was over three years ago. Almost a thousand nights had passed since. Yet the figure of the assassin still loomed like a spectre in his subconscious, pouncing when his mind was idle or fatigued. The nightmares haunted him like a plague.

He glanced over at the grandfather clock on the wall.

Almost six o'clock. Practice in an hour. Might as well grab some breakfast before heading down.

He sighed. Gerda was going to throw a fit at the state of his bedding once she found out.

He quickly changed out of his bedclothes before leaving his room, carefully closing the door behind him. He found Sir Gingivere standing at his usual post by the doorway. The knight tilted his head quizzically as Thomas brushed by, noticing his charge's stark demeanor.

"Ah… another nightmare, Master Thomas?"

"Don't want to talk about it," the prince muttered.

The palace was still steeped in the lethargic calm of the night before. The kitchens, however, were already bustling with activity. Thomas leaned in the doorway with an apologetic smile.

"Could I grab a bit of whatever's for breakfast? I have training with the Captain in an hour."

Noticing the presence of the Crown Prince, the kitchen hands paused their work and bowed hastily. The chef on duty smiled, filling a small crystal plate with bread and smoked meats.

"Of course, Your Highness. Don't eat too much, now—not if you're going to a lesson with Captain Roderick!"

Thomas accepted the platter with a laugh. "I learned that lesson a long time ago."

The chef smiled again and bowed before disappearing back inside the kitchen.

Thomas walked down the hall and turned into the dining chamber. He sat down at the long, empty table, picking absentmindedly at his food as he thought of the ordeal ahead.

The winter sun gazed coldly down from a clear blue sky, illuminating the polished cobblestones of the courtyard in a sharp white glow. The Captain stood opposite Thomas, dressed in a light tunic despite the chilly air,. His hands were behind his back, his eyes fixing a stern gaze upon his pupil.

"Today will be a bit of experiential learning," Roderick began gruffly. "For the past months, I have taught you to wield the sword, how to stand, how to swing, how to block. Now it's time to put it to the test."

The Captain pulled his hands from behind his back, revealing the familiar wooden swords from Thomas's first lessons. He threw one to the prince, who caught it deftly. Roderick smiled.

"Simple rules. First one to land a hit wins."

Thomas barely had a chance to register the words before his mentor was upon him, slashing downward with terrifying speed. The prince tucked into a roll, hearing the wooden blade whoosh by his ear. He leapt upright in time to parry his mentor's second blow, backpedaling to avoid the next swing.

The Captain ran at him, an intent gleam in his eye. Thomas leapt to the side, circling his mentor warily.

"Come on now! Are you really so afraid of me?" The Captain twirled his practice sword mockingly.

Thomas gritted his teeth and lunged. He regretted the impulse immediately. His mentor easily caught his swing, twisting their interlocked swords until his arms were turned to a painful angle. A fist crashed into his gut, doubling him over as he struggled for breath.

He felt a light tap on his neck from the Captain's blade.

"You lose!" Roderick's voice was hard. "Get up!"

Thomas struggled to his feet, breathing hard.

"Not… not fair! I… I thought we were using our swords?"

"Nonsense! Do you think a real assailant would care about sportsmanship? It is a matter of life or death, Highness!"

Roderick raised his sword. "Again!"

The Captain didn't wait for a response. Thomas barely had a chance to leap backward as his mentor's blade swiped inches from his midriff. Roderick darted forward, slashing again and again. Thomas staggered under the barrage.

"Back! Parry! That's it, keep at it!"

Thomas ducked under another swing from his mentor, chest heaving with exertion. He straightened himself, pouncing forward in an attempt to land a hit, but the Captain stepped aside with the speed of lightning, making his pupil trip from his own momentum. Roderick wasted no time, swooping low with a swift jab and landing Thomas flat on his back.

The Captain clucked, shaking his head in disapproval.

"Your frustration has made you too aggressive! You overextended and left yourself poorly defended. Real combat is not a game. You are forever the defender, Highness. Fight conservatively! Let your opponent make the mistakes."

The man extended a hand to the fallen prince. Thomas took it slowly, pulling himself back to standing with difficulty.

"Had enough already?" His instructor's eyes gleamed with teasing light.

"Enough? Why, I'm still fit as a fiddle!" Thomas replied with a tight grin, trying to steady his staccato breathing.

The Captain nodded, the corner of his mouth tilting up in a knowing smile. The man sank back into his combat stance. Thomas did the same.

"En guard!" the prince cried, darting forward to cleave at his mentor's flank.

"I've hardly taught you actual sport fencing," the Captain commented, the wooden blade of his training sword already blocking his pupil's jab. "After all, it's only marginally useful in real combat."

The prince was too busy dodging his mentor's fierce counterattack to reply. He quickly retreated from another blow, suddenly reversing direction and springing forward in a wild lunge, attempting to catch his adversary off guard. He saw a glimmer of surprise in his mentor's eyes as his arm jarred with the impact of his sword upon the flat of the Captain's blade. Thomas swiftly directed his instructor's hasty parry downward, turning his chest in preparation for the finishing swing.

But the Captain was faster than he could have imagined. Flinging his body back in a devastating slide, the man used his feet like a wedge against Thomas' legs. The Captain became the fulcrum; the prince, the lever. There was nothing Thomas could do to stop himself from somersaulting over his mentor's shoulder and slamming into the hard brick of the courtyard. The impact sent a shock of numb pain up his spine, knocking the air from his lungs.

"Did you not hear me the first time? Too aggressive!"

The Captain walked over calmly, raising his wooden sword for the final blow.

For a moment, Thomas considered giving up. He was worn out, sore in every joint and probably well bruised. Admitting defeat to his instructor would be a small price to pay for respite from this toil…

This is not a game.

With a strength he didn't know he had, the young prince rolled into a crouch, diving out of the path of the Captain's blade. Legs nearly buckling with the strain, Thomas forced himself upright, only to stare down the tip of his mentor's sword. He tried to back away, but his limbs were like lead pipes, landing him flat upon the floor once again. The tip of the practice sword moved relentlessly closer, mere centimetres from the young prince's nose. The Captain's moustache was curled in a goading smile.

As he scrambled across the cold cobblestones, Thomas felt a slow, dark pressure building in his chest. Suddenly, he was back in the sweltering Coronan night, a far more sinister figure looming over him, a far more deadly blade kissing his skin. He skittered backward on all fours, the same animal panic beginning to rise within him.

But there was something else this time. Something fiery and delicious, sending power surging through his limbs, casting everything into terrible clarity.

I will not be defeated.

There was a moment of deafening silence as the very air seemed to freeze. Then, a clap like the lashing of a thousand whips, the blast resounding off the courtyard walls as arctic gales howled across the once-tranquil courtyard. Through the screaming wind, Thomas heard a bellow of shock, tinged with unmistakable fear.

Abruptly, there was nothing but ice beneath him, exploding outwards from his outstretched hand in jagged fractals of destruction. Snowflakes and fragments of frost swirled in a vortex around him, obscuring his vision, catching in his hair and blowing it into wild shapes. There came an even louder crack from under the prince's feet. His ears popped as he felt the ice shift under his feet.

For a moment, it was as if he could feel the ice, feel its hunger as it consumed the air, the wild, primal power of the storm coursing from his very blood…

A stern, familiar voice carried to Thomas' ears in the chaos, straining to be heard above the roaring maelstrom.

"Your… Highness… THOMAS! STOP!"

The raw authority in his mentor's words snapped the young prince from his haze. Thomas blinked, looking at the storm around him in confusion. One by one, the snowflakes in the air froze in their motion, revealing the courtyard beyond.

Or, what was left of it.

He stood atop a dizzyingly tall pillar of jagged ice. Below, frozen waves thrust outward from him like ripples in a massive pond, each of them topped with wicked stalagmites. The stones of the courtyard floor had been torn apart, filling the gaps between the icy palisades with a sea of grey rubble. At the edge of it all stood the Captain of the Guard, sword arm raised in futile defense, staring up at his pupil in awe.

Abruptly, a spell of crippling fatigue overcame Thomas, staggering him under its weight. The prince swayed on unsteady limbs, teetering as his legs went limp beneath him. At that moment, the hard ice of the pillar seemed as soft as any bed. The frantic shouting of his mentor registered in his ears, but he didn't have the energy to make sense of the words.

Powerless to stop them, Thomas' eyelids drifted shut as the sweet darkness enveloped him.

"This is too much. It is as we feared."

"Your Majesty, you weren't there. Yes, it was terrifying, but it was magnificent. It was like witnessing the Queen's palace up on the North Mountain for the first time, only more… raw. He was a god up on that tower, Henrik. If that is what he has become capable of, isn't it a sure sign the training is working?"

"Such behavior is what we wanted to prevent!" The King took a deep breath, voice growing low and insistent. "Have you forgotten the Eternal Winter? The terror of the people, Elsa's own horror? His powers could destroy him!"

"Thomas is not the Queen! Where Her Majesty had fear, he has assurance, purpose, control. He can conquer his magic, become its master, have it bend to his will! Nobody will ever be able to touch him again."

For a moment, there was quiet. Then, Henrik's voice spoke again.

"Do not think you know Elsa. And do not think for a moment you know this power she shares with my son. There is a reason we dub it magic, Roderick. None of us understand it. Those who fear us, who fear the Snow Queen… well, their fear is well-placed. This power could be our undoing."

A long pause. A door clicked shut.

The first sensation that registered to Thomas was the comforting weight of soft, familiar sheets upon his skin. The next was the cool, slender fingers grasping his own. The young prince opened his eyes slowly, wincing at the powerful ache flaring in every muscle as he turned his body. His mother sat at his bedside, loose hair tumbling in platinum waves from her forehead. Her blue gaze locked with his, and she smiled delicately. But Thomas could only see the lines of red streaking his mother's eyes.

She had been crying.

"Glad you're awake," she whispered.

"Mother?" the young prince asked groggily, swallowing to clear the thickness of sleep from his throat. "What… what happened?"

"Well… you've been asleep for a long time. Also, suffice to say we'll be needing to re-pave the courtyard."

Thomas couldn't help but wince as the memories flooded back into his mind.

"Mother, I'm… I'm sorry. This… this is exactly what you were afraid of."

"Oh, on the contrary. You showed enough concentration, enough control over your magic to stop yourself before you could truly hurt someone. It's reassuring." Elsa's thumb gently kneaded the top of her son's hand, but her eyes betrayed her inner turmoil.

Thomas closed his eyes. "Mother… I see now, why you didn't want me to train with Captain Roderick. You were afraid of this."

His mother said nothing, but her grip upon the prince's hand tightened noticeably.

"I looked at your chess pieces," she said after a moment of silence. "They're beautiful."

Thomas forced a laugh. "Just small versions of Sir Gingivere. I haven't even gotten to the queens yet."

"You do that. After all, they're the strongest pieces on the board."

At that moment, there came a rapid knocking on the other side of the doors.

"Come in," Elsa said softly.

The doors swung open to admit Olaf's disembodied head, rolling into the room in a flurry of snowflakes. The snowman's eyes stared up at Elsa and Thomas as his head ground to a stop.

"Don't ask," he whispered loudly. A smile crept across the young prince's face on its own accord.

"He's awake!" Olaf's head shouted out to the open doorway.

Immediately, the entirety of Anna's side of the family tumbled into Thomas' bedroom, the redhead herself at their head. Olaf's hindquarters bobbed in the rear of the group.

"Tom!" his aunt exclaimed, wrapping him in a tight embrace. "Thank goodness you're alright!"

"Just tired," Thomas mumbled, self-conscious despite everything. "It's nothing."

Christopher chuckled. "Nothing! Tell that to Captain Roderick. Heck, tell that to the courtyard!"

Thomas felt his mother wince beside him. He shot his cousin a steely look.

"I didn't mean to cause property damage," he said evenly. But Christopher was waggling his eyebrows in such a ridiculous manner that Thomas could not remain upset at him.

The prince finally barked out a laugh. "Fine, maybe I meant it a little."

"But the Captain's such a nice man!" Annabeth exclaimed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. The dreamy look in her eyes only had Thomas laughing harder.

"If you think he is nice, you're dead mistaken, dear sister. That man is pure evil."

He glanced at his mother out the corner of his eye. Elsa's icy eyes were unreadable.

"But maybe he didn't quite deserve a storm thrown at him," the young prince added in a quieter tone.

"That was pretty intense," said Olaf, head now on its proper perch atop his torso. "It was like a little piece of Elsa's old storm on the fjord! Only more… spikey."

Thomas blinked. "You were watching?"

"Of course!" the snowman replied, as if the answer were obvious. "I watch all your classes. You really are getting good!"

"Olaf gets bored," Christopher explained with a shrug. "Not much for a snowman to do these days, apparently."

The young prince could think of no response to that. Alas, the flimsy atmosphere of cheer that had flared during the cousins' conversation quickly wilted in the cold silence.

"Food?" Thomas blurted, in an effort to keep the old wraiths of fear and uncertainty from making their return.

"What about it?" It was his mother's voice this time. The hint of mirth in the words lifted a weight from the young prince's shoulders.

"I'm famished." Thomas searched the six walls of his room for his grandfather clock. "What time is it?"

"It's about nine of the clock, past dawn," Elsa replied, obviously relieved to be discussing such a benign topic.

Thomas' eyes widened. "I've been out for that long?"

"You've been asleep for almost a day! It's no wonder you're hungry!"

His mother gave him a smile. A warm smile. A comforting smile.

"I'll go to the kitchens and see what's left from breakfast."

And with that, the Queen was gone.

Christopher patted at his chest in mock-horror. "How'd she get through us so fast?"

Anna chuckled. "She has a way with crowds." Her daughter laughed as well.

Thomas tried to lift himself into a sitting position but only managed to raise his head a few inches above his pillow before his screaming muscles gave out.

Annabeth chuckled at his efforts. "Stay down, trooper. You made quite the spectacle out there. I've never seen so much ice other than up on the North Mountain! Remind me never to make you angry."

The prince's smile turned into a grimace. His cousin's eyes flashed with concern.

"Did I say something wrong?"

Thomas was silent for a while. When he met Annabeth's gaze, his eyes were hard.

"I lost control, Annabeth. I was scared at first. But then… it was replaced by something else. I was just so determined to win!" Thomas swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. "I could have killed Captain Roderick! Do you understand?"

His cousin was frowning now. "Tom… you've always been in control of the ice. Are you saying you wanted to hurt Captain Roderick?"

Thomas shook his head helplessly. "No, of course not! But… I just couldn't let him win! Something about the way we were fighting just drove me over the edge. It was like… I felt like I was back in Corona again." His voice had dropped to barely above a whisper.

He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Thomas, don't." It was his aunt this time, her voice soft and soothing. "Whatever you did out there, you did to protect yourself. Your powers are growing, just like Elsa's did around your age. You just need to learn your new limits."

He couldn't help but feel calmed by Anna's smiling face. Her hand shook his shoulder playfully.

"Besides, you can't go worrying yourself right now. Doctor said you're more worn out than he's seen people after running full marathons!"

Thomas allowed himself to sink back into his pillow, closing his eyes. Still, something sat heavily in his chest.

"Is Mother cancelling my training?"

"I don't know, Tom. But you know what?" Anna's voice had dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "I overheard Roderick's discussion with your dad. He wants to keep teaching you more than anything else."

The prince felt the corner of his mouth lift in a smile. He heard his aunt's laughter, and for a moment he felt content.

It wasn't as if the King had been unaware of his son's growing potential. The magnitude of Thomas' magic had evidently been intensifying for years now. Yet when he had actually witnessed his son's limp form atop that tower, the courtyard lying in ruins below him, it was as if a spear of the ice had embedded itself into his very heart. That was his son. The boy who could destroy navies, single-handedly lay siege to entire kingdoms.

No matter how much he tried to reassure himself, the ancient troll's words all those years ago continued to propagate seeds of worry and doubt into Henrik's mind. After all, wasn't he cultivating in the boy the skill, the mindset to do whatever necessary to stay alive, no matter the cost? How much would it really take to change that belief to something darker? How long would it be until that mindset morphed into doing whatever necessary to vanquish all who opposed him?

Henrik hated himself. Hated himself for doubting his son. Hated himself for being the catalyst that sent Thomas down this uncertain path in the first place.

But had there been any alternative? Had he ever really had a choice? There was no denying it—if it came between Thomas' life or the lives of a thousand citizens in a foreign nation, his son would always come first. Always. Elsa might have it in her selfless heart for such a sacrifice, but deep in the King's own, he knew he couldn't ever forfeit Thomas.

So what was there to do?

Henrik screwed his eyes shut, burying his head in his arms upon the polished surface of his desk.

His enemy will be hatred…

The King's hands clenched into fists, trembling with frustration and despair.

"His birthday is coming in a week, you know," his wife's soft voice whispered in his ear.

Henrik started despite himself. He hadn't even heard her come in.

Elsa's gentle hand caressed his shoulder. "I've never known you to be such a worrywart."

The King squeezed his eyes shut, a sigh sliding between his teeth.

"What are we going to do, love?" he asked quietly. "I pity your parents now, Elsa. Pity them as only the empathetic can. How can you love someone so much, yet fear for them so dearly? Fear them so intensely?" He shook his head helplessly. "What are we going to do? What can we do?"

When there came no immediate reply, Henrik looked up to find his wife's icy blue eyes gazing intently into his own, a sad smile playing about her delicate lips.

"We give him the birthday he deserves. We invite all who can to come to celebrate our son's eighteenth year of life." Somehow Elsa's hand had found its way over his upon the tabletop, and now she gave it a light, reassuring squeeze. Her voice was softer. "He's growing into a man, Henrik. For better or for worse, we're going to need to let him choose his own path soon."

"You think I don't know that?" the King replied wearily. He was silent for a long moment.

"Damn that troll," he suddenly exclaimed, vehemence colouring his tone. "Damn him and his infuriating prophecy! When has Thomas shown any sign of hatred? When has he even shown a sign of abnormal anger? And yet he had to insist on hatred being our boy's undoing…"

"I know you're frustrated, love," Elsa interjected softly. "I'm scared, too. But we can't let this uncertainty cripple us. Not like… before."

Henrik grimaced at the thought.

"No, you're right," he returned slowly. "Never like before. If we can decide on anything, it's that locking him away can never be the solution."

His wife nodded.

"So what do we do?"

By her voice, the King knew she already knew his answer. Nonetheless, he took a long breath before replying.

"We trust him."