Elsa had forced Hans from her bed as soon as she woke and found herself, well, herself. No bond clouding her mind - nestled lovingly into Hans' side, limbs entwined. Despite the prevailing circumstances of remembering every intimate moment and word of adoration with clarity, she felt almost incensed and wanted him away.
Hans looked heartbroken.
Elsa then proceeded to reduce herself into a puddle of tears, incapacitated in the middle of her bedsheets, conflicted and sobbing. She's no idea why the tears felt like a disappointment, like she was yet again a failure.
And in all this Hans wouldn't leave (she even unleash her ice to make her point). Instead the man stubbornly settled himself at the side of her bed, wrapped in a blanket and knelt on the floor and patiently awaiting her storm of emotions to subside long enough for her to pick one. One for him to react to.
Elsa did eventually calm herself. She was ready to talk, rationally. Hans shared everything he knew, what had transpired the day before, what King Triton had said. Elsa remembered nothing of Uma, but something inside broke at the tale. Immediately Hans took Elsa into his arms, wrapping himself around her as she fell apart again.
Elsa was unprepared for how readily he alleviated her grief and anxiety. In the end she thawed her ice as her eyes drifted closed, the rhythmic drumming of Hans' heart soothing her restless mind and his steady hand charting circles, soothingly, across her back.
And then Hans, absolutely mortified, quietly tried to explain the origins of the sirens magic.
Upon learning that bit of information, Elsa settled upon anger as the dominant emotion. But Hans wouldn't rise to the occasion and give her anything satisfying to fight with or against - making her feel even more like a monster. (You idiot! Don't you see, I can't. You've gone and enchanted one who can't 'mate', Elsa did not say.)
Elsa was so taken back by how stubbornly Hans was staying put despite the return of hoarfrost which coated every surface of the room and the livid icy sorceress before him, that when he abruptly suggested she may feel a little better after a warm bath she had agreed - finding herself scooped into his arms and carried to her bath once it was drawn.
She let him. (No idea why.)
The sensation of being carried in his arms, her skin pressed to his, was so comforting she felt as if she'd melt into him before they got to the tub. Then he had to go and ruin it when he dared to brush his lips to the crown of her head, a chaste and endearing gesture, a soft apology murmured into her hair.
With that she remembered her preference for being angry with him, and had to regain some semblance of control over the situation. The lack of perfumed oil in her bath water was how. Evidently. In this moment, she could control that. (She's being petty.)
Hans' back is bare and to Elsa as he stands, soft lamp light blurring his edges. He's studying the tray of exotic perfumes and botanical oils set beside the claw foot tub. The additional jars of salts and talc, silver scoops laid aside to measure with, seem to confuse him further as he lifts the lid of one to test its aroma.
Elsa can faintly detect mint in the air. One of Anna's favorites.
She watches, somewhat shamelessly at this point, as the corded muscles of Hans' shoulders, as well as muscles located distally, flex and shift with each movement he makes. She thinks of the Italian marbled statues she's seen on display, the classical studies of nude form, carved such that they portray the precipice of motion.
Hans doesn't seem the least bit embarrassed to be naked as the day he was born, right before her. Elsa won't deny she's rather uncomfortable in her own nudity, but refuses to cover and hide herself from him. If he's not feeling shy, she won't be, either. Not now, anyway.
Hans puts the jar down, running a hand through his hair that won't stay in place. Another auburn lock slips across his forehead when he picks up another bottle, an oil. The indecisive Prince needs a haircut, Elsa decides.
Just pick one already...
"I want the French one." Elsa says, impatient. After a pause, "The purple bottle."
Hans immediately selects the small purple bottle, ornate and faceted - a work of art in and of itself. The perfumed bath oil was gift from her late mother. She's rarely used it, although it is absolutely her favorite - gardenias and jasmine. It reminds her of summer, of happiness, of a wish made with a held-back breath.
"Hm," Hans' voice hints at humor as he turns the purple bottle in his hand. "Given that the perfumery's name is written in French, I probably would have been able to figure that out on my own. But thank you for the hint."
What?
Elsa's arms freeze, fingers stopping the weave of her loose hair atop her head, to keep up and out of the water. She narrows her eyes in disbelief, "You're teasing me?"
Elsa can now hear his grin, "Yes." He turns. There is a smile.
"You really find that wise?"
Hans pretends not to hear her, instead pulls the crystal stopper out and gently inhales. His expression becomes complex - lost in a memory. His mouth pulls like sucking pith. Hans seems to struggle finding words, his eyes pained as he sets a soft smile.
"It's beautiful." Hans says finally, holding something else back.
"Yes." Elsa says, genuinely in no mood for conversation. She's feeling rather shrew-like.
When she continues to simply stare at him, not adding further remark, Hans murmurs, "You wore this at your coronation?"
Elsa blinks. Then shrugs as she settles back into the tub, bubbles separating in her wake. She has no recollection of what perfumed oil she may have used that day. She was too focused on how disastrous the day may go. Would go. Did go.
"I don't recall. Why would you?"
Hans looks sheepishly at her, "I'm unsure. Perhaps overwhelmed with the return of my sense of smell? Under-the-sea, scent is very different." Hans shakes his head in apology, "But. This reminds me of you."
"Appropriate that it does, as it is mine." Elsa sinks further into the water, relishing the way it scalds at her skin. Hans was right, this may help tame her and wash away a bit of the anger, leaving behind a very tired and achy Elsa. She rests her head back on the lip of the tub and sighs indulgently.
Hans chuckles, adding the perfumed oil to the water for her. Swirling gently, he sends faint waves sloshing against the side.
She's no earthly idea why she's allowing any of this, allowing him to care for her - guilt, probably. Not that she should be the one to feel culpable for this awful predicament. Hans enchanted her, not the other way around. But there is this terrible sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach each time she thinks about how she's behaving - hot and cold with little in between. Again, a bit shrew-like, if she's honest. And she does feel guilty.
She takes a deep breath then murmurs, "I'm sorry that I'm not being...very nice. This is difficult."
"No, none of this is yours to own," Hans sighs as he sits beside her on a stool, arms pressed to his knees. He twines his fingers together in contemplation. "Your apology is wildly out of place, Your Grace, truly."
"Regardless. I am sorry." Elsa studies his profile, the way the shadows play off his features. He is trying so hard to do the right thing.
Elsa lets her weary eyes drift closed as tendrils of longing unfurl in her veins, for him. "I am grateful for my life, despite how strange it may have become to navigate."
Elsa wonders where the sudden yearning of desire came from as she hears Hans rise, humming his agreement to her words. She cracks an eye open to watch as he retrieves a glass of water from her bedside to offer her as he returns to sit at the stool. She wonders suddenly about the way her feelings towards him wax and wane like the tide.
Elsa waves him off silently, motioning for him to help himself to the water.
That's all she needs, Anna to discover first thing in the morning that Prince Hans of the Southern Isles had bedded her. Or she bedded him. Before the marriage accord could even be accepted officially by the Southern Isles.
Ugh...
She says, "You don't have to stay. You should probably return to your own quarters."
Hans pulls a strange face, staring down the contents of her glass after taking a sip. He swallows, following with a second sip which leads to an even more alarmed expression.
It only takes a moment for Elsa to process what Hans may be thinking, and at that she whoops a surprised laugh, genuine and loud, at him. It almost hurts with it's intensity, the laughter causing her to forget herself entirely - especially after the highly annoyed glare Hans shoots her. She laughs harder then, having to gasp for breath.
Hans sets the offending glass of water down.
"It's sweet, isn't it?" Elsa manages eventually. She can't keep a straight face.
Hans looks bewildered, "I suppose that's how I would describe it. I thought it was simply water."
Elsa pulls herself from the tub, accepting Hans' aid with the cloth to wrap herself. She's still giggling as she turns to face Hans, who is now smiling rather confused, awaiting Elsa to share her joke. He has a nice smile.
Elsa's cheeks ache with her wide grin, "It is just water. Fresh water. I had the same odd perception of taste after you saved me - the strangeness wears off in a few days."
Hans shoots a funny glance at the glass, testing another sip. "Why does it - ?"
"No idea. I am guessing something about the saltiness of the sea. But you're the merman, you'd have to tell me." Elsa presses her lips tight, suppressing a grin and turns on her heel, padding silently back towards her bed.
Hans follows.
"I don't ever remember this," Hans says, still distracted by the water.
Elsa abandons her drying cloth, draping it across the back of a chair as she scurries into bed, drawing covers over herself. When she settles, she looks up at Hans, who's waiting expectantly at the side of her bed.
Oh.
And she realizes she can feel the bond, desire, tugging at her to welcome him back into her arms. She wants him here, almost irrationally.
It is irrational - and he must feel it, too. His eyes are darkened, fixed on her, hungry.
The silence blooms around them, something fragile and still as magic seems to weave a web, trapping them. Elsa feels a heat ignite within her, a fire that can only be satisfied by him. Her cheeks flush with desire, she's certain.
"That happened fast."
Hans nods, eyes searching for permission to join her as he slowly lowers himself. No explanation needed regarding what that is.
"Send me away or tell me no." Hans says reassuringly. "You are in control, I promise. I won't make this worse for you."
Elsa pulls back the linens to allow him enter, unable to suppress the caught-back moan at the brush of his fingers at her hip, pulling her towards him.
"You can't be found here come sunrise," Elsa says simply.
"I won't."
"What's happening to us? Is it always going to be like this?"
Hans shakes his head, "I don't know. But we're going to figure this out. Together."
Certain idiosyncrasies become apparent in the next few days.
The bond is quieted following intimate acts. It isn't permanent, rather stays repressed for a couple hours, but helpful to know if there is something on the schedule that truly needs Elsa's undivided attention.
The longer Elsa stays away from Hans, the stronger and more persistent the magic becomes. Six hours is about the longest she can tolerate and remain sane before needing to seek out his presence, brushing fingers across his bare skin - that alone is often enough to steady her for a short time.
Oh, and if Hans sings, Elsa comes.
This was accidentally discovered during a council meeting. Elsa was furious as she stumbled upon him grooming Sitron in the stables, humming some folk-tune to the bloody steed as he was being brushed down. Hans had the nerve to laugh. Then try it again an hour later while hiding in the library.
It's going to be a very trying fate...