MD3: Cross Purposes Chapter 25: Actions Yield Consequences, a frozen fanfic

Cross Purposes

by Concolor44

. . .

Author's Note:

I wanted to take a moment to thank all of you who have stuck with me through this so far. Believe me, my posting 'schedule', if you want to grace this haphazard mess with such a title, frustrates me more than it does you.

Please keep something in mind: I love Elsa. Hell, I'm obsessed with her, to be brutally frank. I think she has one of the most poignant stories of any Disney character, and I desperately want her to have the happy ending she so richly deserves.

My Muse, on the other hand, can be a heartless little thing. (Exhibit A: She made me write "Served Cold", which is … ehhh, 'icky' enough, that I didn't post it here. Not a happy ending.) But I just wanted to say, spoiler or not, that this story does have a happy ending. Some of you might consider it a tad disguised, but … well … please trust me on this.

Chapter Twenty-Four: Actions Yield Consequences

. . .

Arendelle, just south of the City, Saturday 28 May 1842, 4:50pm

Three Guardsmen plus two women split among three horses didn't move very quickly, but they did their best, trying to conserve the animals' strength. Sofia was a bundle of nerves. Anna was nearly a basket case. Her quiet sobs hadn't eased off at all; she was taking as much comfort as she could from the level of determination in Carlos's voice and actions, but the not knowing …

As the tallest tower of the castle peeked through the trees, Anna mumbled, "Feel so useless."

Sofia looked over and gave her friend a weak smile. "He'll fix it. You'll see."

Anna had her face buried in the broad back of Guardsman Dag. (His shirt was rather wet there, but he did his best to ignore it.) "I just wish … I could … communicate with him … somehow." She hiccupped and drew a long breath. "I trust him. I do. He's really amazing. But he's just one man. And … and if they have that … thing … that Hand … how would he … I mean, wouldn't it …"

Sofia, in the minutes between Carlos's departure and the Guards' return, had impressed rather firmly on Anna that there were some obvious things she needed to know about the Prince Consort. Anna's answers told her quite a bit about the royal couple that left her silent and thoughtful. "Maybe. Probably not. I think, if they were … if it were already sapping Elsa, knowing how powerful she is, I'd think it probably couldn't, well … handle more than that? I'm surely no expert on magic, but that makes sense. Doesn't it?"

"I guess. But not knowing is killing me."

"I understand." She chewed on her lip for a moment. "I … it doesn't bear thinking about."

"No. It doesn't."

Two of the horses shied as a sudden muted tingle ran through the company. The Sergeant exclaimed, "What the Hell was that?"

Anna, her face in a sudden rictus, pitched back off the horse to land heavily on one side.

"Anna!" Sofia slid off, closely followed by Dag and Edvard, and ran to her dear friend. "Anna, what's wrong?"

The Princess's eyes rolled up right before she threw up what she would later describe as her last twenty-five meals. That's when Sofia noticed the glow and took a step back …

. . .

All over Arendelle ...

As the Sentinels traveled toward the spot where last they had sensed their creator, a great wave of force lanced through them. For a moment they stopped, paralyzed; then they shook off the weird sensation and picked up the pace. Several seconds later, another, more focused type of power hit them, and they repeated the process. Most of them didn't notice any difference since they were traveling alone. In some cases, though, a group of two or three or four was running together, and could see the changes wrought in each other.

{{ I say, old fellow, you seem to have picked up a bit of mass. }}

{{ I beg your pardon? }}

The third member of the party concurred with the first one's statement. {{ It would appear we have all gained a measure of size and heft. Roughly double, I would say. Perhaps more. }}

{{ Indeed. }} The first one agreed, then gave his equivalent of a frown. {{ I also, shall we say, seem to have a bit more on the ball than before. }}

The other two glanced at each other and nodded. {{ I felt that as well, just after that last surge. What do you think it is? }}

{{ Doubtless it is connected to whatever has happened to our Creator. }}

{{ Let us not waste time, then. These revised forms should be able to move faster, wouldn't you say? }}

{{ Quite. }} And they took off again at a pace that would eat up almost fifteen leagues per hour.

. . .

Near Arendelle's eastern border …

Marshmallow had been running/climbing/sliding for more than two hours, over some of the roughest terrain in Scandinavia. He'd covered nearly a dozen leagues, and was not that far from his goal, when a wave of magic washed over him. He froze.

What is this? What has happened? Being a creature powered by magic, he certainly knew what it felt like. But this was not like the loving, careful magic Elsa had used. This was … harsh. Strident. Uncomfortable.

The wave passed, and though he staggered, he didn't fall.

Then a second beam of force hit him, and he did drop to his hands and knees.

The sensation was not dissimilar to how it felt when Elsa had augmented his form last year. There was no pain (he couldn't truly feel pain) or even discomfort. But it left him with a constant sort of tingling along his limbs he couldn't ignore. He shook his arms, then his legs; felt for the restless energy singing in his body; held a hand up in front of the blank depressions that served him for eyes.

Under his focused stare, his hand … changed.

This, he thought, is new. He concentrated on its shape, brought up an image in his mind. The hand conformed almost instantly. He tested the ability for a bit, changing the size, the number of fingers, the opacity. Intriguing. This ability may prove useful at some point.

Reorienting himself, Marshmallow resumed his trek (at a somewhat faster pace, given his newly-lengthened legs).

. . .

Arendelle, Valley of the Living Rock ...

Trolls are typically a solitary folk. They are friendly enough under the right circumstances (such as with long-time acquaintances, or family) but usually like to stay hidden. To that end, they had erected a barrier. Surrounding and covering the Valley itself was an invisible dome of compulsion. Anyone happening across the Valley by accident would, without conscious thought, decide to go around it rather than through it. If asked later why he had done so, the traveler would claim to have not trusted the valley floor, or felt uncomfortable walking among the volcanic vents, or some such story. Unless you knew beforehand they were there, you simply weren't going to meet a Troll.

So, when the invisible wall suddenly rang like the world's biggest bell, shuddered in its place, and fell apart with a faint tinkling, the families living there were understandably frightened.

Grandpabbie came rolling out of his cave and stood in the center of the village, staring around for a moment. He flexed his hand. Stared at it. Flexed it again. "Strange magic; wild," He said, his voice small. "Powerful magic. Too powerful." Looking at his huddled tribe, he said, "I will re-establish the dome as soon as I can. But for now, please stay in your caves. I don't know what caused this, but I will consult the earth and find out." And he added to himself, I hope.

. . .

Arendelle, the North Reach …

The gene that determined a facility with witchcraft, as Carlos had once noted, tended to be hereditary. It also tended primarily to be sex-linked, which is why there were so many more women who studied the Craft than there were men. Here, in the isolated borderlands, among a range of inhospitable mountains Arendelle shared with Bergen, it was simply accepted that every little clutch of huts would have a Wise Woman or two. Or three.

Orla Magdasdottir wasn't practicing her art at present, at least not her magical one. She and three neighbors were perched around her stoop, weaving lengths of a local vine into baskets. The plant was tough and pliable, and could carry considerable weight when properly handled. She'd just reached for another withe when she got an odd look on her face. Her breathing picked up.

"Orla? You feeling all right?"

"I'm … I …" She began panting, looking around wildly. "Something … something's coming."

That alarmed her friends. They stood and helped her up. "What?" asked one of them. "What's coming?"

Orla swayed, clutched at their arms. "Something … wicked …"

They caught her as she fell.

. . .

Corona, Royal Palace …

A tall door opened in a rush, followed by Rapunzel sticking her head in for a quick look around. Spotting her husband and her father hunched over a chess board, she bounced in and skipped over. "Hey, you two!"

"Hi, Blondie!" "Hello, Dear."

"You know what's for dinner?"

"Ah … I believe," answered the King, "the chef mentioned something about venison."

"Yum! Okay, that'll work."

"Work with what?" Eugene noticed that gleam in her eye that usually meant something was about to go off the rails.

"I'm gonna bake a pie, and we got that big round of sharp Irish cheddar a couple days ago, so I wanted apple because who doesn't like apple pie and cheese, right? And I wanted to be sure it would go with the main course, so if we were having fish I'd have to come up wi-" Her eyes flashed with a sudden burst of light and then fluttered closed. She swayed, sighed, and collapsed in a heap.

"Rapunzel!" yelled Eugene as he rushed to her side.

. . .

Tír na hÓige …

Oberon felt that Kings shouldn't have any excuse to be bored, so he didn't like to think of himself as bored. Some of the time (not often) he wasn't. Some of the time, things happened to entertain him. That incident nearly a year ago, for example, when Morana had come out of her seclusion to toy with one of her descendants, had been diverting. For a time. But mostly … yeah. He was bored. It was an occupational hazard when one was the eldest and most powerful of the Fey. Adjudicating the minor squabbles that floated around the Seelie Court didn't help matters, either. Several thousand years ago, he had finally had enough, and had instituted a point system by which he could determine whether or not he needed to get involved. The courtiers found ways around it. Every time he tweaked it, they came up with new methods to circumvent the letter of the law.

At present, three of the minor Court nobles were arrayed in front of his throne, each haranguing the other two over a debt. Not that any of them used money; this debt had to do with favors owed, and who had access to which of the mortal realms. Tweaking the mortals was their main (read: only) real form of entertainment, so the more latitude they had for gathering 'participants' (read: prank victims) the better they liked it. Oberon had been listening to their arguments for the last day and a half, and was thoroughly, heartily, finally sick of it. He'd just about made up his mind to lock the three of them away in a prison crystal for a century or two (let them squabble in peace … at least it would be peaceful for the rest of the Court) when the wave hit.

The very foundations of the Fae Realm creaked and moaned, and the walls shook, shivered, and cracked.

Oberon found himself no longer bored. It was a harrowing few minutes before he was satisfied that none of his Court was injured (and even more critically, none of them was responsible) and he had a chance to work on what, exactly, had caused the rupture.

Litania moved up to hover beside him. Laid a worried hand on his arm. "You don't think … Hecate?"

He shook his head. "In the first place, it doesn't feel like her power. In the second, she doesn't have that kind of power. I'm not sure I do."

"… You're frightening me, Father."

"No less than my intention. Tír na hÓige has never seen an attack like this before." He caught and held her gaze for a moment. "Ever."

Shuddering at his intensity, she turned to stare toward the borders of the Bright Realm. "We must find the source, then."

"Aye. We must."

. . .

Deep in the Pyrenees Mountains …

Jean Antoine Maximus Pelss bent low over the huge caldron he was stirring, muttering a string of syllables in a language that was long dead before humans discovered fire. He didn't know what the strange words said. He didn't have to. The voice had given them to him. The voice led him now in all things. The voice would aid him in his quest to rid the land of his damnable cousin, thus freeing up a spot in the Andorran court from which to launch his bid to rule (first) that tiny principality, then France, and eventually all of Europa. From the voice, he learned things. Secret things to hide and study. Dark things that sent shivers of forbidden pleasure down his spine. When this potion was ready, he would sneak into the Casa de la Vall and get a small quantity of it into the drinks of several key figures. They would then become his puppets, and one of them, one of the expendable ones, would slide a knife between his cousin's ribs.

This pleased the voice greatly. Not that the demon in question would tell his thrall this, but it was the political turmoil and opportunity for mayhem and a high body count that had him sharpening his metaphorical claws. He didn't care even a tiny bit whether this up-and-coming sorcerer ever made it into a position of power. He only wanted the chaos.

Pelss was counting down the stirs: widdershins, keep the surface smooth, don't scrape the sides, and don't lift the paddle out until finished. He had twenty-eight more to go when the pain hit.

The paddle dropped into the cauldron with a splash, ruining the potion.

Jean Pelss dropped to the floor in a seizure.

The demon took notice, then immediately felt the influx of dark power, and it puzzled the being. Where was it coming from? Why was there so much of it? How …

Jean sent a cry of agony echoing through the hut. The skin of his face grew taut under the pressure. He shrieked again, and he didn't stop. Not many seconds passed before his frantic flailing turned into beating his face on the rock. After not many more … his head ruptured messily.

Two figures took shape in the astral plane nearby. One was confused. The other was furious.

The shade of Jean Antoine Maximus Pelss asked, stupidly, "What happened?"

*You robbed me of my war, that's what happened!*

Jean knew that voice. It had never been raised at him in anger, though, and now it would have made his skin crawl, if he'd had skin. He spun slowly in place, saw the form of the Other … and the magnitude of the mistake he now realized he'd made by entering into a contract with this being slammed home. He wanted to scream, but his fear wouldn't let him.

The demon grabbed him in an impossibly huge hand and lifted him until they were eye-to-eye. *What did you do? Where did you get all that power? How did you screw up and kill yourself? Tell me!*

Of course, Jean didn't have even the filmiest of ideas why he had just died, and made that fact apparent through his gibbering.

His master stared at him (through him) for a time, then gave the demonic equivalent of a sigh. *I suppose I will have to make do with tormenting you for now.*

The two figures faded out.

Across Europa, the other eight living sorcerers had similar experiences. Hell that night was a bit more raucous than usual.

. . .

Western Russia, near Наваполацк …

The thing about stereotypes is that without at least some basis in fact, they wouldn't exist. The same goes for myths, to an extent.

See, there are witches, and then there are WITCHES. A witch can dowse water for you, or make sure your best milk cow doesn't go dry, or give you a reasonably accurate prediction of the weather, or diagnose and treat most minor illnesses. Some of them might be able to brew up potions of greater or lesser effectiveness … and some of them, it must be said, were in it for the money. They are, after all, simply people, and people come in all varieties. But witches, unless they want to, don't stand out as particularly unusual in a given population.

WITCHES, on the other hand … well, frankly, they're pretty damn rare: humans with no known connection to the Fey (or the Underworld), but who nevertheless can manipulate the forces of natural magic with ease and skill. These women (and, yes, they're all women) tend to make a name for themselves; sometimes for all the wrong reasons.

Baba Yaga is probably the best example. It was never her intent, when younger, to grow into a twisted, selfish, mean old woman. She had a power, and wanted to use it to help her village. But it had been many generations since anyone in that area had been born with an affinity for magic, and the folk there were deeply superstitious. After being disowned by her family, run out of her village, and forced to live in seclusion, she eventually found that she didn't care what happened to them. After that, she concentrated on improving her knowledge of magic and increasing her power.

And increase it, she did. Her association with the energy flowing through the rivers and stones and wind and sunlight served to extend her life tremendously. Yes, she aged (and, boy, did she look it!) but stayed strong and vigorous and keen of mind at somewhat past a hundred and fifty years old. Many times, she was forced to move out of an area to maintain her privacy, and more than once was obliged to kill in self-defense. This did nothing to ameliorate her reputation as an evil hag, but it did, at least, finally convince people to leave her the Hell alone.

She had solved the 'need to move' issue over a century ago by giving her house legs. That way, she never had to pack anything. She simply set the hut to walking until they were far enough removed from the latest irritation to settle again. Occasionally (read: three or four times) she would have an encounter with a stranger that ended up well for both of them. Usually, though, she would run visitors off, or hex them and then run them off.

Today, she'd not had any interlopers in quite a while, and that suited her fine. There was a spell combination she'd been working on for weeks that would let her cause a fruit tree to bear in the middle of winter (she really liked pears), so she was deep into practical research when a ripple in the very fabric of magic came through her wood. As sensitive as she was to that sort of thing, it immediately drew her attention; she stood, sniffed, gazed intently off to the west.

Then the core of the blast front arrived.

She wasn't bowled over, but she did have to brace herself against the onslaught. For a few seconds that felt like months, she fought to protect her magical center from the taint she felt in this attack. Then it was past. In the utter silence following the passage of the phenomenon, she stood rigidly, waiting for what else might come. Then she heard a crackling, and a popping, and a rending. Whirling around, she watched in dumbfounded amazement as her hut sank to the ground. The legs turned black, shriveled, and whiffed to dust. The clapboard took on a desperately rotted appearance, showing how the boards would have looked had her magic not been keeping them fresh and sound. With a final drawn-out groan, the walls collapsed, the roof caving in and flattening the hut's contents.

After a few heartbeats, Baba Yaga closed her mouth with a soft click; blinked a few times; consciously relaxed her fingers from the fists she'd made; took a long, long breath and let it slowly out her nose. Looking at the wreckage of her home of the last hundred-plus years, she fought down her spite and concentrated on what she needed to do next. Getting a roof between her and the weather was priority one. Revenge could wait. And, she promised herself, whoever was responsible for this – assuming he hadn't died from the effects of this spell, whatever it was – would pay. Oh, how he would pay.

. . .

Northeast of Muscova …

Cries and gasps and moans of intense ecstasy had been ringing around Morana's enchanted castle for weeks, as she and Jarilo made up for more than a millennium of lost time. They didn't need to eat, so they didn't bother. He found himself captivated by his wife's new level of commitment, and it flipped his libido into overdrive. She found that paying attention to his emotional responses brought gratification she'd not dreamed possible. And time passed.

Her lands were quite a bit farther away from Arendelle than was Tír na hÓige, and the blast front of wild magic had attenuated somewhat by the time it reached her. Still, it shook the towers and reverberated around in the halls like a basso profundo banshee.

They stopped; pulled apart; glanced around nervously, panting just a little.

Jarilo asked, "What was that?"

Morana shook her head. Carefully, she reached out with her power and felt along the walls and seams and foundations, frowning as she discovered more than one spot that needed repairs. Once that was done, she flopped back on the bed. "That came from a long way off, whatever it was."

"Do you think we should check on the Bright Courts?"

It only took a few seconds for her to think it over. "Nah. If it's that important, they'll contact me." A knowing grin bloomed on her perfect lips as she stretched languidly. "Besides, don't you think we have more important things to attend to?"

"YES!"

. . .

Southeastern Arendelle, 5:15pm

It was the pressure that finally woke Carlos.

He groaned, tried to lift his head; failing that, he tried rolling over. His skin felt … tight. Stretched. Also, he was hot. When that filtered through his addled senses, his eyes flew open in surprise and confusion. Hot? Seriously? How? With an effort, he lifted a hand up to examine it. It did, indeed, feel unusually warm. And it was glowing with a brilliance that made him close his eyes again.

Must have been lying in a ley line, he thought, muzzily. Terrific.\

He rested, trying to summon up the strength to sit …

Then he was puzzled by the fact that he was lying on the ground in the first place …

Then it occurred to him to wonder where he was …

Then the events of the recent past crashed in on him, and he was on his feet a second later, wildly looking around. The sight was not encouraging.

The forest, for perhaps four or five hundred paces in all directions, had been leveled. More than leveled, really, as the trees seemed to have been pulled from the earth like so many weeds, and piled haphazardly in a colossal ring. The ground left behind was scorched black. There was no sign of the kidnappers or the horses or anything else remotely alive. He cast about for Elsa's mind, coming up empty.

But … she has to be here! She has to! I'm here, I'm not dead, so …

There. That small, ragged, dirty bundle, fifteen paces farther on, had been camouflaged by the ash. He ran to where Elsa lay and took her in his arms. Instantly he felt her heart beating. It was strong, and slow, as it usually felt when they awoke of a morning, and he offered a fervent prayer of thanks for her life. Now he had to get her back to the castle, so she could heal properly. With a thought, he cast them aloft, leaving a contrail in his wake.

He didn't realize how high he was, or that he had unconsciously created a wind-barrier in front of them, or that he was dangerously close to breaking the sound barrier. He knew which way the castle lay, where there was a comfortable bed where she could lie while he healed her. He wouldn't try to wake her yet. She had been through too much. Let her rest.

He came in at such high speed that no one in the City saw him, though a few did catch a faint streak of light from the corner of the eye, and wonder briefly what it could have been. Landing in the rear garden not far from their rooms, he raced inside, yelling for help.

. . .

End Note:

Most of you are probably familiar with the Butterfly Effect. You might think of what happened here as the Mother-of-All-Bombs Effect.

As always, I would love to hear your take on the events of the story thus far.

Happy Reading!

Con