A/N: The madness continues.


The wind whipped by Elsa's face as the chariot flew down the Arendelle streets. The horses, spurred on by the overwhelming presence of the crowd and the assassin's knife, seemed to have no purpose or aim other than to get as far away from the source of their terror as quickly as possible. Elsa clutched on to the chariot with everything she had, screaming for the creatures to stop, but she knew they couldn't understand her, much less hear her voice over the clattering of their hooves on the cobblestones. So they ran and ran, separating her from it all. The sudden sound of gunshots reached her ears, and concern filled her heart for whatever new chaos was happening back in the square, but she could not return, to do so was impossible.

She sat back, the beat of her heart still fast but slowing down, and tried to make sense of everything that happened. The rush of the chariot, blisteringly fast but constant, strangely allowed her time to organize her thoughts. The buildings and alleys around her slowly faded away as she retreated inside.

How long had it been? Ten minutes? Five minutes? It certainly felt shorter, like Elsa had blinked and suddenly everyone was trying to kill her. The blink of an eye for Elsa's world to rearrange itself and leave her stranded in the middle, lost and dazed and with no clue where to go next. The horse-drawn chariot may as well have been taking her to the very depths of hell itself for all Elsa knew. With her gone, the town center must have been in a state of total anarchy. She thought of Nathanael, and his perfectly-structured front slowly crumbling in the face of all that madness. Captain Raine, and how he struggled to keep his men in line and the city from crushing all of them underfoot. The masses certainly were the most confounded out of all of them. After seven years, their princess had finally shown her face, only to be nearly killed, and disappear once again. The rumors of the assassination attempt would surely be spreading through the crowd like wildfire at this point, and she was positive mayhem was soon to erupt in the city.

Elsa found herself thinking that in the midst of the disorder, there was a certain humor to it. A black kind of comedy that left a less kinder portion of herself rolling on the floor laughing her eyes out. A closeted recluse and her stuck-up, glorified bodyguard parading her up and down the streets, not even close to understanding what it meant to be exposed like that, after such a long time. She had not even begun her long-awaited show-off before it all went horribly wrong and someone tried to put a bullet in her. The scores of guards brought out to protect her had, in all their readiness and precaution, effectively failed. It was the picture of untested comfort and nobility being put in the face of a harsh reality: things do not go always go according to plan, lords and ladies.

On top of that, she was this close to revealing the secret she had sworn to keep since hurting her sister. She had used her powers in self-defense, and in return, succeeded, but she had no way of telling if she was seen or not. Nathanael certainly, but he was in on it, as were most of her parents' close council. There was always the chance that some random citizen had witnessed the act, and soon that too would be spreading, but not merely like fire, but like a cancerous strain that would cripple the city and eventually make its way into her heart, finally ending her life in the way it should have all those years ago.

All for a stupid sculpture.

Elsa almost laughed at the hilarity of it.

Then she stopped herself, and choked back a sob.

Why does all the bad stuff always happen to me?

She was so caught up in her thoughts that she hadn't realized the chariot slowing down. When she finally looked up, they had stopped altogether. The horses were bending down and drinking from a fountain, their previous excitement all but faded, the only mark of it their heaving sides and the bloody gash that ran down one's hide. Elsa felt pity for the animal. Out of all of us, you certainly weren't the one who deserved that.

Elsa exited the chariot, stepping uncertainly down onto the ground. She checked herself for any scars or bruises, and her dress for tears. Many people had put their hard work and dedication into making her look as beautiful as possible for this day, and if she had managed to damage the dress, repaying those artisans would be the very first thing she would do upon returning home. Thankfully, however, the dress was more or less untouched save for some dirt stains that could be washed off, and her skin unblemished as well. The only scars she bore were invisible and inside, thus all the more debilitating.

The face of the boy soldier flashed by in her mind, and she closed her eyes.

Never again, she thought. Never again will I let an innocent die under my protection.

She made that promise, mouthing it silently, and it joined a string of other promises, all still intact save for minor wearing. They were among the few things she still had control over. No matter what happened, no matter how much she was controlled or forced to control herself, she had them in her heart, and it was up to her if she wanted to break them or not. They had not been broken, and they would not be broken. Elsa might be the pretty facade of perfection, but if there was one thing she strove above all else, it was to be true to herself.

She finished, letting the words sink into her skin, into the very essence of who she was. Once that was over, she finally took in her surroundings.

The horses had ended up dragging her to what looked like a communal watering place in the heart of the city. It was a small cul-de-sac, tight and shadowed by the tall buildings that were its border. They were tenements, exactly like the pictures in the books Elsa had read about the city's architecture. Rows of doors, flights of stairs that led up and up and down again through the length of the buildings. There was a well nearby the fountain, and a number of benches and tables that were arrayed around the space, all to accommodate the people who called it home.

As she petted the injured horse's mane, she pictured what it looked like on a normal day: Children playing on the cobblestone, running up and down the stairs, leaning over the railings and imagining all sorts of adventures in their little heads. Their mothers would, of course, be watching as they drew water or washed their clothes in the fountain, chiding rough-housing and chatting with each other about their husbands, their families, their lives, and the usual every-day things people like Elsa had no clue about. Normalcy does not become the nobility; they had not the time or willpower to relapse into such social depths.

All was quiet save for the faraway sound of the crowd and the peaceful trickle of water. Elsa sighed and leaned fully on the horse, resting her head on its warm body, hearing its powerful heart beating and nearly matching Elsa's own, until they were one and the same. This is peace. This is contentment. Standing like this, Elsa discovered that maybe she did not want to go home as badly as she did after all.

She rested, letting herself fall asleep to the rhythm of the horse's heart. It probably wasn't a good idea, but good ideas had a recent record of failing to live up to their own standards.

Elsa nearly dropped into a dream when the heartbeat quickened, transcending her's, and the huge animal's body began to move again, restless. The princess opened her eyes, curious as to what had spooked it. She froze.

They were not alone.

XXX

Nathanael Forseth was having a very bad day.

In fact, as he struggled to wrest a musket away from a shaven-headed brute of a man who'd blown out a private's brains just seconds before, the day was beginning to escalate from "very bad" to "dreadfully bad". That in itself seemed a minor accomplishment; "dreadfully bad" days usually ended up on the front lines of foreign newspapers all over the known world, and if this was the case, it would be the third time his name was to be featured in print, probably alongside some slanderous words and a dismally-drawn caricature of his image.

He finally ripped the gun away and slammed the stock against his offender's throat. The big man fell clutching his fractured trachea, and the expression on his face pulled Nathanael back from the edge of "dreadfully bad" into the more tolerable alternative.

"Captain Raine!" he roared over the deafening din. "Gather the men!"

The captain, who'd not once lost his cool under the sudden pressure, nodded and began to call out orders to regroup. If everything fell into place they way it needed to, they would be able to form a protective but mobile shell in order to break out of the crowd and crush the ambushers once and for all. And, if it was perfect, go and search for the lost princess.

If we can get through this damned mess of people first, he thought with a grimace.

The crowd had been chaotic before, but once the madmen with the silver brooches started firing at the soldiers, all hell broke loose. Nathanael assumed the people would rush to their homes in order to escape the bloodshed, but against all odds, they'd rushed towards the guards, crying for help. The only reason Nathanael's men were dropping like flies was because they not only had to fight close-quarters against unknown enemies, but assist citizens to safety as well.

The nobleman cursed his poor judgment.

"This wasn't supposed to happen," he bit out to himself, discarding the musket in favor of his sword. "It wasn't supposed to be like this."

The security board had assured him that the rumors of an assassination attempt by the Silver Star were only rumors, nothing more. The fledgling revolutionary terrorist group had its origins in Corona, and their activity was limited to there, nowhere else. To think they'd appear in the north, in Arendelle, was almost absurd. Absurd to their close-minded, idiot thought processes. Fools, the lot of them.

Arendelle had always been a close friend to Corona, and both cities had a long history of their citizens being influenced by the decisions and circumstances of the monarchy for centuries. Whether it be a dynastic disagreement that led to civil war or the loss of a babe that caused a king to retreat from responsibility, the people suffered either way. Nathanael knew this, and while he did not lower himself to the lowborn tendencies of terrorists, the pattern was there, and his instincts told him to take all precautions. The sovereignty-hating scum would no doubt try to infiltrate Arendelle security some day, if not this important day. But all signs pointed to the parade, hence the surplus of guards and the extra manpower surrounding Elsa's every move.

Early morning had produced no intelligence on Silver Star movement. Ships had been searched thoroughly, the borders secured even tighter than they were before. Nothing seemed out-of-place, or outlandishly unusual. So when it was time for Elsa to leave, they'd been green-lit and no matter what happened, there was no stopping it. All Nathanael could do was bite the inside of his cheek and hope nothing would happen in between Elsa being sculpted and returning to the safety of the castle.

Now, look what the hesitation earned him: Blood on his hands, and a missing princess.

And he had no doubt these Silver Star cretins were on her trail already.

The horrible thought spurred him to action.

"Captain!" he called out. The man materialized from the blur that was nearly the entire population of Arendelle centered in one location. Frankly, Nathanael was amazed the captain could respond to him at all, so great was the anarchy surrounding them. But, like always, the old veteran prevailed, now with what looked like twoscore of frazzled but determined guardsmen at his back, a small sea of blue-coated soldiers in the midst of a hurricane of bodies.

"My lord, this is all I could gather," Raine said evenly, his face sporting a new cut just above his eye. "The rest are either dead or cut off from the main division."

Nathanael nodded. "On my command, we gather up, loose order - support formation. The Silver Star is attempting to herd us away from the direction the princess was taken. I saw them forming a line not moments ago." He locked eyes with Captain Raine. "We're going to break them apart."

The captain nodded. "On your command, my lord."

"Good."

Ahead of them, the crowd thinned, and he could see a group of Silver Star men loading up their muskets or drawing short sabers. Nathanael barely fought to repress his smirk. It was time to teach these terrorists how real soldiers fought.

He lifted his sword and roared at the fools who'd tried to kill Elsa, and in turn awoken the wrath of those hard men who served her.

"FOR QUEEN AND COUNTRY!"

He led the charge himself.

XXX

He had blood on his shirt, and his face looked even sallower than before, but there was no mistaking the murderer of the young lieutenant, and the second man to try to take Elsa's life when the first had failed.

He was standing on the other side of the fountain, so near that if he'd stepped into the water and taken but a few steps, she was done for. The nearness of him was like a physical force, it staggered her, drove her back, took the breath from her lungs in a child-like gasp. The horses nickered, edging away from the fountain but moving farther away from Elsa, robbing her of the protection they provided. She could not go with them anyway, her legs seemed to be rooted to the ground.

The man tilted his head at her.

"Are you afraid?"

The voice was so sudden that Elsa forgot she'd heard it before. Back then, it was low and tinged with passion, fresh from murder and prepared for another. It was still deep, but curious now, interested in what the princess had to say.

Maybe he wants to weed teary-eyed begging from me before he does the deed, she thought. If he wants that, then he can burn in hell.

Elsa steeled herself. "I'm not afraid of you." She clenched her fists to hide the return of the shaking fingers. "I'm not afraid of any of you."

The man didn't respond immediately. He didn't so much as blink. When he did, his voice retained the same previous tone, un-impassioned and sparse to the point of near tonelessness.

"Why are you not afraid?"

Elsa thought back to her lessons with Bishop Joakim, and how he spoke of terrorists like this man, for it was the only logical explanation in light of the timing of the ambush. "I think anyone who must murder to get a point across is pathetic and thoughtless."

"We got the better of your men, royal."

Real fire flared inside Elsa, the kind that burned away the crippling fear and straightened her legs, set her shoulders back. "You'll see how wrong you are about that."

A frown appeared on his face this time, the first real emotion he'd revealed. It made her see just how old he really was, older than Nathanael, who was approaching his fifties. He looked almost around the same age as the bishop, amazingly, but if so, then the man had fought back the effects of age with activity and force. His body was lean and taut, like a knife, a grey knife aging in use but sharp all the same.

"We were told that the crown princess of Arendelle was a weak recluse, pale with disease and doomed to rule a crippled throne." His head tilted again, this time with a more searching gaze. "I see that this is not the case."

"I am more than meets the eye."

"Clearly so. Perhaps you can withstand what is to come, then." The more words he spoke the more Elsa could get a grasp of his character. Severe, grim, entirely confident in his own cause. And with a hint of an accent, something southern, a lilt of Coronan that would have been beautiful in another circumstance, from another man.

Elsa wanted nothing more than to turn around and take the reins of the chariot herself. Putting as much distance between her and this man was by far the best option, not standing there and talking to him, not when his aim was to no doubt cut her throat.

But she knew running would get her nowhere. The man was fast, fast enough to chase the runaway chariot down the length of the city without, it seemed, requiring much breath. She was confident that if she turned and attempted to flee, the only difference was that she would die facing the other way. More than that, the blood that ran in her veins was the same blood that ran in her father's, a proud warrior-king who had once spit in the face of a duke when he'd called his family's rule "a little more than dubiously earned". And that was when he was twelve years old.

No, she would not run.

Then the only other option would be to do what needed to be done to keep on living. She had to fight, using the only weapon she had at her disposal. And that meant another promise broken.

Elsa's gut churned. She sincerely hoped the apprehension raging inside her did not show on her face. The man's eyes cut like daggers themselves, and if she let her guard down even a fraction, he would discover her.

She swallowed. "Are you going to kill me?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

The reply came without hesitation: "Yes."

"Why?"

"Because it needs to be done."

"I will not let you."

"Fine. My men are coming soon. If not me then them. If not them then others. If not others then your own people when the scales fall from their eyes and they realize the power to rule lies in their hands and their hands alone. Sooner or later, princess, your death will come. Would you prefer it on the edge of my blade or hanging on a noose?"

The words were like nails, each driven deeper into her chest with the heavy intonations he employed with grave surety, like he was not merely saying things, but prophesying what was to come. Destiny seemed to herald those words, and it was that confidence that finally splintered Elsa's resolve.

Fear returned, with a vengeance. The shaking resumed, her legs quivered, even the horses began to whinny nervously. She bit the inside of her bottom lip so hard that she felt blood coat her tongue. She shook her head.

"No," she said. "You're wrong."

The man sighed. It was the most human thing he'd done in the whole of their encounter. The small regret in it caused Elsa to blink in surprise through her welling tears. "You are only a child. I don't like killing children. I hope you know that. But you are part of a system that needs to be cut away, like a bad branch. You understand."

"I-I don't," she said. Killing was never an answer, no matter the cause. "You don't have to do this."

"That is where you are wrong," he said. He reached into his coat, the silver brooch in the shape of a star glinting, and withdrew the knife. It had been cleaned of the boy's blood, but it looked no less menacing. "I do."

The man started to round the fountain, slowly drawing closer and closer to Elsa. "I will make it painless," he said as he walked. "You will not feel a thing, I promise this."

Elsa did not know if there was a time she had ever felt more afraid. Perhaps when Anna was on the verge of death, but even then it was a different kind of fear, fear for someone else, for her sister, her best friend. This was a fear that came from deep inside, the kind that rattled the bone and chilled the blood, caused the stomach to fall to her feet. The instinct to stay alive, Elsa had read, was the strongest instinct mankind was capable of, and even now Elsa's mind was screaming for her to either run as fast as she can in the other direction or claw this monster's eyes out.

Wait, she told herself as the man approached. Wait. He has to be close for this to work.

Behind her back, she had her palm open, fingers splayed towards the water trickling in the fountain. She could feel her power surging through her body, the Curse like a cat awakening from its slumber, finally ready to pounce and kill and freeze. With it came a cold rage, a type of anger she had never experienced before. She wanted this man to suffer. She wanted this man to feel pain. She wanted him to feel what it was like to have his heart pierced through by a shard of ice.

He stood in front of her now, not too close, but close enough that she could see the detail of the star brooch, and the blood pattern on his coat. Close enough to see his eyes, hard and black, and totally devoid of sadness at what he was about to do. To him, this was a deed that needed doing, and if no one else would do it, then he would be the first to claim responsibility.

Elsa looked up at him, trying for one last desperate gamble before her fate would be decided.

"You still have a chance," she said, damning the tremble in her voice, how pathetic she must have looked. This only made her angrier, fueled the sudden blood-lust. "You can still let me go. I won't hurt you."

"Princess Elsa of Arendelle," he said calmly, ignoring her words. "In the name of the oppressed peoples of the world, in the name of the countless who have suffered under the tyranny of self-proclaimed gods of men, I take your life, and so wash my hands in your blood. This I will do in the hope of a better future for all."

Elsa shut her eyes and conjured the image of a blade of ice forming from the fountain water, razor-like and thin and aimed directly up at her assassin's heart.

I'm sorry, Anna.

I love you.

She heard a sharp intake of breath from the man. He most likely had the knife up in the air. He most likely was picturing her dead already.

But she wouldn't go down without a fight.

"I don't think so."

...Wait.

What?

No.

It isn't possible.

Elsa opened her eyes just in time to see the staff fly across the little square and hit her assassin in the side of the head. The sound was a dull but deep thud, followed by the sickening slap of his flesh against the hard stone. The slight man who had towered over Elsa in her vision and caused her to shake like a leaf in the wind was on the ground now, downed by the sheer force of the throw, grunting in pain. The staff clattered down beside him, so alien to Elsa's eyes that it seemed a completely unknown object, foreign and peculiar and unbelonging.

It's owner was running towards her, waving at her frantically, white hair bobbing in the cold wind that was suddenly blowing in from the north. He was saying something, but shock and the stress of her impending death had temporarily stolen her hearing, so she could only see his alarmed face, his moving mouth, opening and closing and probably screaming things at her.

"J...J-Ja…" she tried to say his name, but it wasn't coming out. "I don't...how are you…?"

And then he was there, in front of her, in the position her would-be killer had previously taken, but he was closer than he, his hands tight on her arms, his pale face and blue eyes inches from her's. It was like a dream, some weird fever dream that involved terrorists and guns and dead boys and foreign killers apologizing to her as they prepared to end her life, and strange young sculptors appearing out of nowhere, saving the day and turning the tables on everything she thought was possible until that moment.

"You're...J-J..."

"Jack Frost," he said, his voice labored not with weariness, but panic. "Say it with me: Jack Frost."

"Jack Frost," she gasped, unbelieving of the words, of the man, even as she said them. "What are you doing here?"

"Saving your goddamn life, lady, what do you think I'm doing? Now do what I've been screaming at you to do for the past ten seconds!"

"What?"

"RUN!"

Jack almost shoved her in the direction of the chariot. The horses looked like they were preparing to run again, so distressed they were by the commotion. They had nearly rounded the corner out of the dead-end, back onto the road and their crazed race to nowhere.

Elsa realized what had been given to her: a chance to live.

She ran straight for the horses, not even bothering to hike up her dress. Halfway there, she stopped and turned. "Aren't you going to follow me?" she cried at her rescuer.

Jack waved her away. "Don't worry about me, just get your fancy bu - shit!"

He jumped back just in time to avoid a lunge by the assassin, who was now up and imbued with deadly intent, his face dark and clouded with near surface-level wrath, if not merely bruised by Jack's staff. He began to loop his knife in quick and lethal arcs, perfected by experience, but Jack was managing to avoid them all, all the while shouting at Elsa: "Go! Now, before it's too late, princess!"

Elsa took one last look at Jack, her unquestionable savior, and felt her heart ache suddenly and uncharacteristically. Don't die on me, Jack, she thought, watching with equal mix dread and exhilaration at the deadly dance the two were engaged in. Don't you die on me, you beautiful, ridiculous man.

With what strength she had left, she turned, heaved herself onto the chariot, took hold of the reins, and rode down the Arendelle streets, still unscarred, still a princess, and still wonderfully alive.

XXX

Jack Frost never had a problem with distance.

Why, when you can fly?

Of course, there was the issue of being seen doing so, and even in the midst of a terrorist attack Jack still had to maintain his cover. So, he had run first, beating his way through a line of regrouping and surprised gunmen before launching into the air, down the way Elsa had gone, and where a lone man who ran with the speed of a Karagan hunter had pursued after her.

And there was the issue of the gun, and the ice that stopped it from firing. That was almost too much to handle, so big Jack was able to place it in the background of the present moment, large and looming but put out of focus in favor of the current situation: save Elsa, find out what the hell she did later.

It hadn't taken long to find them (the flighty horses and embellished chariot was kind of a giveaway) but the flight there seemed an eternity. An eternity of fear and anxiety and picturing all sorts of horrible scenarios in his head, all bloody, all in some way ending up with Elsa cold and dead.

That could never happen, and if it did, he might as well give everything up. It was all or none, everyone or no one at all. His promise to Aleksander, Elana, and Ezekiel had been more than that: it was a blood oath, sealed by death. To break that would be to dishonor them, to dishonor and spit in the face of his friends, however long gone.

So when he finally found them, he first felt profound relief at the sight of Elsa standing there, shaking but proud, head held high in a ruined dress, and the sight reminded him of her mother, and it nearly made him weep then and there.

But then he saw the man with the knife in front of her.

He didn't remember much, but he did remember a lot of red, and the vague impression of the staff leaving his hand.

Now, the princess was safe, thanks to him. She'd left on the horses she rode in on, probably off and on her way to the castle by then.

The important question at the moment was this: was he safe?

Jack still didn't know for sure.

The man feinted to the right, and then tried for Jack's left, just below his ribs. He saw the move a fraction of a second before it was executed and dodged the gleaming blade, its edge inches from his skin. The assassin made a grab for his coat, intending to pull him in for a deep stab in the heart, but Jack danced away, escaping his reaching fingers.

He's good, Jack concluded. Really good. Almost as good as than me, and that's saying something.

Jack kicked his discarded staff and it flew up to his waiting hand. He clutched it, and held it defensively, clearing out some space between him and the man who tried to kill Elsa, and who was without a doubt the orchestrator of this whole debacle.

"Don't come any closer," Jack warned. "I don't want to hurt you."

The man stopped at that. He cocked his head, like a dog hearing a new sound. "You won't be able to hurt me, boy."

"How's that head of yours?"

The man - who was old and grey and it hurt Jack's pride that he'd nearly been eviscerated by a deranged Ebenezer Scrooge - frowned. "You surprised me. It won't happen again."

"You know, I got you so good that this might all be a dream and nothing's actually happening. Go ahead and pinch yourself, see if that works."

The man pinched himself.

Jack's eyes were drawn to the act. He raised his eyebrow. "You actually - oh, I see, a trick!"

He whipped his head back, avoiding the knife as it zipped past him, cutting the air as surely as it would have his face if he didn't jerk away in time. He looked at the man, surprised. "You aren't afraid to play dirty, huh?

"There are no rules in battle."

"There is such a thing as honor."

"Honor is dead. Do anything you can to stay alive. You must know this."

"See, I thought so too, but a very good man taught me otherwise, and I've been living by his example ever since."

"Is this man of yours still alive?"

Jack shook his head.

"Then you are stupid."

"I prefer to call it 'principled'."

"Principles are obstacles."

"Coming from the man who tried to kill a young girl, I'm not surprised."

The remark sparked something in the old man. His eyes darkened, and the lines on his face seemed to sharpen. "Find out what it means to have conviction, and then come back and insult me, boy."

Jack dropped his flippancy. He felt a sense of profound disappointment in this man, who had clearly given up his values for the sake of pure will, which was in the long run, a very very idiotic idea. Nothing good ever came out of that deal. Jack had seen it firsthand, witnessed the destruction it caused, the pain it bred. The man was losing his soul and he didn't even know it.

"I have conviction, but I haven't forgotten who I am because of it. Unlike you, apparently. What's your name, anyway? Or are you so far gone that you've given it up? The worst ones usually do."

"I don't have one. I am a cause. I am the Silver Star, as are all those who choose to follows its creed."

Jack sighed. "You're hopeless."

"I am born of hope."

Yup. Definitely crazy. Lost without a map and compass to show him the way out.

"Look, pal, you know how I said I don't play dirty? Well, here's the thing, this chat's getting a little too deep and philosophical for a man of my simple tastes, so I'm gonna have to skedaddle. Was a real pleasure, though, don't get me wrong. You don't get to meet psychopathic mass murderers every day.

The man brought his hands up in a fighting gesture. "You are not going anywhere."

Jack waved his hand, and the area was enveloped in a bright flash of blue light.

XXX

The man cursed and looked away, covering his eyes. It was like a star had dropped onto the earth, a blue star, made not of heat but freezing cold.

When he recovered, he discovered that his opponent was gone, vanished without a trace save for the fading blue light.

He stood there for a long time, accompanied by the silence, thinking about what just happened. His failure to eliminate the monarch. His second failure, ruined by the arrival of the pale stranger. Only when he heard the sound of approaching Arendelle soldiers did he finally move, picking up his knife and stealing away into the depths of the city, towards the rendezvous point he'd selected for his men to regroup after the ambush, whether it ended in success or failure. Failure, in this case, but he had lived his life devoted to the fact that anything falls when pushed properly and enough, and the Arendelle regime was no different.

But the one thing on his mind as he raced through the city, passing above or below tired soldiers and frightened citizens, was not the downfall of the monarchy, or even the shadows moving about in the world that instigated the Silver Star movements and curbed his actions, but on the young man who'd moved with the speed of a white demon and inflicted him with more pain than he'd felt in seven years.

He'd heard his name spoken by the princess when he was struggling to recover from the initial blow: Jack Frost.

A peculiar name. Probably fake. One chosen for a purpose, however, tailored for some personal mission he'd undertaken in the past. He was young, perhaps an ordinary citizen, but no one who could engage in combat with the leader of the Silver Star and live to tell about it was ordinary, much less pull off a trick like that blue light. No, he sensed that this Jack Frost character was different, but much like himself in many ways, before life had made him what he was today. He could tell it from his speech, his mannerisms, the deadly seriousness he could convey when the time for play was over.

Yes, very much like himself.

He intended to tell that to Jack Frost before he took his knife and plunged it deep in his heart.


A/N: "I'm all out of faith. This is how I feel. I'm cold and I am shamed, lying naked on the floor." No, not really, but I am pretty tired. Anyway thanks for reading this two-chapter upload, hope you enjoyed it. Drop a review on your way out, if it's not too much to ask. I always appreciate your feedback.