Chapter Thirty-Eight
Disclaimer: I neither own the rights to Disney, Frozen, the Disney universe nor any of its associated media, derivatives or products. I do not profit from this work.
A/N: TRIGGER WARNINGS for suicidal thoughts and contemplation. (First and last sections.)
It was clear by the way his shoulders stiffened that the prince had sensed her cold presence behind him, even before she rested her hand on his shoulder. "Do you see it now, Hans?" the Snow Queen crooned, her voice almost gentle. "Do you understand just how monstrous you really are?"
She saw in the reflection as his green eyes opened, wet and bloodshot, and to anyone who had cared, they would have seemed frighteningly dead. "Yes," he said lowly, tonelessly.
"Then you know you have no choice. Give the shard to me," she said, holding her hand out beside him.
Hans didn't move an inch, didn't even look over at her. The only part of him that shifted was his fist curling tighter around the shard.
Snarling, she shoved him forward. His knees slammed into the icy ground, and only by catching the gilt edging around the mirror with his left hand did he stop himself from falling straight into the glass. His reflection, his future, sneered back at him, lord and master of the Mirror. "Is this what you want?!" the witch hissed. "To become even more monstrous than you are?"
"What's the difference?" His voice was hollow. "If I gave it to you, I'd be just as wretched. I'd be betraying her memory. How could I live with myself?"
The Snow Queen paused, seemed to consider. "Yes...how could you live with yourself?"
His face had gone stiff despite the tears.
"There is another way." Her voice had turned silky again. "A way where you wouldn't have to live with what you've done." Hans didn't answer. "I was a fool this whole time. To think you wanted a crown or a throne...when all you wanted was to be free of the monster you've become." Her grip on his shoulder loosened. "Your mother isn't here, princeling. Nor is the queen."
He shook his head feebly.
"Are you trying to make them proud? The dead cannot judge you." Her hand released him. "You're all alone."
The stables were cold but smelled of good hay as Kristoff and Anna opened the door. Lanterns burned on the walls, casting the room in a warm golden glow, and both were equally reluctant to leave the relative warmth and security of the castle behind.
Kristoff pulled on his hat and scarf as approached Sven's stable. "Hey, buddy," the harvester said, opening the gate. Sven snuffled against his coat expectantly, and Kristoff shook his head. "Sorry, no carrots today. We're going for a run."
Sven raised an eyebrow.
"C'mon, it'll be fun!"
The reindeer gave him a dubious look and nodded towards the stable doors, outside of which howled a fierce winter wind. Kristoff sighed. "Okay, so we're actually heading up the North Mountain in the middle of a blizzard to rescue Elsa and Prince Can't-Keep-His-Head-Out-Of-His–"
"Kristoff!" Anna chided.
"–Prince Hans, both of whom might be in mortal danger," Kristoff finished. "So we need your help."
Sven seemed to be frowning with worry, if reindeer could frown, and quickly knocked his own harness off the hook. "I'll take that as a yes," said the harvester. He quickly led Sven over to the sleigh and was just harnessing him to it when he heard a sharp banging against one of the doors. It was one of the palace's fjord horses, a yellow-colored mount with a black-and-white mane. He kicked again at his door again, whinnying with urgency. "What's your deal?" Kristoff demanded.
"No, look!" Anna interjected, hurrying over. "It's Sitron!"
"Who?"
"He's Hans's horse. Right?" she questioned, looking to the stallion. He jerked his head at his master's name and whinnied, straining to get out. "We should take him with us; he could help pull the sled!"
"A horse and a reindeer pull a sled together?" Kristoff questioned doubtfully.
"Yeah, why not?"
"Well- just- I don't think it'd work. Those kind of animals usually don't team up. You know, work-animal, royal pet? Not exactly a common combination," he reminded her.
"Well, I think that should be their decision," Anna said resolutely. She looked to Sitron and Sven expectantly, who seemed to glance at each other and communicate in that strange way only animals do, and then Sitron tossed his head and kicked the door again.
"And I," said the princess with a grin, unlocking the horse's stall, "will take that as a yes."
The council observed the villagers once again residing in the great hall from their position in the doorway. The job to be done was an unpleasant one, but unpleasant or no, the people had a right to know what decisions had been made regarding their future.
"Someone must tell them," said Lady Evjen with a sigh.
"Agreed," Lord Frandsen intoned. "But who?"
There was a moment's pause, and then Kai said quietly, "Willum."
The bishop started and looked over. "Me?"
"With the Queen and Princess gone, you're the closest they have to a leader. It ought to be you."
Willum hesitated, and then nodded. "Of course." He swallowed, reminding himself that he had plenty of experience in telling people unpleasant truths, and then nodded firmly and walked into the room.
The villagers turned to look as he approached the dais on which the queen's throne sat. "Um- ahem," he began, quietly clearing his throat. The great hall fell silent. "I- I feel it is our duty—that is, the duty of your council—to explain to you all what has occurred."
The people watched expectantly as he continued, "Many of you have heard the myths of the Snow Queen, she who sought to repair the Devil's Mirror and cast the world into an icy curse. These legends, these cautionary fairy-tales, have been familiar to many of us practically from the cradle. We know, of course, that cradle stories are for children, not for adults—and it is precisely for that reason, I believe, that it is time for the truth to be known." He took a deep breath. "These myths, these fairy-tales, are not mere legends. As fantastic as they may seem, they are, in fact...true."
The hall erupted into a flurry of whispers. "Please, your attentions!" Willum cried, raising a hand. The whispers hushed again. "This—this sorceress has spent the last millennium collecting the missing shards of the Mirror—one of which, until very recently, has plagued our own queen. However, as malicious as these shards may be on their own, together, they pose a far graver danger. We believe that the Snow Queen is now very near to collecting the last piece of the Mirror from Prince Hans himself, who it must be stressed–" More whispers, and questions as well. He held up a hand and said loudly, "–Who it must be stressed is entirely innocent in this matter! A few hours ago, the queen went up the mountain, where we have reason to believe the sorceress is holding the prince captive. She has not returned. The princess and Sir Kristoff left only minutes ago to attempt to aid her. If they do not return by morning…" He hesitated, and then said, "If they do not return, it is their advice that we begin exodus to the southern provinces."
"But if the Snow Queen collects the last shard," said a man, stepping forward, "Then nowhere will be safe…will it?"
Willum shook his head. "Nowhere will be permanently safe. But we can survive there for a time."
"And then what?" called another. "What happens when there's nowhere left to run to?"
"I…" The bishop found that he was at a loss. In the end, he said honestly, "I don't know."
The villagers became subdued at that. Willum bit his lip. "When morning comes, we will divide you all into groups with the Sámi herdsmen at the lead and begin the journey south. Until then… I can only recommend prayer, and hope." Even to him, the words sounded flat. He waited a moment longer, and then stepped of the dais as the townspeople began to murmur amongst themselves. Willum wanted to help them, to speak some words of comfort, but he had no comfort of his own to give.
Look at them, a voice hissed in his mind. So pitifully weak, with an old, feeble man for their leader. Do you honestly still believe you can save them?
Willum sighed, grimacing in weariness and resignation. He knew this voice. Though it sounded like his own, the bishop had fought the vicious, menacing whispers for far too long to recognize them as anything but the enemy. He attempted prayer. Lord, grant me the faith to cling tightly to Thee in these dark times–
Do you think your petty prayers will dissuade me, priest? The voice broke in, scoffing. Even now, my servant is preparing to destroy you and your pathetic band of half-witted sheep.
You are the Prince of Lies; I will not believe a word you speak, the bishop retorted sharply in his mind.
What will you do, Willum? You're powerless against her, against me. You are an old man; you are weak. These people are weak. There is nothing you can do.
A wave of black despair swept over him; still, the bishop fought against it. I am a priest of God.
I have won. And you have failed.
His faith faltered; his courage fled. With a heavy heart, the bishop sat down on a nearby chair and pinched the bridge of his nose, exhausted, filled with nothing but bitter regret. The voice was right. The enemy had won at last; he couldn't save these people, and no miracle seemed forthcoming. What was there left to hope for, to hope in? Nothing. Nothing.
"…Whither shall I go from thy spirit? Or whither shall I flee from thy presence...?"
Startled, the bishop looked up. Nearby, a husband sat with his wife on their little pallet, their children all seated around them, listening as their father read from the psalms. "If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there," the man continued quietly. "If I take the wings..."
"...of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me."
The poor little house was silent save for the soft voice of the eldest child, a young man of perhaps seventeen with sharp gray eyes, as he read the younger two to sleep. "If I say, 'surely the darkness shall cover me,' even the night shall be light about me. Yea, the darkness hideth not from thee..." He paused, and then finished softly, "But the night shineth as the day; the darkness and the light are both alike to thee."
The two young children said not a word, their eyes closed and breath even. "I think they're asleep," Willum said quietly.
"As we should soon be ourselves." The young man glanced over towards his father, a larger man with gray hinting at his temples. "They're good children," the old bricklayer murmured.
"They are," Willum agreed. He hesitated, and then said, "Father…are you sure this is a good idea? You need the money; what will you do without my wages?"
"We'll be fine; I've set some money aside, and the church has agreed to help pay for your schooling."
"But what about Karen and Anders? They're still too young to work. What if something happens to you? What if–"
"Willum." He stopped as he felt his father's hand settle on his shoulder, large and rough from years of brickmaking. "We have the means. It will be tight, but we'll manage. If it's God's will, then He will guide you through." An identical pair of gray eyes looked into his as his father said firmly, "Trust in providence, Willum; when all else fails, providence always remains."
Providence…he remembered that day. The day he'd made up his mind to leave for the seminary, despite all the risks, all the uncertainties. And had providence ever betrayed him? Here he was, forty years later, the bishop of the kingdom. No, providence had not failed him yet…and it would not fail him now.
He stood and set his purpose firm, walking adamantly to Kai and Gerda. The pair looked over in mild surprise as he stopped before them. "Willum? You have an odd look in your eyes; what are you planning?" Gerda questioned.
"I said we should pray, and pray we shall," he said resolutely. "Find me a table, about waist-high—never mind how scuffed or rickety it may be—and set it over by the thrones. I'm going to the chapel; I'll be back shortly."
"But why? And why do we need a table?" the housekeeper inquired.
He caught her confused expression, and smiled despite the grimness of the situation. "Why, good Gerda, have you forgotten the time? It's nearly midnight! High time for a Christmas Eve vigil, don't you think?"
Gerda and Kai glanced at each other, surprised, and then he saw the faintest traces of hope begin to fill their faces. "Of course, silly me," the matron replied stoutly.
"Get everyone ready; I'll be back in a few minutes." His gray eyes were afire. "The Snow Queen thinks she's terribly powerful, does she? Hmph! Well, the darkness was just as arrogant—until it met a candle!" And with that, the bishop turned on his heels and headed for the staircase.
The cupola was silent. It had been for what felt like an eternity; with even the Snow Queen gone, the room somehow felt colder than ever. The heat from his magic had grown weaker, until only small flames and sparks seeped feebly along his fingers. Even the Mirror had ceased showing him new terrors; now only his reflection remained, standing where Hans sat with his back to the glass. Waiting.
"I know what you're trying to do."
His reflection considered this. "Yes. You're certainly clever enough."
"You want me to kill myself. So that the Snow Queen can have this shard." He looked down at the piece of glass. It had died down to a dark cherry-red, pulsing faintly in the center, like a dying star.
"Fine. You're right. That's what I want."
The prince gave a choked laugh. "So. Even the devil can tell the truth." The other him didn't answer. "I'm wise to you now..."
"Does it matter? You want to end yourself as much as I want you to."
"And what then?" Hans murmured. "Are there consequences? Was I ever really able to escape them?"
No reply. He looked back.
The mirror was empty; his reflection had vanished. And suddenly, he was afraid. He looked around the frozen room, eerily silent, horribly empty. Reason and common sense fled; if there were other souls, somewhere outside those walls, they may as well not have existed.
His sword lay in its sheath. He didn't have the energy to fling it away; he wasn't sure he wanted to. He wasn't even sure that it mattered: at the other end of that blade was a judgment, a room exactly like this one, awaiting his sins. The world had narrowed to a pinpoint, this last locked, icy cell where he was alone. And he had done it to himself.
This is hell.
Maybe he'd always been here. Maybe his whole life had been one headfirst plunge into the open abyss of his own selfishness, a series of isolated cells. Maybe his repentance had always been as shallow as he'd feared, and this last month had just been one bright spot on the journey down into the pit.
But one difference remained. Grief anchored him to reality; he clung to the bloodstained bonnet, proof that he had not always been alone, however briefly. Proof that he had even loved someone.
And she told me not to give in.
The threads of sanity still unraveling, he gripped the bonnet, and waited for whatever would happen next.