"Elsa, I know something's bothering you," Anna sat next to her sister in the conservatory. "I watched you worrying at that necklace all through the afternoon, and dinner. Please just talk to me."

"I'm scared, Anna," Elsa voice had a slight waver to it. "Scared about a lot of things right now. About us, about Hank and me, about these new trolls, about the fuzzy memories… it's a lot."

"Of course it is," Anna shuffled closer, wrapping her arm around Elsa's shoulders and hugging her tight. "You're the queen, and you worry about everyone. And that's okay, really."

"Just saying it's okay to worry doesn't actually help me." Anna could hear the frustration in her sister's voice; feel it in her body.

"I know," Anna gave her a gentle squeeze before breaking from the embrace. "So let's do some problem solving. What's the biggest one?"

Elsa took a deep breath. Anna knew she was carefully considering and ordering things before speaking.

"Take your time, I'm not going anywhere," she rose, placing a hand against her sister's before sitting cross legged in front of her. "Well, not far, anyway."

She smiled as Elsa shook her head and stifled a laugh. "Thank you. It's things like this I'm afraid of losing. Everything about these 'fuzzy' memories seems to point at a single cause. I know it, because I've seen it before. It happened to you. It happened to Thyrí too. And I really am worried because these new trolls seem to be using it as a weapon. I know you heard Vanja Ostberg-Lang earlier—her mind and memory are probably as sharp as mine—but that little bit of confusion. We know it's magic, and we know it's not my magic. But I'm still scared because I know what it is. And I'm scared it might hurt us—both of us. We've worked so hard to be together, but it's only recent… what if I… or you… lost…"

Anna reached out to take her sister's hand even before she heard her voice breaking. It always that seemed that Elsa's greatest fears were never for herself, but losing those around her. Fears that had been realised more than once in the past. It was something they were learning to overcome together, but that didn't always mean it was easy. For some time they'd only been able to 'talk' through the medium of a diary and—

"That's it!" Anna started waving her hand around animatedly, almost hitting Elsa in the process. "We start keeping journals or diaries and things. I mean, I already have one and it's sorta just for me but there's stuff about you in there and a lot of stuff about you actually—it's mostly good stuff—and if you haven't been keeping a journal about me, or hiding my other artwork around the place I'll eat somebody's hat but I mean if it's memories that are being stolen, we can write things down and then those can't be taken away but we might have to think about why we wrote a particular thing down and I'm getting ahead of myself but the idea is sound, right—Elsa?"

"Anna," Elsa's eyes shone with appreciation. "You're a genius."

"I am?"

"I'm so happy I could kiss you."

"You may," Anna rose to her knees and leaned closer, holding up her hand as Elsa leaned in. "On the cheek."

She could almost feel Elsa's disappointment. It was nice to be so close, but if she was going to court Kristoff—or more than court, now—and if Elsa was—so very slowly—deepening her own relationship with Hank, they had to set some limits. She knew that those limits might be tested sometimes, and that was okay too. All of them were still learning. And thinking of learning…

"Hey, Elsa?"

"Yes?"

"You said you learned a lot more about your magic from Thyrí," Anna sat back slightly, trying hard to keep her expression neutral. "Do you think it would be okay to try some more experiments with it?"

"N—" Elsa's refusal died on her lips as Anna failed to keep a crestfallen look from her face. "Not here?"

Anna swallowed. She didn't want to push her sister too hard—but she still wanted to know all she'd just discovered, and how it might help them. "If you want to say no, you can, but I really want to see everything you were telling me about. Or maybe we could just talk about you being a seid-her?"

"Seidr," Elsa stressed the pronunciation carefully. "Maybe if we talk about it I might feel better about using that much magic around you—or on you, as so often insist."

Anna felt a wry smile crinkle her face. "I haven't made it easy for you, have I?"

"I never asked you to," Elsa's smile said it all.

In the ballroom, sitting against a small snowdrift, Anna was waiting patiently for her sister to do something. She wore Elsa's ice crown again, having ducked into her sister's study to retrieve it as they went past. The crown was only a little cold, but when she took it off the colours still fascinated her. She traced the purple gems and the dark setting around them, the almost glowing gold of the band itself. It was all ice, but the colours were so vivid, so strong—she put it back on and looked up at her sister.

"How do the colours work?" It was the easiest question she could think of.

"I think a lot of it is my feelings—my emotions." Elsa's voice was steady as she slowly drew a snowflake with her hands, a bright, translucent blue—very much the normal colour of ice.

"So that blue—" Anna pointed to the snowflake her sister had just created "—is kind of like a neutral colour that it normally should be?"

Elsa nodded. "Or white, for snow."

"Okay, that makes sense," Anna shuffled around against the snowdrift behind her. "What about purple—because I've only seen that a handful of times, and it's really pretty."

"Thank you." And for some reason Elsa was trying to hide a very shy smile behind her fingers.

"Elsa, you didn't answer my question." Anna gently admonished her sister.

"Sorry, it's—no, it's fine," Elsa created a thin bar of ice between her hands, but the colour settled on a deep blue rather than purple. "It's hard to make."

Anna cocked her head, squinting at the icy bar he sister was now holding. "Why?"

"I think it's love—in fact, I'm almost certain it is," there was confidence mixed with a hint of bemusement in her sister's voice. "But it's like it needs to be pure, or in the moment—I can't just… you understand, right?"

"I do, Elsa," Anna reassured her sister. "I do, I promise. Wait… could it be more than love, like maybe something deeper, or it has to be an act of something or—well I guess that one would be really hard, and maybe painful to try and experiment with, so I won't ask you to do that, okay?"

"Thank you," Elsa smiled softly. "I know you've still got more questions."

"Of course I do," Anna's smile was bright, eager. "So many questions, and not just about magic, but this is not the time to grill you about how good of a kisser Hank is or why you thought getting possessed was a good idea and sorry, I didn't mean to make you worry, I'll just keep my questions about magic and being a seidr and actually that's a good next question: What, exactly, is a seidr?"

"It's a bit hard to explain," Elsa's left hand worried at the crucifix she wore beneath her dress while her right started idly drawing runes out of shimmering ice. "But if we keep it simple, it's something between a witch, a priestess, and a shaman. Obviously it's more than all of that, and I'm still trying to figure it out myself. Thyrí told me a lot, and a I learned a lot, but there's still a massive amount of information I have to put together myself. It might take me a little while to really know what a seidr is, but I can give you some ideas at least.

"Our magic probably comes from Odin, or Freyja. From what Thyrí told me there was a lot of ritual involved for many seidr and seidmenn—men who had the gift, but they were rare, and suffered something she called ergi, and no, I don't know what that means—and those rituals let them see the future, divine and influence the weather, bring good fortune to some or curse others. Only a very rare few were touched by the gods. Vanirsjelen, and a translation is something like 'knowing souls', but I have no idea what that actually means.

"There were five types of Vanirsjelen: brannmakt, vindmakt, vannmakt, jordmakt, and ismakt. Fire, air, water, earth, and ice. She couldn't tell me why ice and water were different, but she hinted at their being a sixth type of power. Something above all of them, but also not—or maybe something that wasn't of the seidr, or maybe wasn't from the Vanirsjelen; she wasn't very clear on that point. Sinnmakt. From what I actually understood of her speech, Sinnmakt was less about outward power and more about seeing inward. It might not even have been a human magic."

Anna sat silently, processing. She was also looking up at the virtual wall of runes between her and Elsa, strange diamond shapes hanging beneath the symbols. Five diamonds, and a sixth hazy shape that might have been a diamond, a circle, a triangle, or anything else. It was a lot to take in, and as she'd listened it had felt like Elsa was unburdening herself of something unwanted deep inside. With knowledge like that, she didn't blame her. Suddenly knowing that there had been so much magic in the world, and most of it influenced by the classic elements—but Elsa was right in thinking it odd that water and ice were separated, because they were literally the same thing, just at different temperatures. Then again, the same could be said for air and fire. Which would make earth the odd one out, unless seeing inward was its opposite. Frowning, Anna shook her head. That didn't make sense at all.

She realised there was a missing element as well—aether. There was a lot that didn't make sense. She'd lost interest early in a lot of the classics she'd been forced to read, but the concept of the four elements had always intrigued her. Right now, however, Elsa was telling her that there were five, or even six, and they didn't seem to follow the same logic. If magic had any logic at all. She sighed, eyes closed, and rubbed her temples with her thumb and forefinger. Trying to figure everything out right now was going to give her a headache.

Looking up, she saw Elsa waiting patiently. Her sister spoke softly. "You looked so deep in thought there."

"And I still can't figure it all out," she huffed impatiently. "And you said you were still putting it all together as well, so what hope do I have here, but I just want to help you so much, and I want to see more of what your magic can do, even if it's hard—but I'll be right here for you."

"I know you will," Elsa moved closer. "I know, but sometimes I still don't quite believe it—but that's not your fault."

"It's okay, Elsa, I knew what you meant." Anna moved so she was close enough to gently take her sister's hand. "I'm not leaving you."

"But I think you want to ask me to do something difficult." Anna cursed her sister's perceptiveness.

"I do, but maybe just some more little questions first, if that's better?"

Elsa nodded.

"So I know there's colours, but I've seen your ice in many forms as well—I mean, like not just blocks, or frost, or rime, but… like the layers in your ice palace. The time you made that ice-ink. The glittering snowfall when I kissed you. Even something living, like Olaf—or was… do you know how that happened?"

"I'm not sure how," Elsa's voice shook slightly. "I'm not sure if I want to find out, either."

"What if I wanted to find out?"

Elsa turned away, hiding her face behind her hands. Anna gently turned her back around, slowly forcing her to lower her hands.

"I've told you, it's okay to be afraid, you don't have to hide it."

"It's not that," Elsa appeared to be on the edge of panic. "What if I can't do it again—or what if I can?"

"What are you so afraid of?" Anna swallowed as soon as the words were out of her mouth. More than once she'd asked that question, and more than once she'd regretted what she'd discovered, or caused to happen. But this time Elsa wasn't trying to run away. Didn't even turn away. Crystal blue eyes locked with Anna's own, and suddenly she knew this was something her sister couldn't say.

Elsa tried to say it anyway, but couldn't get the words out. Anna rose slightly, hugging her sister tight.

"I know it's hard, and scary, so I'll only ever ask you to actually do it this one time, okay," Anna held stepped back and held her hand up slowly. "Just once—one small thing—because once you find out, you'll know, and I'll still be here—right here—for you."

"Do you want to…" Elsa sniffed, wiping away tears. "Do you want to build a snowman?"

"It doesn't have to be a snowman," Anna smiled, half-singing the line. "Something small, like a little sprite, or a rabbit—no, a ferret!"

"Why, in the name of the Divine, do you want a ferret?" It was clear Elsa had moved from sadness and fear to full blown disbelief.

"Because they're cute," Anna mimed holding one up to her face. "And because I said something small—which is also something simple, right?" She smiled at Elsa. "Nothing like Olaf or Marshmallow."

"The Breath of Life is not a toy…" Elsa's voice turned sombre. "If I even have it."

"Which is why I said just this once. I'll care for him—you've said I should be more responsible—and he can explore the castle with me, and maybe he can pass messages to us in little scrolls or something and hey, why are you laughing?"

"Because you have put way too much thought into this."

"Maybe," Anna admitted, lowering her eyes. "But will you do it, for me?"

Elsa brought her hands together in silent prayer, and Anna watched as her lips moved without sound. Elsa's eyes opened and she fixed Anna with a grave look. "Only this once?"

"Wait, what if he gets lonely?"

"Anna." Her sister's voice was firm and held a dangerous note of warning.

"One time—but is it okay to talk about it after, because I have some questions…"

"So do I," And it seemed strange to hear Elsa admitting that. "We can talk about it—I think I might have to, to understand it better—but it will only be talk. Agreed?"

Anna held up her pinky. Elsa laughed, but held up her left hand, pinky extended just the same. "We agree," Anna spoke softly. "Just this once, then I am only allowed to ask about it; not to ask you to use it."

"Make it true." Elsa's voice was soft.

Anna knelt so their foreheads touched, stray hairs falling in odd tangles. Now it was true, bound by their ancient pinky promise pact. It seemed so silly, but Elsa had treated had just treated it with the seriousness she gave to negotiating with another kingdom. Only then did Anna realise what she had asked, and what Elsa had agreed to. There was no doubt as to why Elsa was treating the situation with such gravity. They both knew the weight of taking a life—in panic, under duress, forced to act before they could think—but only now did she understand the weight of creating a life. Not finding, or taming. Not as the birth of a child, but as an act of pure creation.

Anna blinked, unsure of how she'd wound up sitting on the floor. Elsa silently offered her a hand.

"Maybe you do understand why." Elsa's voice was suddenly tender.

"And I know why you still want to say no," she took the proffered hand and rose slowly. "I understand… it's not something I'd thought about, and I'm sorry."

"Just hold my hand, please," it was a quiet plea for strength. Anna squeezed her sister's hand tight. Elsa let out a very deep breath. "We can find out together."

Hours later, those words still rang through Elsa's mind, thrilling her soul. We can find out together. Anna's excitement—happiness, and then joy. It was infectious, and also exactly what Elsa had needed. She could even feel the way her magic was trying to soothe her, bring her gently down. To let her know that what she had done was not in any way wrong. Even now, she felt as if an odd coil had hooked around that invisible centre, trying to recharge her and help her understand the magic that flowed through her in that moment. A magic that had felt like something else entirely. Not like this spirit her ismakt had, but a wind, a breath, a flow of some secret, sacred energy. For a moment—an instant—she had become a conduit for something so much greater than herself she could scarcely begin to comprehend it.

That flow had scattered her worries and fears like leaves upon an autumn breeze. She felt a joy she had known just once before, and yet she felt more in control and grounded than ever before. She was not afraid of seeking that joy again—but she also knew what finding it would mean. Just once would be enough. She laughed. Just once; after promising Gerda she would clean the ballroom tomorrow. Being unable to thaw something would normally have sent her into a panic, but Anna's presence and this overriding joy had stopped that cold. She knew how strange it was, but part of her just accepted it. She didn't know, and didn't want to question it too closely for fear of losing it.

Instead, she had moved slowly through the ballroom, eyes alight with wonder, her fingertips brushing the massive, perfect, crystal clear snowflakes that hung soundlessly in the air. And she had known at last what caused such pure ice to form and fall. Joy. She smiled, idly wondering if perhaps it was her persistent happiness that was preventing the ballroom from being thawed. Or perhaps it was simply something she wished for others to see, and in the back of her mind she did not want to thaw it. Yet. Something for the council to see tomorrow, a less subtle reminder of her power.

But even that paled in comparison to what Anna had encouraged her to do. All she had to was close her eyes to feel it again. To see the unabashed joy on her sister's face.

As she reached for her magic she had felt it reaching back for her in turn, suddenly so strongly in tune with her desires. With her right hand as a platform she had drawn a living thing with her left—though not living yet. A snout, short and round, but with sharp little teeth. Eyes, bright and alert, but for now flat and waiting. Small, round ears. Whiskers of ice. Fur somewhere between snow and something else entirely. A long, lithe body, drawn halfway up her arm. Short, powerful legs, and little claws to grip and climb with. A tail, not short, but not long, pointed at the tip. A body sleek with not-quite-fur, not-quite-snow as a downy coat.

It was only a sculpture, immaculate with detail such that Anna's eyes had grown wide with wonder as she leaned in closer, taking in every detail. But it was not yet alive, so Elsa reached for her magic once more. Reached past her magic. What she touched was beyond comprehending. Beyond any knowledge. More than her mind could handle. In an instant she saw everything. It was Anna's smile she held on to, and that funny, tickling movement on her arm. That great force touched her once, gently, as it left her behind.

And there was Anna, smiling, the little snow ferret touching its nose to hers. Tears of joy shone in her eyes. Elsa couldn't hold back her own. She had called beyond herself. Wished for something impossible. Helped her sister understand, and find new happiness. It was all true. It was all less than what that great power had flowed with, but it was somehow a part of it that made it only greater, not lesser. By touching her it made her greater. It seemed something that could fill the entire world with this happiness and life, and still be no less powerful for it.

Even now, hours later, lying in her bed, Elsa remained in awe of what she had done. Of what she had been touched by. Of how it had helped her see. It had done something to her snow ferret as well. She couldn't say why, but she knew it wouldn't need a flurry to keep from melting—not like she'd had to make for Olaf. But her mind kept jumping back to the ballroom. To hearing Anna's delight in watching her tiny new friend playing in the air.

Because when she opened her eyes, Elsa had seen those giant crystal snowflakes frozen about the room. Her joy had been so pure it simply hung there, the flickering light of the gaslamps casting a thousand rainbows across the room. And her—Anna's—snow ferret had jumped from snowflake to snowflake, up and down, around the room, scrabbling quickly around the bottom of some, trying to gnaw at the edges of others. As Anna moved it would sometimes jump to her shoulder—or hair, or hand—then jump to another, different snowflake, ever curious about this giant room.

"You just want to climb everything, don't you Stubbe?" Anna crooned.

"Really, 'Stubbe'?" Elsa couldn't keep the note of admonition form her voice.

"Well he is short," Anna retorted, the ferret jumping down onto her shoulder. "And it's kind of ironic." At which point Stubbe had grabbed some of her hair to taste before promptly spitting it out with a violent sneeze. She turned to look at him. "Okay, fine, be a critic."

"What about 'Kvikke'?"

"That just sounds silly." Elsa laughed when both Anna and her ferret shook their heads at the same time.

"'Hendt'—from netthendt?"

Anna's face lit up with inspiration. "'Rask'." She turned to look her ferret in the eyes. "Plus it could be short for 'rascal'."

Elsa laughed so hard she nearly had a coughing fit. Because she could have sworn that ferret had just given Anna the most hurt, indignant look possible. Right before giving her ear a gentle nip and taking off across the room.

"Really earning your name, aren't you?"

There was a quiet squeak in reply, then Rask started climbing the snowflakes, leaping towards the top of the ballroom, well out of Anna's reach.

That had been the rest of the evening, Anna eventually coaxing Rask down with some tiny snowballs Elsa had made for him. Then they had tried, and tried, and tried to thaw the ballroom. But instead of panic and fear, Elsa had just felt a tinge of disquiet, and an odd wash of acceptance. Anna had eventually retired to bed, Rask riding happily on her shoulder, and Elsa had gone to find Gerda, to tell her about the mess, and not to worry about cleaning it.

And now Elsa lay in bed, happy, replaying the evening in her head again and again, trying to hold on to it forever. Forever. She struggled upright, retrieving a very old journal from the top drawer of her nightstand. She quickly scribbled in the date, then wrote down everything she could think of for the night. 'Everything' covered nearly three pages. She smiled, adding one last note.

For Anna, it will always be worth it.

The moon was high in the sky, but its light was not enough to see by. Not enough for what she needed to do. Vanja turned the gaslamps on, bathing Søren's bench in a warm orange glow. He was no artist, but the etching he'd made into the blade was fine work. It was a good blade too. Sturdy, weighted properly for a hunting knife. The grip was shaped so well it felt like it just fell into her hand. The scrimshaw was crude, but she couldn't begrudge him that. She could draw charts and plans and even maps, but a study in charcoal, or a carving from wax?

She didn't owe him anything. It was a good knife. That was the only reason. All the tools and parts she needed were still laid out on the bench. It was the work of minutes to assemble the knife, and she cursed as she dropped the last pin, hearing it roll under the bench. With a huff of frustration she knelt low, reaching under the bench, working by feel in the dim light. There was paper under there—a note. Probably the one she'd let fall there. She pulled it out and set it aside without looking at it. The pin had rolled all the way to the back, and she could only just reach it with her fingertips.

After finally finishing the knife, she checked the note. Just from the handwriting she knew it was Søren's. It was a plea from Konrad to just come home and talk. A plea she was sure Søren had never actually seen. There was a lot of dust still left on that note. She cursed him again for being a terrible father. For running away. For making her feel for him. She wanted, so very badly, to just hate him. It could never be that simple. Because he'd managed to get past her armour—her emotional armour, which was far harder to do. In fact, she'd thought it impossible.

Yet here she was, pining after that bastard, whose last words had driven a knife so deep through her heart she'd been forced to run away. Because she simply couldn't face up to the idea that someone might understand her pain. That anyone could be hurt as much as she was. He'd lost exactly the same thing. Not in the same way—he could never lose something that way—but somehow this way was worse. She had witnessed it slowly tearing him apart. Dividing his loyalties. Forcing him to choose duty over family. And she herself wasn't innocent in all of this. She knew she could have done more to help. So much more.

But she'd failed to be for Søren the person she'd needed when her own pain had dragged her down that same, self-destructive path. But instead of drink and violence he had run from the pain. Run from everything in his past. But Vanja didn't want to be in his past. She swore, throwing one of his tools across the workshop with a discordant clang. She wanted to be part of his future. She swore again, hating herself for ever wanting that; cursing herself for every kind of fool she could think of. She couldn't just follow him and drag him back either—because she had responsibilities to uphold. Even more of them now, quite sure she would be asked to find a replacement for Søren at tomorrow's council meeting. She was already doing Larsson's job as the new scribe, and she was still the council's aide for other tasks. What was one more thing on the pile. She swore again.

It didn't matter. Her new knife was done, and with the blade in her hands living in the wilds was once more a tempting prospect. She didn't need this place anymore. She promised herself that she was only tending to the forge because it was a good forge, easy to keep lit. Somebody might need it soon. She turned out the gaslamps, determined to go home. To sleep in her own bed for once. But she knew she couldn't do that. She couldn't accept trying to fall asleep without the sound of a fire, or the smell of iron, or the hope that maybe someone would open that little door.

She wanted to scream. To rage at the world. To hate everyone for what had happened. But she couldn't. It wasn't possible. Because she knew the truth, and couldn't face it. All this hurt; all the pain she felt. The anguish tearing at her soul. She filled with such self-loathing she didn't know what do anymore. Because everything she felt, deep down, she knew, was her own damned fault—but it was also all she had left. And she hated that thought even more, because she knew the story of her crippled queen. It had started just like this. The world seeming to come apart around her. Vanja willed the night to take her into a dreamless sleep.

It was all she could do anymore.