Author's Note: Based on the prompt "Murderer" from SamAnderson on FFNet. Canon-divergent within the original film, following the "oh, Hans is the bad guy!" revelation.
Elsa hears the tapping on the other side of the cell wall first, followed by a sigh.
"Good morning, Your Majesty. And how are we today?"
She ignores the question, just as she did the morning before. Her eyes fix themselves on the book in her lap, struggling to keep it straight with her hands still locked into their restrictive manacles.
Another sigh. "We might be here for months, you know, before a trial is called. Years, even."
Her stare intensifies, reading the same two sentences over and over again, and says nothing.
"Don't worry, Elsa. I'll be sure not to use anything you say against you in a court of law."
She snaps the tome shut, her lips turning down in a scowl. "Would you shut up already?" she hisses, and then bites the inside of her cheek as the outside reddens.
He laughs just loudly enough so that she can hear it, and she knows he's smirking to boot. "Ah, there you are. I was worried I might just be talking to myself."
"I'm sure you'd do that anyway," she retorts, trying to find her place in the book again.
"Quite right," he agrees, making her snort to herself. "But now that I have you talking, I'm dying to know: how have they managed to keep you locked up in this cage? Surely, with your powers, you could have just burst through the wall and—"
"And what?" Elsa interrupts, glaring at the wall. "Run back to the mountains? And how would I survive there, with no food or water except what I could collect with my bare hands?"
A pause. "I didn't realize you'd thought this through so carefully," he admits.
She rolls her eyes, leaning back against the cell. "You have a habit of underestimating people, it seems. Especially me."
"I guess so," he concurs.
An uneasy silence settles over them, and Elsa's eyes glaze over as she stares at the opposite wall. The grey, lifeless stone mirrors her mood, and suddenly the hard straw mattress under her feels more uncomfortable than ever.
"My father," she murmurs, not knowing - or caring - if he hears her. "He had this cell constructed specially for me, to contain my powers. He knew the day might come, when I—"
She trails off, blinking back tears, and bows her head.
"I see," he says quietly. "I'm sorry."
She starts at the remark, staring at the wall behind her with bemusement. "What?"
"Well, it's not as if it's your fault that you were born with these… powers," he says, his tone cautious. "And it doesn't seem as if you were ever taught to control them, so an outcome like this was rather inevitable, wasn't it?"
Elsa falls silent at the question, and her gaze is locked on the manacles again, examining them for the hundredth time. It's as if her hands are bound in an iron maiden - without the spikes, thankfully - and the steel, though technically cool to touch, burns her constricted skin.
She notes, with a droll sort of irony, the intricate snowflake design carved into the cuffs.
"Maybe," she says at length. "Or maybe I'm just a monster, like everyone says." She glances behind her, glowering. "Just look at the company I keep."
She expects a dry chuckle from him, but is met with a strange hush instead. "They only call you that when you lose," he remarked, "or behind your back, after you win."
Her gaze narrows. "So if Ambassador Moulin hadn't witnessed your little speech to Anna, you'd have been crowned 'King Hans of Arendelle' and not sitting here, rotting in the cell next to mine?"
"Maybe," he replies, setting her eyes ablaze with anger. "Or maybe not. Who knows? My plot failed, and now I'm here, and you're here, and the Duke of Weselton or some other numskull is probably ruling over whatever is left of Arendelle."
Elsa pauses, her shoulders suddenly shaking, and this time she can't hold back her tears. They fall in messy, uneven lines down her cheeks and onto her dress, freezing upon contact, and it takes all of her strength not to choke on her own sobs.
"Elsa…"
"Don't," she warns, gasping at the effort it takes to speak. "Please, don't. I can't stand your pity." Even with her hands chained, a swirl of snowflakes surrounds her shuddering frame, making the whole prison colder.
She hears his teeth chatter through his reply. "I don't pity you. I just…"
The drift subsides a little as her curiosity overcomes her self-contempt. "What?"
He swallows audibly. "I know you didn't intend to freeze her—it was an accident. What I did, by comparison, was… even if it didn't kill her, she died thinking that she was unloved."
He pauses, and her chest tightens to the point that she thinks her heart might burst, her tears coursing freely again down her cheeks.
"For that, I am sorry."
The dam breaks, and she sobs against the steel covering her hands, bending over as every inch of her body is wracked with pain. "My fault," she whispers to herself, rocking back and forth. "My fault, my fault."
The snowdrifts and cold winds return, stronger than ever, encircling her crumpled form until she is invisible to the naked eye.
"Elsa!" he shouts from the other cell, "Elsa, please!"
She doesn't hear his cries, numb from the cold, but his other words - she died thinking she was unloved - echo in her mind, trapping her in place, and making her scream until her voice is little more than an abstraction.
When the worst of her panic subsides, the prison is quiet but for the sound of her own, labored breathing, her skin dripping with cold sweat as she regains the barest of control over her senses.
"Hans," she rasps, raising herself from the bed. She gets as close as she can to the bars of the cell, which are frozen solid after her latest attack. "Hans, say something."
Elsa's erstwhile companion makes no reply, nor can she even make out the sound of his breath. Her eyes widen in alarm. "Hans, don't play games. Please, answer me."
When she is met with silence again, her breathing grows rapid and shallow, and she trembles.
"Hans, please!"
But there is no answer from Hans - nor any sound at all, from anywhere else - save for the beating of her own heart.
She whimpers, and bangs her forehead once - then twice, three, four times more - against the frozen bars, her broken shackles on the floor going unnoticed.
"My fault," she whispers, her jaw slack. "My fault."