Dear Prince Hans Westergaard of the Southern Isles,

You have a certain level of audacity that is always so unappealing. The only loathsome thing that stepped into our home was you. You toyed with my sister's heart for fun, you let Arendelle believe you had their best interests, you played at being a hero. I'm sure you thought your acting skills were very A-list. Have you gotten any offers for roles in the traveling troupes or plays? If you haven't, I will be utterly dumbfounded.

I find myself laughing at the idea of you attempting to court me. If only you had. You would have been frozen on my coronation day, and my sister would have been saved from dealing with your despicable smile.

You like talking about failure. Why is that? Do you require someone else's failures to feed off of, because your own are not enough? Do you need to deflect your failures so as not to feel so sorry for yourself? If that's the case, then no. I can't help you. My failures led to victories. What did your failures lead to? Oh, I know. They led to loneliness and a cell. Shackles, too, didn't they? I've heard about your punishments through the rumor mill. I'm sure you wear those shackles as if they're golden bangles. Those are all the rage right now in the Southern Isles. I truly hope your family did not take mercy on you, as they told me they would not.

Failures only push me to be better. They don't contain me, Prince Hans, and the pain felt from them is only a temporary respite from conquering them. The world beckons for strength and progress. Far be it for me to ignore that.

You seem to me to be the type to ignore.

Sincerely,

Queen Elsa of Arendelle

Dearest Queen Elsa of Arendelle,

It is an easy thing to talk about strength and victories through the medium of letters. I wonder, would you have enough courage to talk like this without the protection of ink and seals? Would you glare down at me while you determine the words that would cut through me most? I imagine you would glow in your frost and puncture my skin with your ice, much akin to a witch or sorceress. Tell me, do your eyes glow, as well? If not with magic, then I am sure with the purest disdain.

I have another question. Why do you debase yourself with this continued correspondence? I cannot imagine you waiting on the parcels to arrive, gleaning over notes and the callings of other dynasties, the golden emblems of other Dukes, Duchesses, Kings, and Queens, desperately awaiting for your fingers to land on the textured parchment that bears my signature H on the lip of the seal. A Queen has a myriad of other duties that take much higher precedence than the words of a traitor.

Why do you put time aside to parry words with me? Is it your pride, Queen Elsa? Can you not allow me the last word?

Is it the glowing embers of your hatred, underlying the ice within you? Is it that every letter you receive stokes the fire, just as it is on the edge of being extinguished by your chilled fingers?

Or could it be, Your Royal Highness, that deep down in the murky chambers of your heart, that you enjoy this repartee? Do my words quicken your breath, do they flush your skin? Do they make you growl with immeasurable frustration? Do your hands shake as you cut words into the parchment of the next letter, unable to contain your wrath? I imagine you've fumbled a time or two, throwing out letters that have spilled ink stains and illegible scrawl. As calm and collected as you portray yourself, Queen, the tumult of the basest emotions surely unfurl behind the closed doors of your personal chambers.

Ah, but then, each of these is purely speculation. I do not believe a woman of your stature and elegance would ever allow herself to feel anything for a scoundrel who wanted not only her life, but her kingdom.

Tell me the truth, Queen. I dare you.

Yours truly,

Prince Hans Westergaard of the Southern Isles