Dear Prince Hans Westergaard of the Southern Isles,
Admit to who the monster is. Will your pride allow it?
Hm. You have a window in a basement? I'm curious as to the architecture of the Southern Isles.
The hardest step is believing. One must believe in themselves before they can truly accomplish anything worth merit. Belief ebbs and flows. It is much like the ocean you may or may not be looking to as you read this letter, but know this: hopes and dreams are powerful fuels. Grasp them. Use them. As you say, they mean nothing if you let them waste away. If you truly want to be better? Then you will be.
Love grows whether it is wanted or not. It can grow in desolate wastelands and the most bountiful highlands. No one can escape its notice. That includes you, Prince, even if you are despicable, a liar, and a cheat. Love is what looks past the exterior and finds the good underneath the muck. Whether that means you and your family will reconcile...well, that is to be determined with time. That's the thing, too. Anything great takes time.
You're not an optimist? You've certainly had me fooled with all your talk of flowery hope.
I write these letters in our family library, which is approximately two stories and three hallways away from my bed chambers. Even if I did stumble to bed with parchment and pen, you really think I would tell you? Apparently, you've learned nothing about me.
Sincerely,
Queen Elsa of Arendelle
P.S. Are you disappointed? I didn't crucify you, but that is merely because I am exhausted of crucifying. Surely you know what an ogre you are without me having to repeat myself time and again.
Dear Queen Elsa of Arendelle,
I've always been the monster. A fiend. I care about no one, and no one cares about me. Like a metaphor, the wolf in sheep's clothing. The most frightening of monsters, in my experience, have been the individuals who were born completely ordinary. I was born weak and useless and ordinary, and what do you think that's made me?
Worry not. I'm still very prideful. I'm nearly snarling with it as I write this. Can you tell? The ink is running out too fast. I have to dip my quill into the ink well over and over and over. It drives me crazy. I think I'm going mad for no other reason than the ink isn't lasting for more than a few words at a time.
Belief must be like sand. I grasp and grasp, I throw it against the wall, I try to put it in a jar. It seems to seep into the cracks of the wooden floorboards, eluding me always. Maybe one day I'll be buried chin deep in it without ever realizing I had it in the first place.
Elsa—can I call you by your name? You can't answer until this letter arrives to you, so I'll take my liberties while I can. Elsa, what does love feel like? Does it feel like glory or a rush of power? Does it make you feel unstoppable? For the life of me, I've always thought I've known. I'm coming to realize I never have—not truly. I've got an idea, just like anyone. I've seen it unfurl before my eyes. I've read the sonnets and listened to the songs. I know the descriptions and the foundation. I've also seen its decoys. How does one tell genuine emotion from imposters? It's the most powerful emotion in the world. To be honest, I think it's overrated.
Interestingly enough, I'm not disappointed in the lack of crucifixion. I wanted to say I was. I had my whole reply already written out for you. I can send it if you'd like, but it's a bit lacking in…inspiration. And my witty verve. Not my best work. A bit embarrassing. I think I'm becoming bored of saying the same things about you in a hundred different ways.
I am disappointed that there is a possibility of you not writing to me in an intimate room. I write to you in my most intimate room. I write to you from my bed pallet. I write to you as I look out toward the ocean. I write to you when the moonlight hits the edge of my desk. I'm sure if you read this letter close enough, you could smell the scent of must and rock walls that surround me. I've imagined some of these letters lying on your comforters. Resting on your pillows. The edges of parchment being dented by your fingers as you think how to respond back to me, before you let the frost collect. What odd things to imagine. I'd throw this letter out and start anew, but I fear I'm too tired to begin it, again. Besides, this is supposed to be like a journal entry, is it not?
On the contrary, Elsa, I think I've learned a lot about you so far. That's why I believe you write these letters in your library. It's why I find myself imagining you writing them elsewhere.
Yours,
Prince Hans Westergaard of the Southern Isles