Dear Prince Hans Westergaard of the Southern Isles,
You admitted it. I didn't think you would. I've never seen such viciously written words. No wonder your ink continued to run out.
You may be a Prince by title and birthright, but that is not how I see you. I see you as a commoner. I do not allow for commoners to call me by my first name. Without my title, it denotes familiarity. In some aspects, it denotes lack of respect. Which of the two are you playing toward?
When you collect the first handful of belief, tell me. It'll appear if you truly want it.
Love?
My sister, as you know, thinks of it as an open door, full of possibilities and vulnerability. I see it a little differently. To me, love is a flood. It's like you've eaten a large meal because you were starving, but you didn't know it. You feel very full—like you're going to burst—but it's not uncomfortable. It makes you feel as though you can shed your doubts and allow yourself to fit into newly realized skin. That's the love I've felt. You'll know it from the imposters, because it is unexplainable. You can't rationalize it, and it defies your denial. Trust me.
It saddens me that you have to ask.
You had written a whole reply without having any context about my answer? That's creative. You must have a lot of time on your hands, don't you? To reply to an answer that doesn't exist. I'd tell you to send it to me to call your bluff, but you have ample time to write one between this letter and the next. I am curious, though. I wonder what makes it so embarrassing for you? I'd like to read something that lacks "your witty verve", as you call it.
You must have a lot of time on your hands if you can imagine such things. Maybe you are going mad, Prince Hans. Not because of the ink, but because no sane man would write to their enemy about receiving a letter from them that has touched the enemy's pillow, or vice versa. Are you certain you aren't running a fever? Perhaps you should check.
Sincerely,
Queen Elsa of Arendelle
P.S. If it wasn't clear, no, you may not call me Elsa.
Dear Elsa,
That settles it, then. Because you denied me, I now have to do it. It's your fault. You were supposed to say yes, and it would have shocked me so much I would have continued calling you Queen. And here, I thought you knew me better.
I do not have fever, but I always seem to be on the verge of sweating when I receive your parcels. Can you tell me why? My heart races, but it isn't out of fear or anger. The cold parchment always seems to save me from the fire blazing under my skin. The chill calms my mind. I think I may be trying to thank you, but probably not.
Ah, so that's what it is. Love. A flood. That sounds fitting. It's curious. When I think of a flood, I think of drowning and untimely deaths. Yet you speak of a freedom and a newness. If ever I find it, I will tell you. I doubt I'll feel it the same way as you.
You don't believe me about the reply? I shouldn't be surprised. No, I didn't write it between reading your last letter and now, though I wouldn't have put it past myself. I guess I am crazy enough to write a letter to a fictitious reply that I'd imagined during all of the free time I have, as you say. Maybe I'll send it to you, someday, when I'm not so annoyed by the disingenuous wording and predictability.
I'll refute your claim about time. All it takes to imagine something is a brief second. A hint or evidence of a possibility that never crossed your mind. Your thumbprint was smudged with ink along the corner of the letter before last, and I noticed it once the ice thawed. There was a divot in the paper from the pressure of your thumb. Ever since, I've imagined all kinds of things. It doesn't seem to matter what time of day.
What have you imagined, Elsa? Nothing? You can tell me. I have no one to spill your secrets.
Yours,
Prince Hans
P.S. Call me by my name. I don't mind as much as you do.
P.P.S. What you said about the pillow…does that mean your letters have touched your pillow?