a/n; Thank you for the continual reviews! I love to read what you all think! :) I have no beta reader, so I'm hoping most of these don't have too many grammatical mistakes!

Dear Commoner Hendrick of the Southern Isles,

That name suits you. It sounds like a well-to-do peasant down on hard times rather than an egotistical, prideful thirteenth Prince.

Do you not talk with your fellow farmhands or laborers? You are not strictly isolated, though perhaps you are too busy with manual work to care much for conversation.

Your opinion on love is very decided. The words on the parchment feel rigid, as if pressed with much force from your inked quill. I understand different breeds of love exist, and I am not so naïve to say that true love conquers all. But I fear that the love you speak of isn't love at all. Selfish love is not true love. Selfish love ends. It is a frayed rope, and it will get you nowhere. It unravels into a million threads, and it can lead to greed and hate, as you say. But that love is the imposter. That love is a shell, and it is but a brief happenstance. So easy is it to fall into the trap of this falsehood, because it feels so very real.

I will say this again: when you feel true love, you will know. It is different. It beats like a heart. It throbs like a wound. However, I don't expect to persuade you. I merely want you to…keep an open mind.

Do you truly write because you have nothing else? My skepticism never seems to leave me as I read over your words, but I am hard pressed to wonder about the gentle, slow curves of your handwriting in the thoughtful paragraphs. They are decidedly calmer than the missives from weeks before. I can hardly believe it's been nearly eight months since the first letter I sent you.

These farmlands—which crops do you farm? What type of land do you till? I will dare you something. Erase my skepticism, Prince Hans. Do something that will irrevocably alter all of my suspicions.

Because if you can do this, I think I will always want you to hold onto hope.

Sincerely,

Queen Elsa of Arendelle

P.S. The first.

Elsa,

I'm glad you think I live up to my commoner name. Honestly, I still thought it sounded a bit snooty.

I've sent a package with the letter. My main servant—not servant. I should call him my guard, as that is his true job. He makes sure I do not do anything suspicious, or try to escape, or do something that will hurt my kingdom. My guard, I believe, has taken some pity on me. Not a good thing, probably, but it's allowed for this package to be sent to you. It is not much, but it is the favorite crop I farm. We farm others. Coffee beans, avocados, bananas. You trade with us. You know. I'm rotated around depending on which plantation needs more hands.

The soil is from the aisle of trees I planted. I am sure it has dried out from the journey to reach you.

But these are both superficial. I don't believe it will erase your skepticism. So I will give you this opportunity. Write to my mother. Ask her why she walks with a cane in her left hand.

I am sure she will be suspicious at first, considering I don't believe you two have ever been in the same vicinity for you witness or know. She will say that it was from a horseback riding incident. A sharp turn, and she slipped out of the saddle, breaking her femur.

The real reason was due to my birth. Thirteen pregnancies, believe it or not, can take a very major toll on a woman's body. She had natural childbirths for all of us, but it took her a longer time to recover after me. A nerve had been entrapped while she went into labor. It had caused temporary paralysis during the days after I was born. The physicians told my parents it would go away after a few weeks, months at the longest. Her sensation and strength would come back. Some of it did but not all. She's never been the same.

She won't admit to it in the first letter. See how she responds when you tell her you know the true reason. Then, ask—ask them if I'm in the basement and on the fields. I don't think they'll deny you the truth after that.

I've read your first letter more than a dozen times, Elsa. And now, I will go back and read it again.

Yours,

Hans