a/n; This second part is not made up of solely of letters (though, those will continue here and there), and is actually made up of more "normal" storytelling. I anticipate approximately 3-5ish more chapters, including these longer ones. Hopefully you enjoy the change of style! Also, I can't apologize for the sticky sap that may or may not be contained in these chapters. ;) Also, this chapter is massive.
PART II
Hans knows the moment Elsa arrives onto the plantation, because it's the same sensation he felt the first time. A slight breeze weaves through the open plains, and it is as chilly as though winter is upon them. It's spring. He's on tomatoes, which means he's hunched over most of the day. The chill on his back raises the hair on his skin, damp from the midday sun. He takes a sharp inhale and turns, looking up.
Elsa stands twenty feet away from him along a gentle upslope of land. She is so much closer than last time. He can see the distinct shape of her eyes, the loosened hair that rebels against her braid. He goes to stand and nearly stumbles on thin air. Her hands are clasped in front of her, resting on her hip, and she looks very queenly, indeed. The two years since he's truly seen her have brought about a maturity in the line of her mouth, her stature, the strength of her spine.
He feels the sudden rush of weight the past year has placed on him. He does not stand as tall as she. His shoulders are stooped, and he goes to straighten them, to mimic her. He's at least a head taller, but he feels two heads shorter.
He pulls on the thread of pride that is still attached to his chest, and he uses it to feign the confidence he once held in spades. He makes his way toward her, his steps amplified by the chains dangling from his wrists. They tap his thighs with each step.
When he is five feet from her, he swallows. She is a cloud in a sea of sky. Her hair absorbs all the color of sunshine.
His legs weaken. He drops to a kneel carefully, bowing his head and greeting her. "Your Majesty."
"Prince Hans," she says, and he stiffens. "You don't have to kneel. Please, rise. And where on earth is your shirt?"
Her words jar him. He's so used to working without proper clothing that he had forgotten he didn't have his work shirt. His mouth turns up, and he looks at her as he pushes up on his feet.
"Ah, forgive me, Your Majesty. It's in the shed." He points a shackled hand in its general direction, but he continues staring at her.
Like a creep.
He averts his eyes at the thought, only for them to be drawn back up to her face like a magnet.
She continues to stare at him, as well, but her eyes don't soften. They are guarded, and he is glad of it. The blue of her eyes are icy and defiant and unperturbed. Have they always been so expressive?
"Do you always greet Queens without a shirt?" she asks.
He blinks. "I've never had a Queen visit…ah." At her pointed look, he finally gets what she means. "Right. Let me…get my…shirt."
She smirks a little.
Oof. It's a smack to his eyeballs. He tries to think what his old self would do—smile charmingly? Be adorably oblivious? No, none of that seems right when she smirks like that. He merely sighs and makes his way to the shed.
When he grabs his shirt, he realizes he can't put it on due to his shackles. Huh. He's become a certifiable idiot just by her presence. His face heats up with embarrassment. She must be laughing at him as he stands there in the shed, unsure of what to do.
He thunks his head against the wooden slats of the shed before he slings his shirt over his shoulder like a towel. Whatever. She can deal with his half-nakedness. It's not like she hasn't seen it before…probably. What with all her suitors, she's surely seen…well, if none were worth her time, she unquestionably never allowed…but then if not, that would mean…
He flushes again. It isn't his fault. He didn't know she'd arrive on this day. She never specified. If anything, it was her fault—but not really.
He opens the door and nearly jumps out of his skin when she's right outside.
She smiles at him, holding up a frosty key in her finger.
"I meant to tell you. I snagged the key from Julian—your guard. He said you'd probably need it," she says.
Julian gave her a key? He looks at Elsa again. He can't blame Julian. He'd probably give her keys to a prisoner's shackles, too, if she asked nicely.
He's such a sucker.
"Good thing. I was about to tell you you were going to have to suffer looking at me shirtless," he blurts, surprising himself.
She's so fair in complexion, he can see a slight pinkness decorate the bridge of her nose. He raises an eyebrow as he takes the key from her, trying to smother the small thrill that runs through him. Maybe she's affected after all. Maybe he is the first male she's seen topless.
He makes quick work of the shackles and pushes his arms into the sleeves of his shirt. It's immediately stifling, but it seems as though Elsa makes everything in her near vicinity twenty degrees lower in temperature, as if he's standing in perpetual shade. It's a relief.
"Thank you," he says.
"You're welcome," she answers.
They stare at one another. Hans is the first to break the eye contact, clearing his throat and glancing off to the rows of tomatoes.
"You're fine with me…without shackles? Because I can put them on again, if you'd like."
She ponders his question for a moment, her eyes roving over him, dissecting him. Finally, she states, "You may keep them off. It will make the work easier."
He tries not to be surprised, but he can't help staring at her again. He comes marginally back to his senses, easing a step away from her, to keep a respectable distance. He glances off to the side to see her guards watching them along the dirt road beside her carriage, but he knows Elsa could drop him in a flick of a wrist if she wanted.
"My shift usually lasts until the end of the day…" he starts, unsure of what he's about to tell her. "I could, uh, show you around, if you'd like? It's a bit…I mean, there's not a lot to see, but…"
"I would like that," Elsa says. "I've already met with your family this morning about the trade agreements, and the plantation owners are aware of my presence here. I have nothing else I need to be doing, today."
"Oh," Hans says. "Really? How'd the trade agreements go?"
"Just fine. We'd been corresponding about it before, so the meeting was really just about hammering out details, costs, exporting timelines, that sort of thing."
"That's…great. I didn't realize…" I'd get to spend an entire day with you.
"What is it?" she asks, then pauses. Her eyes widen a little, and it's the first time she seems the tiniest bit vulnerable since her arrival. "Oh, I'm sorry. I assumed it would be okay if I found you and…"
"No, no," he says quickly. "It is! Okay, I mean. Actually, it's more than okay, I just didn't know—I…" he sighs, running a hand through his hair. "I didn't know I'd get so much time with you, is all." He looks off to the seemingly unending amounts of farmland. "It's not exactly a long walk on a beach, but…if you don't mind, then…"
When he glances back to her, she's smiling at him. That's it. He's going to have a stroke.
"That sounds perfect," she says. "Show me what you do. Take me to all the fields you work."
He begins nodding. "Sure. We'll start with the uh, the tomatoes."
He does as she asks. He shows her the rows of tomatoes that he's scheduled to work on that day, along with a few other laborers in the field. Some of them send glances their way, curious with lingering eyes and side glances, but not one stops to say a word. They act as they always have, and they may or may not notice a member of royalty in their midst while the plantation owners survey the workers with unending observation.
A lot of the fruit are ripe, so they go down the rows to pick the ones that are ready, then place them in a shipping bin on the opposite end of the field. He shows her to the bananas, the coffee beans, guava, and papayas, relaying to her what he's learned and the techniques they use on the Isles. She listens attentively, asks questions, and even tries out some of the equipment. He has to readjust her positioning a few times, and he tries not to let his hands linger on her arms or shoulders.
It's easy this way, talking about the fruits of his labor, basking in her presence and her ceaseless questions about the land. It is easy to avoid talking about the more difficult things, the more obvious things, the questions lingering between them from the letters. Hans has so many questions for her that bubble up in his mind. Why are you truly here?
Is the skepticism truly gone?
Do you still hate me?
Could you ever forgive me?
Were my letters ruining your life, as Princess Anna had said?
Or do you feel as I do, standing beside me?
They all feel impossible to ask in the bright and unforgiving sunlight, here in the fields along the row of crops, far, far away from the real world outside the Isle, and Hans does his best to simply enjoy the reprieve her coolness brings.
By the time they reach the end of the papayas, Elsa says, "Prince Hans…may I call you Hans?"
The question makes the hair rise up his spine. "Does it denote disrespect or familiarity?"
At this, he pulls a smile out of her. They aren't as hard to draw out as he previously thought they might be.
"Familiarity," she answers.
"I would have said yes even if it was disrespect."
She chuckles. "I'll remember that next time. And please, call me Elsa. You do in the letters. You did before I even allowed it."
That's different. But it's not really different at all.
Still, he says, "Are you certain that's a good idea? In public, if others hear me call you by your name…"
She frowns at him. "What does it matter what others hear or think? We are two royals speaking candidly to one another."
She called him a royal. It doesn't go unnoticed by him, and it raises his spirit a little. He slowly nods. "Alright…Elsa."
It feels nice saying it out loud instead of only in his mind. She glances at him as he says it.
"Your hair is long," she says.
Ah, yes. That. It's shaggy and unkempt, disheveled and sweaty. He smiles crookedly. "It's been a few months since I've had a proper haircut. Very un-princely, I know."
"Hm," she hums contemplatively. She reaches a hand and swipes a few bangs off his forehead. He nearly jerks and topples over. She doesn't seem to notice. "It's not bad. You wear it well."
He tries to recover. "I wear everything well."
"Oh, really?"
"Even nothing, as you previously experienced."
"Just because you were tanned and sweaty doesn't mean it was appealing, Hans."
"Ouch. And I thought my body was the last attraction I had."
"I wouldn't say last. Maybe one of few, but not last."
"Good to know at least a few qualities interest you."
She remains quiet for a while, and Hans regrets saying it. He feels the weight of silence like a wet blanket.
"Sorry," he says softly. "I don't mean to be suggestive."
"Don't be, and you weren't," she says. "I was just thinking…are you sure you haven't talked to any women in two years? Because it seems to me you are fluent in flirting."
"I think it's the company," he answers, genuinely. "You bring out the best in me, along with the worst. I guess, in this case, my best and worst are mutually exclusive."
The sun is beginning to set. It's almost time for him to be going back to the castle. He glances over to her, and there. He sees the softness in her face for a moment, as if she's battling what she allows herself to show on her face. The softness is so fleeting, but he saw it, and he'll remember it like a brand on his skin. His hand has a mind of its own, and he reaches up to touch her face. Halfway through the motion, he realizes what he's doing. He pauses, curls his fingers into a fist, and lowers it behind his back. She watches the descent of his hand, and he tries to cover his mistake by gesturing to the horizon instead.
"It will be dark, soon. We should head back to the castle. A wagon picks me up at the end of the field along the road. Would you like to join me, or would you like to take your own method of transportation?"
"No. I'll ride with you."
He nods, escorting her to the pickup point.
"Thank you," she says, once they are inside the wagon. Julian mans the horses, and Hans sees Elsa's own company of guards riding alongside them.
"For what?"
"Showing me what you do," she says. "I had no knowledge about the true work of farming before today. It was very enlightening."
"I'm…glad you enjoyed it, Elsa."
They look at each other across the length of the coach. These spaces are always so small. Hans doesn't mind in the slightest, but her eyes are intense under the lowlight of the sunset. It makes him imagine her eyes reflecting candlelight across a table, a dim room, leaning forward to ask him a question. He could stare at her for the whole ride—which is not very proper. He shifts and turns his head to watch the hills pass, distracted by the soft coolness of the coach, and desperately attempting to fix his neck in this position so as not to look at her.
It doesn't work. The few times he glances at her, she's looking at him. She seems to be searching, calculating, puzzling something out. She's measuring him up. He's almost positive of that. What she's trying to find, he doesn't have the slightest clue. He's not sure he wants to know, because he'll fail at it—he won't have it, whatever it is, and he already tastes the iron tang of disappointment creeping onto his tongue.
With that thought in mind, he asks, "What are you thinking, Elsa?"
She doesn't seem flustered at the question. She ponders it instead, still with the same calculating stare in her eyes. "I'm thinking about how I saw you before, and how I see you now."
"And? What do you see?"
His palms begin sweating, even against the coolness she allows. They feel clammy.
"I see a man who isn't desperate for power, but who is desperate for freedom," she says.
He swallows. It sounds so loud, though no one but him can hear it over the wheels of the coach and the pounding hooves of horses.
"You can see all of that?" he asks.
"I don't know if you realize, but you wear a lot on your sleeve, Hans."
His eyes glance down to his shirt sleeve, as if he'll see emotions written there. "I didn't."
"You were a good actor, once, when you wanted to be. Now, I don't think you care so much about hiding."
She is digging right through him, a dagger plunging into his stomach. "No…no, I don't think so."
"It's easy to read it in your letters, but it's always different in person. My missives to other Dukes and Princes are always forgotten when I meet with them in person. But with you, it's not. It hasn't been this entire day. I hear your voice as if you're writing one of those letters."
He runs a hand through his hair. He feels the prickly run of embarrassment making itself known along his neck again.
"That's…a good thing, right?"
Elsa smiles. "Yes. A very good thing."
He watches her for a few moments, committing her smile to memory.
"Do many of your suitors write you letters?"
She seems caught off guard by the question, her smile fading. He replays it back quickly in his head and backpedals.
"I mean—not that I'm—I was just wondering if they did. Or are still. I know you said you were taking a break, but sometimes they are persistent."
She shakes her head. "A few have, but only to let me know of their visiting Arendelle. They were more of courtesies than anything." She pauses. "Are you saying that you're attempting to court me, Hans?"
His eyes fly wide. "No! No, I mean—
Yes, I would like to court you, Elsa, and how much more ridiculous could that be?
"—I'm trying to refrain from being audacious. I'm not going to waste your time."
I'd love to waste your time, if you'd let me.
His outburst seems to whittle her. She shifts to sit back in her seat. Her posture is immaculate.
"I wouldn't attempt that, Elsa," he continues, clearing his throat. "I'm a prisoner, and I highly doubt you'd appreciate the advances of someone who made an attempt on your life," he says. "I'm hardly a Prince, anymore. I have nothing to offer you that you wouldn't receive from any of the other suitors who have given you attentions."
I have nothing.
That is true. He's pondered it before. Had he wanted to marry, then—what? What could he give? His personality? His shackles? A few inches of his bed pallet? Not to mention his future execution, but he doesn't care to think of that.
"Yes," she says slowly, after a long, tense minute. "Yes, you are right."
He is equally relieved and deflated at her answer. This was such a terrible idea to have her visit. The embers underneath his skin aren't only smoldering with her proximity. They're bursting into flame. He's done it to himself—unknowingly, sure. But he should have known. He should have known how much he—how much he wanted. How much he knew he couldn't have. Now, here he is, unable to stop staring like a fool, because he had forgotten how beautiful she was. What did he expect? For her to be abhorrent? Ugly? For her to douse his hopes with her ice? For him to realize that his affection was merely a passing fancy, only spurred on by ink and parchment?
It all makes him nervous, because it's beginning to feel like a flood, and that won't do at all.
They are quiet the rest of the way to the castle. When they disembark, they take his usual route to his basement room.
"We call it the "secret passage", but it's not a secret passage. We only call it that because we're the only ones who ever use it," Hans explains as they walk through a side door, with Julian in tow. "It's supposed to be a joke, but I guess it's not really funny."
"It is funny," Elsa says. "They've literally given you the route for your great escape."
Hans blinks at her, then he laughs a little. She laughs with him.
"The only bad part is that they'll know my route immediately."
"Or it could be a decoy route, and you can leave through the front door."
Hans smiles. "Maybe you're onto something."
When they reach the door to his room, he mentally procures the image of his room from that morning. Did he clean? Are there any clothes strewn on the floor? Does it matter?
No, he realizes. Their day together is done, and it went so very quickly.
"Well, ah," he begins. "Julian can take you upstairs to dinner. I'm not sure what my family's itinerary was for you, but they always accommodate their guests with the utmost care. Especially the Queen of Arendelle."
"Oh," she says, shaking her head. "I'm sorry. I…assumed I'd be dining with you."
"I, uh," he starts, yet again, with incoherency. "You…want to?"
She looks at him, giving him a funny look. "Yes."
He nods, suddenly and violently anxious. "Right. Sure. Of course. Julian, I guess you—"
"Yes, sir, I am to fetch your dinners as soon as you are settled in your chambers," he says. Elsa's own personal guards are standing near the doors, ready to be posted as soon as Julian leaves. Hans is honestly not sure what they could do that Elsa couldn't.
"Your Majesty," one of her guards says. "Would you like me to keep post inside the prisoner's room with you?"
A sharp swelling of shame blooms in Hans stomach. It quickly dissipates as Elsa says, "No, thank you, Gerald. I will be fine on my own."
The guard reluctantly nods. "Let us know if you change your mind."
"Of course," she tells him. She turns to Hans. "Lead the way."
Hans begins to smile, glancing to the guard, who looks less than pleased. "Very well. Then, uh, come in, if you're comfortable," Hans says, opening the door. "I know you've seen it already, and I apologize for the mess in advance."
"You mean you didn't even try to clean up for me?" she says, but she's teasing.
"Had you told me the day you were coming, I would have been better prepared," he says, closing the door behind them. He hears the rattle of her guard's armor, a shadowed warning.
"That wouldn't have been fun. I wouldn't have been able to watch you be all flustered," she says, grinning.
So she has noticed that. Not that he thought she didn't, but…well, he hoped, anyway.
"You're such a tease, aren't you," he says, shaking his head.
She giggles, stepping toward the wall with the gated window. "It's actually not that bad in here. Still musty, but I don't see your underwear."
Hans pulls at his collar. "Is Queen Elsa talking openly about my underwear?"
"What?" she says. "We all have underwear!" She turns to look at him, grinning again when she sees his face. "I didn't think an innocent word like underwear would affect you so much, Prince Hans."
"Usually," he says. "Usually I'm never affected by anything. But you're…different."
"I'm different? How?"
He frowns at her. Her eyes are all bulbous, and large, and innocent.
"Don't be coy, Queen Elsa. You know what I mean."
"I really don't. Can you explain?"
He sighs sharply. "You're different because you've…read my letters. Pretty much have seen my entire soul." He shrugs, feigning nonchalance.
"Oh, the letters. And your soul. My, I shouldn't joke about that, should I?"
He gives her a look. She smiles slightly then shakes her head.
"Okay, okay. I'll stop."
"Thank you."
"But your underwear was strewn across the floor last time. I was nearly traumatized."
"So you don't think of my underwear on occasion?"
Her jaw drops a little. "Hans—!"
He laughs. "Sorry. I wanted to see your reaction."
"Yeah, right. Stay on your side, and I'll stay on mine."
"I had to get back at you somehow."
"Uh-huh."
It's so effortless to do this with her. Hans swallows his smile and looks up through the gated window. From this angle, he can't see the ocean very well, but he can always hear it lap against the land.
"You said you can see the ocean, but anywhere I stand I can't get a glimpse," she says, walking forward to stand underneath it. "Do you have to stand on a stool? Because even at your desk, I can only see sky."
"Here," he says, standing behind her. "I can lift you up, then you can see."
He doesn't think about it much when he places his hands on her hips, but she curves out from underneath his hands.
"No," she says, hurriedly, rubbing at her hip. "It's fine, I can do it on my own."
An ice block rises from the ground, lifting her up just as a stool would. Hans steps away, clasping his hands behind his back.
"Of course," he says.
"Oh," she says softly. "There it is. I see it, now."
"Beautiful, isn't it? Under the moon."
"Yes. The fjord back home is lovely, but there's something about the ocean. The currents and the tides. It's much more alive."
He watches as she grips the bars in her hand, pushing her face between the spaces of them. She sighs.
"I can see why you daydream, looking out to the sea like this. You can even smell the salt when the breeze hits right."
His gaze follows the slender line of her back, from her neck to her bottom, where her legs are hidden by her dress. It's blue, yet it somehow feels more like a spring dress than her usual winter ensemble. It's gilded under the lantern light of his room. He lets himself commit this moment to memory, as well. How she looks, with the moonlight in her hair and the lantern against her back, taking up an abundance of space in his room.
She notices his reticence, because she turns to look at him over her shoulder. Her gentle smile fades.
"Hans, what's wrong?"
Nothing. There's absolutely nothing wrong.
A daydream come to life.
"I was just wondering if you were going to get your head stuck between the bars," he says. "I was thinking about how I'd pull you out."
She rolls her eyes. "Ha-ha. My sister might do that, but not me."
She melts the ice beneath her, waving the puddle away with the flick of her wrist.
The mention of her sister immediately makes him think of a question, bubbling back up immediately in his mind.
"Your sister…what did she mean when she said I was ruining your life with the letters? I was too worried to ask outright before, and I was too happy once we began writing again, but…I've always wondered." He frowns, glancing up at the rock ceiling. "I thought she was being dramatic at first, but that was more to help me push away the thoughts that I truly might have been ruining your life again and had no idea."
It takes her a full minute to respond. She walks toward his desk, resting one finger along the top. A vein of ice follows along the trail of her fingertip as if it's a brushstroke. He absently wonders what it would feel like against his chest. Her frost gently cradling him in the spring heat. His imagination runs so freely with her so near, seeing her power in action, feeling her constant chill. He had forgotten the shape of her fractals, the shimmer left in their wake.
"My sister had only meant to protect me. She had noticed I had been acting…different. I think it was the culmination of our letters and all of the courting I had been going through. She believed me to be stressed. I thought I was fine, until—"
She stops, curling her lips under her teeth.
"Until?" he prompts.
She glances at him, still gnawing at her lips. "Until I—"
A knock at the door interrupts them. Hans realizes how tense he's become as he pushes off the wall to answer it, his shoulders up to his ears.
Julian enters with their dinners in tow. Hans offers her to sit at the desk while he takes his tray and sits on his bed.
"One of the perks of being a prisoner in the castle," he says, gesturing to the chicken on the plate. "They allow me to eat what the royals do, instead of gruel or slop. Less labor in the kitchens."
"Unlike how I think of most prisoners, you look…fuller," she says.
Hans pauses. "Probably the work outdoors. I used to practice sword fighting, but they'll no longer allow me to use one, and the outside labor is different." He glances at her and grins. "Well, you know, considering you saw me shirtless."
She gives him a glare, but it's contradicted by the red ribbon that crops up on the bridge of her nose.
"I see your arrogance hasn't completely left you."
He lifts one shoulder, shrugging. "It won't. It's an essential part of my charming personality."
"Mm. I guess I can agree with that."
His stomach twinges. They finish their meals in a companionable silence. Hans thinks about broaching the topic before Julian had interrupted them, but deep down, he knows he isn't ready for her answer. By the look on her face, she wasn't ready to give it.
Once they give their empty trays to Julian, Elsa sits down at his desk again. She taps her fingers on the wood, right underneath an old ink stain that has darkened the grain.
"So, this is where you write your letters," she says softly. "After the last visit, it was so simple to imagine you here in the evenings, reading my letters and writing your own."
Watching her sit there is both unsettling and infinitely satisfying. Boundless thoughts and restless evenings are engraved in that desk. She had been on his mind the majority of the time while he sat there, pondering his words, wondering if it would be a good idea and half the time not caring if it was because he had nothing to lose. Never in all those letters he sent did he think she would ever be here out of her own volition.
"You said you've kept my letters. Where are they?" she asks him.
"Bottom drawer, on the left," he says, pointing. He thinks she'll open the drawer, but she doesn't. Instead, she watches him.
"What about the DO NOT SEND letters?"
"Bottom drawer, but on the—" he catches himself. She smirks at him, and he narrows his eyes at her.
"I see what you're doing," he says.
"Bottom drawer, on the…right, did you say?" She reaches for it, and he only just holds himself back from lunging.
"Wait! You really don't want to see those."
"You sound a bit panicked, Hans. Why is that?" She's teasing him, but her hand stops and rests on the drawer handle.
He swallows, chuckling nervously. "I really just, uh…those weren't ever to be read by anyone, and…"
"You realize you're just making me more curious?" she says, and he feels a cold line of sweat run down his spine. Her fingers curl over the drawer handle.
"Listen, how about you, uh…" he says and, unable to stay still any longer, darts from the bed and makes his way around to the right side of the desk. "Don't open it."
"After everything you've written to me, I doubt there's anything in here that would surprise me," she says. Her blue eyes glitter with challenge. He's close enough to her that his breath comes out in a soft plume of frost.
He hesitates before placing his hand on hers. "I think it might, and I'm not ready for you to see that yet."
She stills underneath his palm. If he squints, he can just see her skin bordered by fog, as if she is ice, softly sublimating in his heat. A sheen of water beads and crystalizes on the divots between his knuckles.
"What are you hiding, Hans?" she asks quietly, and her voice becomes hardened. "Have you written down all the ways you still want to kill me?"
Her words pull out a small smile from him.
"It would be much easier if I still wanted to kill you, Elsa."
It would be so much easier to explain a bulleted list of ways to behead her instead of what he's actually written.
He sees her throat bob in a silent swallow, and he thinks she might get his meaning. The tightness along her jaw softens, and the icy blue of her eyes are rimmed with a dark cerulean.
She slowly releases her fingers from the drawer, turning her hand over so that their palms touch. She doesn't look away from him. "Okay. I'll wait."
He exhales a deep breath. "Someday, I'll show them to you," he says. "Just…not yet. I think if I let you read them now, I wouldn't be able to look you in the eye for a while."
"Why? Is it because they would embarrass you?"
Just thinking about her reading the one he knows is on the top of the pile makes him want to catch fire. "Yes. I think it would kill me, not you."
"Oh," she says, her eyebrows raising. "Well, I don't want to do that, yet."
He smiles at that. "Yet."
She curls her fingers along his. He runs his thumb along the bends of her fingers.
A knock sounds at the door. Hans jerks his hand away from hers, standing and stepping away from the desk.
Julian peeks his head in. "Sir, it's nine o'clock."
This evening is moving quickly. "Right, of course."
He takes his place by the unlocked shackles that lay on the floor, welded to the wall. He bends down to clasp them on his ankles and reaches for the ones at shoulder height to clasp around his wrists.
"Is that really necessary for tonight?" Elsa asks, question directed to both of them.
"Pardon my candor, Your Majesty, but it is most especially necessary for tonight."
Elsa frowns at him, sighing.
"What Julian means to say is that they don't know what indecent or mischievous actions I may take with Her Royal Highness in my chambers. Isn't that right, Julian?"
Elsa blushes beautifully for him, and Julian clears his throat. "That is…one way to put it, yes."
"I see," Elsa says. "Once a liar…" she doesn't finish.
"That's right," Hans says. He walks over to his pallet and takes a seat, filling the space with jangling. Julian does a cursory check to make sure the shackles are secure. Once he does, he nods to Hans.
"Sir. Your Majesty. I will be back by midnight to take you to your guest chambers, Queen Elsa."
"Have a good evening, Julian."
"Thank you," Elsa says.
The door closes behind him, and they are once again alone. Hans relaxes against the wall behind him, extending his head until he's looking up to the ceiling.
"How long are you here for?" Hans asks. "You've already finished trade agreements with my family."
"I may go on a tour of the Isles tomorrow, but…I have not decided."
"If you don't, will you leave?"
Elsa shifts in the seat at the desk before pushing out of it. She comes to sit on the edge of his pallet, right beside his hip. She turns so they are facing each other.
"I'm…not sure about that, either. I probably will."
"It doesn't seem like you planned out this visit very well."
"Well, I didn't know if I'd even enjoy your company."
"Do you?"
He's been on his toes this entire visit, and he realizes this is why. Because she can bolt at any time. She can realize how little she cares for him, how the letters were only a mere break from reality but how the real life expectations don't match up, how they never will.
Doubt. Always doubt.
Then she smiles at him. It's as painful as a pit of spikes, this hope that she's giving him.
"Call me crazy," she says. "I do."
"Huh," he says, a smile creeping onto his face. "That's a first."
"Are you saying no one ever enjoyed your company?"
"Well, if they did, they'd never tell me," he says. He glances at her. "I never thought Queen Elsa would say she enjoyed being around me."
"Neither did I," she says. She pauses, glancing up to the barred window. "You know, your mother told me she's never blamed you for her condition. I think she enjoyed your company, too, when she was able to have it."
Hans blinks and shakes his head. "I have a hard time believing something so fantastical, Elsa."
"Why is it so hard to believe? She told me you were only as difficult as any other child. She regrets not giving you more attention."
"If that was true, maybe she'd find the courage to tell me. Not you, someone who she barely knows," he says gruffly. "Sorry, I mean no offense."
She sighs. "Be that as it may, if she comes to visit you here again, give her a chance. Just as I gave you a chance."
She emphasizes her words by poking his chest with her index finger. He catches it in his hand, and her palm unfurls against him.
Her fingers trailing ice along his chest.
He's certain she can feel his heart thundering underneath his sternum. He closes his eyes. "You give me no room to argue," he says. "Fine. I'll try, but that's all I can promise."
She smiles triumphantly, her fingers curling into his shirt. He can feel her fingernails poke through the thin fabric to his skin. Goosebumps rise in her wake, and he hopes she doesn't notice.
"That's all I can ask," she says.
"I don't know what my mother said to convince you, but it does certainly seem like you've taken her side wherever I'm concerned."
She shrugs. "Maybe I'll show you the letters of our correspondence someday, like you'll show me yours, hidden in your desk drawer."
He is at once both curious and wary of the possibility of reading the words his mother wrote about him.
"Sounds as exciting as pulling teeth."
She rolls her eyes at him. "You are very dramatic."
"You would be, too, if you grew up with twelve brothers who hated your guts and a father who couldn't look down his nose at you."
"I met a few of your brothers. They didn't seem all that bad."
"I assure you. They are. Also, you're a beautiful woman, so of course they'd be on their best behavior."
She simultaneously narrows her eyes and blushes. He smirks at her before she shakes her head at him.
"You know it's true," he continues. "Had you been a treasonous ogre like me, they wouldn't have given you the time of day."
"Well...maybe, but I must keep an open mind. Your father seemed very respectable."
"He is King. He's had the role of regarding other Queens for quite a while. He's the one who has taught my brothers all they know about politics and, potentially, backstabbing."
She frowns. "I didn't feel that vibe from him."
"Ah, maybe that's only how I see him, then."
"Oh, Hans," she sighs, her eyes saddened. No one has given him such sincere empathy, so expressive and coalescing in a sheen of crystal ice. He's not sure what to do now that he has it, so he tries to smirk and shrug and brush it away.
"I've heard the saying, you always love to hate your family. I really connect with that."
She doesn't smile with him, and he feels as though he won't get away with jokes.
He shifts under the weight of her stare, and they devolve into a staring match with one another. Eventually, she asks, "Hans, could you be who I think you are? I fear I'm hoping for a man who may not exist, and yet…"
A line of sweat slips down his spine, turning cold and freezing into his skin.
"And yet?" he rasps.
"…I don't know," she says. "You don't remind me of the prince who tried to take my kingdom and kill my sister and I. I'm not…afraid of you."
He swallows, turning his head away and unable to look at her any longer.
"Maybe you should be afraid of me," he says. "Everyone else is."
She shakes her head slowly. "I told you I'm not skeptical of you anymore, in the letters. I wondered if seeing you in person, truly talking to you, would change my mind."
"Has it?"
She turns his head back toward her. She's too beautiful up close. Her eyes don't miss anything.
"I'm in your basement, sitting on your bed. What do you think?"
He wants to smile at that, but her proximity makes him too nervous. He's never been inclined to feel insecurity, but here he is, feeling like a piece of gum on her shoe.
"I…" he tries. "I don't…"
"When you said you went back to read the first letter I sent you, after I told you that I had laid it on my pillow...did you actually read it?"
She catches him off guard with the question. "Of course I did."
She takes a deep breath. Her hand continues to linger on his chest, under his hand. He can see a few glimmers of frost framing her face and dusting her braid.
"You made it hard, you know, to stop daydreaming," he says, taking a deep breath, gaining courage from her touch. "Like how we are, now. I've wondered...your hand on my chest, about to freeze me. Or all of the punishments you could possibly bring me, with how dangerous your ice is. I've told you before, but…I've imagined what it would be like for you to truly freeze my heart and what would happen. Would I die, or would nothing change because my heart was already frozen? Would you make me realize that my heart never beat at all, and I had just tricked myself into thinking it could?"
She edges closer to him, peering into his eyes.
"Do you still believe you're a monster, Hans?"
He smiles faintly. "Sometimes."
She shakes her head. "You're not. I've seen your heart, today. I can feel it in this room, all around us."
"You know what I mean, Elsa. Doubt and uncertainties linger every day. I look at your neck, and I think of how I almost tore through you, and I want you to freeze me," he says, pushing her palm deeply into the groove of his sternum. "I want you to send a shard of ice into me, or an icicle through my neck, because I don't deserve you here, with me, in this dirty, humid basement." Her eyes are all consuming, and he sighs. "Your neck is very beautiful, you know."
The frost around her magnifies. He wonders if it has anything to do with her emotions.
In a moment, her arms come around his neck, and she curls into him. It takes him a moment to realize she's hugging him.
"Elsa," he says, strangled.
"Oh, Hans," she says. "You can relax. It's okay."
She is a refreshing breeze in the midst of a swamp. He exhales, and his shoulders drop from his ears again. He slowly allows one of his arms to come around her back, the other tethered by the length of the shackle.
"Always know, in your doubts and uncertainties, that there is someone out there who believes in you," she tells him, her voice falling into his ear. "I believe in you."
He is frozen by her in a different way. Frozen, and drowning, and full. His heart throbs. The past wounds weep. Suddenly, like a snap of fingers.
"I..." he says, but he doesn't know what to say. They sit there embracing, and he thinks he could stay here forever, never letting go. Her kindness feels like stitches. He has never felt another person's affection like this before, with its overwhelming sincerity. It ruptures the scarring around his heart. It plunges him into an abyss.
Eventually, she pulls away, but she doesn't sit back very far. He lets his arms rest on her hip, and hers linger on his shoulders.
"Thanks," he says quietly.
She smiles in answer.
"So, uh," he starts, needing a change of subject. He grasps onto the first thing that comes to mind. "These suitors of yours..."
She groans, and her hands fall away from him. He takes his away, too. He regrets it, but it seems like the subject change did its job. The building tension he was feeling in his stomach decreases marginally with the lack of body contact.
"Suitors. Why do you want to talk about my suitors?"
"Just curious, is all. Did they hold your hand, or buy you flowers, or...I don't know. Anything."
Her lips fold in displeasure. "Sometimes hand holding was something a few tried, but it always felt like pulling teeth. Our hands would get sweaty, so I'd have to constantly chill them to dry. Most of the time, they'd ask me to show them my favorite "tricks". I'd make mini ice sculptures or an ice rink. Eventually, I started to feel like I was doing it just to get them to stop asking about it." She shakes her head. "They kept their formalities. They'd kiss my hand, bow, not cross any boundaries, but it was all very...staged."
"Courting at its finest."
She crinkles her nose. "Finest. Right."
"You never told me what they called you, besides a hobby."
She averts her eyes. "Oh, you know, the usual things."
"I don't think I know the usual things."
She huffs. "Well, everyone calls me the Ice Queen, but they also say I'm standoffish, cold, too critical." She glances at her hands. "I'm not as jovial as my sister, and I'm a bit too suspicious. I've been told this by my advisors, but it is hard to let my guard down."
Hans shakes his head. "They can't blame you for being suspicious. Do they even remember what went down two years ago, between us?" He scoffs. "That isn't a personality flaw, Elsa."
"Yes, well...it does seem that I let people down too often."
"You shouldn't settle for anything or anybody less than what you want. You're thinking about your country, too, Elsa. Your advisors shouldn't pressure you into relationships that aren't the best for you, or into the things you aren't comfortable."
She sighs. "I know. Anna says the same thing."
He almost wants to laugh at the thought of him and Princess Anna agreeing on something.
"But after hearing the same things time and again..." Elsa trails.
"These Princes didn't tell you these things to your face, did they?"
Elsa looks embarrassed, her shoulders drawing back. "Not all of them, but some did when I...didn't reciprocate their advances."
Hans curls his lip. "They only say those things because their ego was insulted. They have to blame you instead of themselves."
Elsa watches him, and a small smile touches her face. "That sounds a bit familiar."
"That's right. I'm an expert," Hans says, half-joking, half-serious. "If they react like that, you know you made the right decision in letting them go."
"Yes. I think I agree with you."
Hans raises an eyebrow. "Really? You're agreeing with me?"
She gives him a look. "Don't let it go to your head. It's already big enough as it is."
Hans grins, blurting out the next thought that immediately crops up in his mind. "Did you ever kiss anyone?"
"Me?" she asks, her eyes widening.
He momentarily lapses, wondering if the question was a bad idea. "Yeah, you."
"No, I—" she pauses. "I never found myself wanting to kiss anyone."
A terrifying build of satisfaction houses itself inside of him.
"None interesting enough for Queen Elsa, huh?"
"No," she says. A light sprinkling of snow has begun to collect between them.
"Elsa, I..."
"Do you want to kiss me, Hans?" she asks. She leans forward carefully, and their noses nearly touch. "Do you think if you do, I'll freeze you?"
He swallows at her sudden closeness. His heart thuds in his ears. "Yes."
"Yes, you want to kiss me, or yes, I'll freeze you?"
The truth falls out of him. "Both."
The blanket on his bed pallet freezes. He's ensconced in winter.
"Elsa," he breathes. His skin thrums, his eyes wide. "You don't need permission to freeze me. You're a Queen. You can do anything you'd like. I'm no longer anyone."
He reaches up to touch her face, and she places her palm over his, holding it there. The winter of the sheets crawl up around him, onto the rock wall behind him, reaching up to his shoulders. His breathing is erratic, and she allows her forehead to rest on his own.
She sighs. "You're still someone to me, even if you are nobody to everyone else."
Her words are magnetizing, and they're so close. His lips brush against hers with only a shift of his head. Before he knows it, he's kissing her, and she's kissing him back. Her hands run behind his neck to his hair. She pulls him closer and closer, cold and warm, freezing and sweltering. He kisses her like his life depends on it, because it almost does, because he suddenly knows what's happening to him, without a shadow of a doubt. He pulls her hips into his lap, he digs his fingers into the folds of her dress, he tastes the deep, coalescing swirl of frost that's embedded into her soul, the agonizing sweetness of her lips, the clashing warm wetness of her tongue. He loses himself to sensation until he feels as though his jaw seizes, and he is—actually—frozen.
"Oh, Hans, I'm sorry!"
His jaw melts, unlocking. He rubs at the joint and looks at her, bewildered.
"So you did freeze me," he says, but he begins to grin, and then he laughs.
She smiles, too, but she pushes at his shoulder. "It is not funny! I didn't mean to! I just...lost control for a second. I...that doesn't happen often. I've gotten so much better, but..."
"Are you saying I make you lose control, Elsa?" he asks. "Is that why it began snowing on the bedsheets?"
She blushes. "A little. Yes. But don't you dare give me that look!"
"Look? What look?"
"The look you have when you think you know everything. It's your arrogant look."
"Oh," he smirks. "You mean this one?"
"Hans—"
He can't come back from this. It's a fire and a flood that crackles inside of him, like a storm, like he's alive. He wants to be the one who makes her lose control. Calm, cool, collected Queen Elsa of Arendelle, undone by him, somehow and someway. And even if this doesn't matter—well, it's because it doesn't matter that he allows himself to feel it, for this brief moment in his life.
He kisses her again, and again, and again, and he feels darts of ice surround him, border him, trickle out of her and into him, topping off his fullness. He may make her lose control, but she lords over him like the queen she is, and he thinks if he can give her something he's never given anyone, maybe…just maybe she will accept it in this delicate bundle of time she's allowed herself to waste on him.
Her legs cradle each side of his hips. He's hot, then he's cold, burning then freezing, and it feels like an illness—a fever that won't break.
Her hands find the bottom lip of his shirt, and her hands crawl up his stomach. He jerks back from her, his skin popping with sensation.
"Is this okay?" she asks into his lips. Her eyes are so close, all he can see is the blue of her iris and the black of her pupils. Her eyes are so big.
This is more than okay.
"Yes," he breathes, kissing her again. "I knew you liked it."
"Liked what?" He sucks on her beautiful neck and she gasps. It sends a hot dart through his stomach.
"My body."
"Oh—that again. Conceited."
Her nails drag over his pectorals, and he gently bites her.
"Oh," she moans. "Just because…tan and muscular…"
"Muscular?"
"Shut up," she keens, fisting her hand in his hair and tilting his head back to kiss him. She pulls his soul through his mouth.
"God, Elsa," he says when she shifts her weight over him. "I'm—"
I'm desperate.
I'm drowning.
I'm full.
I must be in love with you.
The thoughts crash into the front of his skull, the letters falling apart and the words scrambling. He loses his vision momentarily. So many things he can say, and he can't say any of them. No. She doesn't deserve any of those words from him. But he can do the next best thing. He can let her do with him what she will. He'll be her vessel for pleasure. He'll do whatever she needs, whatever she wants.
"You're what?" She shifts again, and they both feel the want underneath their clothes.
"I'm with you," he whispers.
She runs her fingers down his cheek, around his jaw, down his neck. His lips. She traces the lines of his face. He runs his fingertips under the line of her skirt, along the curve of her thighs, the distance that his shackles allow.
"Hans," she says delicately. "I'm with you."
All too soon, Julian's telltale knock cuts through the fog they've created, and perhaps they've been kissing with wandering hands for hours. It only feels like minutes. Elsa slowly unwinds herself from him, and she's more beautiful than ever with glassy eyes and swollen lips. Her cheeks are flushed. Her hair is mussed, and most of it frames her face in waves.
Julian clears his throat. "Ahem. Sir. Your Majesty. I did knock."
"Is it midnight, already?" says Hans. His voice is thick.
"It is exactly midnight, sir," says Julian.
Elsa stands and waves her hands to rid of the snow that has collected around the room, and Hans follows her to the door. He doesn't even mind that Julian is there witnessing the entire thing.
She turns to him when she is just outside the door. The shackles stop him a bare inch from going outside his room.
"Will I—" he begins.
"I will—" she starts at the same time. She smiles bashfully. He runs a hand through his tangled hair.
"You go," Hans says.
"I was just going to say, I will see you tomorrow, Hans."
He nods. "Great. Yes. I'll…be here."
"Try not to escape," she says, winking.
He grins. "Goodnight, Elsa."
"Goodnight, Hans."
Julian closes the door, and he's alone again. He places his palm against the wooden door, pressing his forehead to it with a momentary wonder.
He won't be able to sleep tonight. He takes a heavy seat at his desk, hesitates for a minute, then pulls out a piece of parchment. He writes DO NOT SEND at the top of the page. He underlines it twice.
He pauses, stares at the blank page. He takes in a large breath, a rush of words flying through his mind. All the things he will never say.
He dips the quill. He begins to write.