The Next Unknown
21 - The Opposite of Me
OoOoO
"You are not Monika."
She lingered by the door, head lowered submissively. Her hair was too long, her legs too short. An eyesore. "Monika is sick," she mumbled. Even her voice was grating.
He turned his attention back to the chessboard, sliding a white pawn across the board. "Do you know who I am?"
"Yes, sir. I am here to please you."
A black bishop slew the pawn. "I asked for Monika. You are not Monika. This does not please me at all."
"She is sick. Madam sent me instead—"
He slammed the captured pawn down on the desk. It made a sharper sound than he had expected, the crack resounding through the night. No matter; they were in a secluded wing of the castle. It was the only demand Helena had dared make of him in their years of marriage. 'If you're going to whore around,' she had muttered, bouncing their son on her hip, 'can't you at least do it without Jesper hearing… everything?'
He knew she referred to more than the moans and creaking of beds. She meant the whimpering and pleading and, occasionally, screaming.
Reaching out to straighten a chess piece that had been rattled out of place, he once more addressed the woman who was not Monika. "Do you know who owns your establishment?"
"Yes, sir. You." To her credit, there was no fear in her voice. They all feigned confidence at the start.
"Precisely. If I ask for Monika, your madam will send no one but Monika. I advise you not to lie to me again."
She nodded mutely.
He reclined in his armchair, picking up his favourite piece—the black queen—and turning it over in his fingers. "Let me guess. You envied Monika, so you intercepted her carriage, tossed her into a ditch, and came here with delusions to become the crown prince's concubine. You dream of riches and silk brocades—"
"No."
He must have misheard. Not only had the peasant interrupted him—had she uttered the very word no one dared to use around him?
"'No'?" He lifted his head to look at her properly for the first time. Her eyes were so dark in the gloom that all he could make out was their knife-like gleam as she met his gaze.
"You broke Monika's nose last week," she accused. "Her face is so swollen she can't even see. She can't possibly... please you in that state."
"There are many ways to experience pleasure."
The woman made a frustrated sound. "Every week. Every single week, Monika or another poor girl comes back in tears and… bruised. Traumatised. Mangled." She practically spat out the words. "Sometimes, they can't even walk. They can't see other customers for days. And you—" She stopped herself. Clenched her fists. "Please… just leave them alone."
"They are the ones who keep coming back," he pointed out.
She laughed hollowly. Her voice was deeper than Monika's. More guttural. "We all remember what happened to the last girl who refused you."
"And you fancy yourself a spokeswoman among prostitutes?"
"I don't." She had a clipped way of speaking. A poised brusqueness. Impervious to baits.
He gestured to her robe. "Off."
For several moments, she did not move. Then, hands trembling, she undid her sash, letting the fabric fall to her feet as she stood tall and bare. Black wavy hair flowed down to her hips. He could not read her expression, but now that he bothered to look at her properly, he recognised the silhouette of a proud, aquiline nose. Uncannily reminiscent of the one he had shattered last week.
"Sit." He clicked his tongue when she moved towards him. "Not in my lap, woman. Over there." He pointed at the chair on the other side of the table.
She hesitated, then sat down on the very edge of the seat. Her tensed muscles stood out in stark definition on her alabaster skin. She remained mute as he placed the white chess pieces back into their starting positions on his side of the chessboard. Then he sat back, crossed his arms, and gave her an expectant look.
Frowning, she hesitantly returned a black knight to its position, glancing at his face to check for approval. When he only stared back at her, she arranged the rest of the pieces. Her movements were swift and efficient. He found himself studying her slim fingers.
"Win one game against me before first light," he said, "and I will let you keep your head."
"I'm missing a piece."
He held out the black queen he had been toying with.
She daintily retrieved it from his palm, taking care not to touch him.
"Last week, Monika told me she knew how to play chess. She didn't."
"That's not a good enough reason to hurt someone."
"Reason?" He leaned over and gently turned her pieces around so they faced the centre, just so. "Reason is but a ruse desperately spun by the weak. Morals? Laws? Nothing more than illusions to trick their fellow man into conforming to order in a world that cruelly lacks none. We were not born with a right or wrong way to survive. Once you understand that, you'll see that we were all born as gods. Only in our own eyes can we be judged as sinners."
She was quiet, eyes on the chessboard. "No right or wrong, huh? Then you won't mind if I do this." Her black queen leapt across the board and knocked his white king clean off the table. Her hand quivered with visible fear as she set her piece down on his dethroned square. "Your move, God."
OoOoO
God was real, Oskar thought. God was real, and He was playing a divine joke on him.
Across the room, Prince Gregory grunted as he attempted to eat his steak without it flying off his fork. The meat had to have gone cold by now. But he didn't look up. He didn't ask for help.
Oskar felt the guard's eyes on him. It was Mattias' second-in-command; the grey-haired woman who had returned with Kristoff and often shadowed Anna. Petra. Of the queen's guard, she was the only one who moved so elusively that Oskar could never pinpoint her location.
The steak plummeted back onto the plate with an unceremoniously sharp clatter. A fist thumped the table.
Oskar flinched. He felt Petra nudging him. Once. Twice. Finally, she sighed and stepped forward.
Without thinking, he found himself planted in her path.
She rolled her eyes. "Relax. I'm not going to hurt him."
He knew that; his adrenaline was already fizzling out. This was Arendelle. They did things differently here. Prince Gregory was staying in a guest room with fresh linen and bandaged wounds. He was safe.
But how long had Anna been keeping him here? How much longer would she have waited to tell Oskar? What did she want from Gregory?
As if it wasn't obvious.
Petra let out another sigh. "You do it, then. Give him a hand… wait. That was tactless, wasn't it? I apologise."
Oskar was going to be sick. He released Petra's arm. "I'll do it," he said quietly.
"Her Majesty has placed a lot of trust in you," she said, fixing him with a cool gaze. "I hope you'll be sensible with those four knives you've got tucked away."
He could practically taste the bile now. "Five," he muttered.
As he neared the table, he saw that Prince Gregory was struggling so much with his meal that his doublet was spattered with gravy. He threw down the fork to saw at the meat, but his steak kept sliding across the plate. His knife slipped and struck the plate with a grating screech just as Oskar reached his side.
Gregory looked up.
An avalanche of stone bore down on Oskar's head. He couldn't lift it. It had been hours since he, snivelling, had excused himself from their reunion. Run away. Why had he done that? Prince Gregory was alive.
But Sofia wasn't. And Oskar was.
The steak knife entered his line of sight, hilt extended.
Oskar glanced up to find Gregory staring calmly back at him, holding out the knife without a word. He felt five years old again, hurrying after his master as he wondered why Sofia hadn't been allowed to come with them. Learn to wield this properly, Gregory had said as he picked a dagger from the rack, and someone will die. Fail to use it properly, and someone will also die. Does that frighten you?
Now, Gregory hooked his leg around the second chair and dragged it over so Oskar could sit beside him.
Oskar took the knife and cut the meat into bite-sized pieces.
For a while, there was only the sound of clinking utensils and chewing. Gregory's characteristically unkempt hair had grown past shoulder length and kept falling across his face as he ate, causing him to constantly flick his head as he tried to eat. Just let me trim it, Sofia used to plead. It drove her nuts when Gregory either took his own knife to it, or simply tied it up. But he couldn't even do that on his own anymore, could he?
"Staring won't change a thing, boy."
Oskar hadn't realised he had been fixated on Gregory's left sleeve, or that his eyes had started prickling. At least Gregory could still hold a sword, he tried to reason. He still had his brilliant mind and hawk eyes. He could survive without his non-dominant arm.
But it was because it hadn't been Gregory's dominant hand that he used to let Oskar hold it, back when he was small enough to lose in a crowd. It was the hand that had ruffled his hair and taught him how to hold a bow. The arm Sofia used to cling to when her father came home after months abroad.
'You need a reason, right?' Anna had asked. 'You know. Something to keep you grounded. A purpose.'
Oskar had thought so, too. But now, he saw that it was all wrong. Purpose wouldn't restore Prince Gregory's left arm. It wouldn't let Oskar wake up in his room in the Southern Isles. Sofia wouldn't be at the dining table to shovel vegetables onto his plate. She would never call him a crybaby again.
"Chin up, Oskar." Gregory turned to the window and stared into the night. "What's gone is gone."
OoOoO
"You are not Monika."
Wrapped in a fur coat, she cut a starker silhouette this time. Specks of snow gleamed on her damp hair. "No, I'm not."
Her bluster did a poor job of concealing her fear. She made a show of rubbing her hands and blowing on her fingertips—all while her eyes remained fastened to the knife in his hand.
Meanwhile, his gaze lingered on her face, studying it as he lazily slid the blade along the whetstone like Aksel had shown him. "Do you intend to take your sister's place each time I send for her?"
"She's not my—"
"I recall advising you not to lie to me."
Her mouth snapped shut.
"I thought about it," he went on. "You knew the risks of punishment when you came here to lecture me on precisely those methods. Why would you put your neck on the line for a fellow prostitute? Blackmail? Bribery? Stupidity?" He stabbed the knife into the table. Still not sharp enough. Plucking it free, he continued grinding. "Which ear would you like to keep?"
She paled. "Please."
"It's yours or Monika's."
There it was—a spark ignited in her eyes. "Why would you… don't you have siblings?"
"Many."
"Then how can you ask such a question?"
"Easily. Why do you hesitate so? Are you not here to protect her? I wonder… if you knew I had planned to have Monika, say, fed to the dogs that night—would you have taken her place regardless?"
"It's not that simple! This is—you're talking about—"
"Pain, yes. A simple thing, no? It's not a matter of life or death." He tapped the knife against the edge of the table, watching her recoil.
Amused, he splayed his fingers out on the table and stabbed the knife in the spaces between. Without looking. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
Her eyes widened.
Such basic fear was so very fascinating. Mankind had carved cities, traversed oceans, forged tools to slaughter beasts that would otherwise rip them to shreds—all in the name of chasing down a purpose to life before their measly lives expired. What was there to lose when all would be lost in the end? Existence was but a thrilling curse.
Yet all it took was a little steel and iron. A knife, an arrow, an axe. Even Aksel, his swordsmanship undefeated, looked tense before each duel. He always cringed when he saw blood on Caleb's sleeve at the breakfast table. You need another hobby, brother, he would say, as if the thought of another's pain was a contagion. It seemed to be the common thread between kings and peasants alike: fear of pain, the primitive reflex. Proof that they were still animals yet. Desperate, fragile animals.
"L-Left."
His focus returned alongside a flash of surprise. "Left?"
She held her ear as if it had already been severed. She stammered wildly. "I-I have conditions. You must leave us alone a-after it's—after it's done. Me and Monika."
"Conditions? What makes you think—"
Her shriek cut him off.
Now he was irritated. "I have yet to lay a hand on you—"
She pointed a trembling finger. "Your hand!"
He looked down. In his distracted state, he had lost track of the knife and sliced the skin between his thumb and forefinger. Blood oozed messily onto wood. Sighing, he reached over to yank a scarf from the coat rack, holding it to the wound. "You would truly choose your sister over disfigurement? From what I gathered of Monika's ramblings, the two of you are not even fond of each other. 'A pompous hypocrite', she calls you. The first to chastise her for selling her body—yet here you are, stealing her best patron." He smirked. "You did well last time, for someone supposedly new to the business."
"So it's true," she said, eyes glued to his hand, pointedly ignoring him. "You didn't feel that at all, did you?"
"You would gawk at the crown prince as if he is a circus act? Yes. I do not experience pain."
That drew her eyes to his. "That's impossible. Everyone feels pain."
Removing the scarf, he held up his bleeding hand. "Why is that impossible? I do not experience pain. It has been that way since my mother brought me into this dull world."
She bit her lip, then strode decisively towards him. Grabbing the scarf, she pressed it to his hand with surprising force. "You're not applying enough pressure."
The scent of cinnamon clung to her skin. He hadn't noticed it the other night. "You have not answered my question."
"You don't understand the first thing about pain, do you? It's more than a physical sensation; it can be an ache that doesn't belong in one place. Heartbreak. Frustration. Anger. Something you feel when you know you will never reach your dreams. Or when your little sister comes home with a broken nose. This is water, right?" She picked up the jug and poured it over his wound, mopping up the excess liquid.
"You are naming emotions instead of providing a definition. That is a vintage Sauvignon blanc, by the way."
She nearly dropped the jug, letting out a curse so vicious it would have made a sailor blush. "You didn't feel that? W-Well—alcohol is better anyway." She set about bandaging the wound. Did she think that would curry favour with him? Convince him to overlook that she had slighted him not once, but twice?
"Everyone feels pain. It's part of living." She tightened the scarf around his hand. "If you don't, then you're just…"
"A god?"
"Lost," she finished softly. Then she stiffened, as if she hadn't meant to speak aloud. Her expression slipped back into one of caution. Fear.
But for one instant, he had seen something different about the way she had looked at him. A look unlike any he had received in his life.
Reaching out with his bloodied hand, he cupped her chin and raised it until she had nowhere else to look but at him. "I called for Monika tonight because you didn't tell me your name."
OoOoO
A forkful of steak appeared in his line of sight. "Eat."
An order. No one had given him one in ages. Oskar was good at following orders. So he took the fork and dug into the rest of Gregory's cold meal.
How many hours had passed since he had sat at the docks with Anna, lecturing her for talking with her mouth full? Oskar didn't want to admit he had searched for her before delivering Gregory's dinner. Her Majesty is taking respite for the rest of the day and has asked not to be disturbed, Gerda had told him kindly.
Avoiding him, huh?
"You've changed."
Oskar nearly dropped the fork. What had Gregory sensed? Was Arendelle somehow clinging to his skin like a sweet musk, diluting the Southern Isles' briny spray?
Gregory nodded at the plate. "You're eating greens."
Oh. Oskar looked down. Asparagus. He hadn't even noticed, nor had he registered the taste. Cabbage was harmless enough. Broccoli turned out to be divine with Gerda's sorcerous spices. He still wasn't sure about brussels sprouts, but he wasn't flicking them off his plate anymore.
You see that, Sof? I'm keeping my promise.
"Who else made it off the Isles?" Gregory asked.
Oskar recited names. Emil, Ragna, Osmund. He told Gregory about the civilians, too. Then, when Gregory gave him another expectant look, Oskar started on the other names. The ones who hadn't run fast or couldn't swim well enough. The ones who had stayed behind so the boats could launch. The newborn who starved at sea when an arrow found her mother's neck before they could row out of shooting range. The feeble, the brave, the unlucky.
And Oskar, the unworthy.
"You say Arendelle took you all in? Gave you guest rooms and livelihoods?"
"Yes, sir. I'm sharing a room with Emil. Ragna cleans and cooks. Osmund's working in the forge. The others have jobs in the village." He left out the part where Anna had tried to make Oskar go to school with the other children. "Sir? Why did you tell us to go to Arendelle, of all places? I mean, we had no way of knowing what they'd do. They're strangers—they could've sold us back to Caleb. That's why I… lied. About being your son. I panicked and thought it would buy us leverage." He hung his head. "I'm sorry."
The silence made him feel smaller by the second. Oskar wasn't sure what he wanted to hear. Forgiveness? Acceptance? It wasn't like Prince Gregory would ever say, You are my son.
"You did what you deemed necessary." Gregory poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher. "I suspected Hans would suggest Arendelle as a refuge."
Confusion spun Oskar's senses around. "Hans? But didn't you plan everything? The siege was a distraction so Hans could break us out, right?"
As the words left his mouth, though, Oskar registered the facts. Gregory had been away on a military exercise when Caleb took over. Had there really been enough time to sneak a message to Hans before making his move?
"A distraction? The siege was risky enough as it was; I could hardly gather the numbers I needed. But I couldn't afford to give Caleb more time to solidify his hold on the kingdom. Not after he killed Aksel."
Oskar felt muddled. "Didn't you attack because Caleb forced your hand? Because he was killing one staff member a day, trying to draw you out?"
"I had a hunch that Hans hadn't fled the Isles with the others. I believed that as long as he was around, he would not let Sofia come to harm."
"You gambled her safety on Hans?"
Like clockwork, Sofia's indignant voice entered Oskar's head. I'm not saying he didn't make mistakes and hurt people, she'd replied when he asked why she still hung around Hans after the Arendelle fiasco. I'm not even saying he's good. But Uncle Hans isn't all bad, either.
This was the truth Oskar did not want to swallow—that, even if Hans had scorned the mundane duties the king assigned to him, he had still raised his nephews and niece. Gregory had taught Sofia how to wield a sword. But whenever a ball graced the castle's halls, it was always Hans who got Sofia's first dance. Every time.
Uncle Hans said he saw a talking snowman in Arendelle, Sofia would snort when she returned to the table with a plate of food for Oskar, even though he kept telling her he was on duty. I think that princess hit him too hard in the head.
It's true, Sof, Oskar thought now. The snowman is annoying. And that princess is a queen now. She reminds me of you. Everything reminds me of you.
Rage blistered behind his tears. "Well, Hans got us out. But he didn't protect us from Runo. He was the one who—" His jaw cracked. "It doesn't matter. He's dead now."
"Runo is dead?"
"He came to kidnap An—the queen. We killed him."
That was right—forget the past. The only way to make things right was to restore the balance. A life for a life. Oskar tried to remember how good it had felt to sink his knife into Runo's back, to hear the crack of his skull and his pathetic yelps when the ice wolf had pinned him down.
"But it was Caleb's idea in the first place. Everything is Caleb's fault. If he's stupid enough to come to Arendelle with his fleet, I'm going to—"
Oskar's head snapped to the side. A sting in his mouth; he'd bitten his tongue. At first, the left side of his face was simply numb. Then it burned, as if all the heat in his body had drained into that one, pulsating spot.
"… Sir?"
Gregory lowered his hand. "Listen to yourself, boy."
Was Prince Gregory mourning Runo? Even after what he did to Sofia? "But Runo deserved it—"
Crack. This time, it was a backhand that nearly clipped his eye. This time, it hurt.
"Hey," Petra said in a warning tone from across the room. Oskar wondered what orders Anna had given her.
"Remember what I said when your training started," Gregory said.
Oskar ran his tongue along his molars. Copper. "I'm a shadow. Sofia's shadow."
Gregory shook his head. "'You are different'. When you start thinking like Caleb, you are no better than him. This hatred will turn you into a monster." The look Gregory held him under was fiercer than any Oskar had seen him make. "Do not become him, Oskar."
The walls wouldn't hold still. Shadows multiplied. Shifted. His ears rang. Had Gregory struck him that hard?
No, Oskar realised. The ringing was actually the pounding of his own head. The room warped in on itself because he was vibrating. Bursting at the seams.
"That's not fair."
Impassive as always, it was impossible to tell if Gregory was surprised. Oskar had never talked back to him before. Oskar had never been mad at him before. His head felt white hot, veins surging with pent-up magma.
"Don't you dare compare me to him. That's not how monsters are made. What the hell could possibly have turned Caleb into a monster, huh? He was born with everything! What does he have to be angry about? He kills and torments and he ruins everything just for sport. Nothing I do could ever turn me into someone like him!"
Gregory remained silent for several moments. "Are you finished?"
Breathing hard, Oskar realised he wasn't. "Don't you care? That she's gone because of him? Don't you want to kill him, too?"
"I tried," Gregory snapped suddenly. "I almost broke those defences and reclaimed the Isles. If it wasn't for that wretched storm—"
"You didn't even know what had happened to us!" Oskar struck the table so hard the plate jounced. "We thought your fleet would retreat once we escaped. That you'd pick us up before we reached Arendelle. But you didn't come for us. Sofia…. she…" A tear slid down the length of his nose and spattered onto the back of his clenched fist. More followed; an uncontrollable torrent. "She was in pain for days."
Gregory said nothing.
A low, keening noise rose from Oskar's clammed throat. "Why? Why did you go and try to save the goddamned kingdom when we needed you? Why didn't you come for us?"
What did he have to do to go back in time and take her place? If he could see her one more time—just once more—what would he say? What could he say?
I hate you for leaving me behind.
Gregory pinched the bridge of his nose. Opened his mouth.
A blaring horn pierced the night.
OoOoO
She came each time he sent for Monika. With a soft knock, she would stand like a wraith at the door, waiting for him to speak first. When he did take her to bed, she made no sounds, whether it be pleasure or pain. He left her nose alone. In fact, he didn't touch her face at all. There were countless ways to explore pain, after all. It was an art form and he, a virtuoso. Some nights, they played chess until dawn. Other nights, he would study her for hours across a flickering candle until she finally opened her mouth.
"Does this castle have a library?"
A learned prostitute who played chess and read voraciously. He had seen stranger things. So he escorted her through the deserted hallways to the library in the middle of the night. She stared at every painting they passed, and he caught her rubbing her hands as if she felt too dirty to be among them. Yet her shoulders remained tall, and that was the first time he noticed she had a proud, unbeaten walk. It was consistent with the fact that she never cried. Refused to scream. Instead, she would gaze blankly at a spot behind him until he tired of the sport.
"Our mother," she replied flatly when he one day asked if she, too, did not feel pain. "She also sold her body. But she never wanted us and she made sure we knew it." She ground her thumb into a bruise on her thigh. "I'm used to this."
It was both so dissatisfying and thrilling that he itched to peel back her scalp and study her brain. But then she would be permanently broken. That was the first time he realised not all people were replaceable.
Some nights, they stayed in the library. The way her eyes shone as she scaled ladders for dusty books, one would think the sky was in her grasp. She would curl up in the same armchair until dawn, occasionally twisting into bizarre positions as she read. Once or twice, the two of them were still there when Lars strolled into the library the next morning, and she wouldn't even take notice of his hasty retreat.
It was the first time he felt inconsequential.
"How many nations have you visited around the world?" she asked one night, while she perused a massive tome on the floor.
"None."
Her head came up. "You've never left the Isles? But you're the crown prince."
"And?"
"You could go anywhere. See places. Meet people." Bitterness dripped from her voice.
He realised she was looking at an atlas. For the first time, intrigue in another person overtook his senses. "What about you?"
"What about me?"
He impatiently flicked a wrist at the world map. "Where have you travelled?"
"… Are you mocking me?"
He looked at her.
She sighed. Walking over to him, she unceremoniously dumped the atlas on his lap. The corner of the leather spine dug into his knee. "Here." She pointed at a blot on the map. "My father was a travelling merchant. He'd tell us about this peaceful little kingdom in the north. I want to live there."
He took her hand and moved it aside so he could read the label. Arendelle.
For the first time, he disliked the thought of someone leaving his life.
"It will never happen," he told her.
The dreamy smile on her face dissipated like a burst bubble. She pulled her hand free and took back the book. "I'm well aware, thank you."
What would it take, he wondered, to break her like the others?
"Do you hate me?"
It ought to have been a simple question, yet she laughed haughtily. "Do you even understand what 'hate' means? Have you ever deigned to hate anyone in your life?" She had a curious fixation on asking him inane questions, as if he was an otherworldly specimen.
"If you do not hate me," he surmised, "it must mean that you love me."
She stared at him.
"You are not the first." He crouched beside her and gazed into her eyes with a tender smile. "Monika told me she loved me. Day after day, as if I ought to find it relevant."
"Stop it."
"They put so little weight behind those words. It was all your sister would say after I broke her nose. It was terribly vexing—"
"Stop." Her face had gone red. "I don't want to hear about that."
He leaned forward. "Say it. Say that you love me."
It was awfully charming, the way her body could freeze like stone while a wildfire blazed within her pupils.
She finally uttered the words. No one had ever spat them out at him with such blatant spite—and he, for the first time in his life, felt compelled to echo them back.
He continued calling for Monika. She continued coming. He posted a discreet detail on her during the day to warn Helena off from her usual pettiness, and so he knew immediately of her morning sickness. As months passed, he waited for her to start speaking of concubines and inheritance and lines of succession.
Instead, when she could no longer conceal her swell, she said, firmly, "It's not yours."
He smiled back, because it was the first time he had seen someone so desperate to deceive themselves.
One night, he asked for Monika, and it was Monika herself who came. It had been well over a year since she had bled over his carpet. Her nose looked no different.
"You are not Gisela."
She flinched. The sweet, cloying act was nowhere to be seen. "She's in labour."
They took one carriage. No words passed between them, and she did not question how the coachman already knew the way to the ramshackle house. Monika jumped off before the carriage came to a full stop and hurried inside. He followed at a slower pace, studying the dwelling. The building's state of decay was inherent, but the tasteful placement of flowerpots suggested someone had put thought into making it homely.
He stepped through the threshold just as Monika screamed. A baby started wailing.
He tracked the noises to the single bedroom, where two beds had been crammed into the small space. A grey-haired woman perched on one bed, hushing a swaddled baby. Her tear-stricken face pinched into a mask of terror when she saw him. She hastily sank to her knees, cradling the baby to her bosom as she pressed her brow to the floor.
Monika was also on her knees, sobbing beside the second bed. Her sister lay on the crimson sheets. The room, he noted faintly, was permeated by the raw tang of blood. Too much blood.
He looked down at her. It occurred to him that it was the first time he had seen her sleeping. He shook her. Slapped her cheeks. Held her.
The midwife was still prostrated on the floor, and when he walked over to her, she shakily lifted her head. "Y-Your Highness. She wouldn't stop bleeding… I d-did everything I could. But the little one is in good health. Would you like to…?" Trembling, she offered up the child.
The cries had ebbed away, and the bundle wriggled in her arms. A tuft of dark hair was visible between the folds. Her hair.
He took the bundle without looking. Climbed back into the carriage. Returned to the castle. Ignored the servants panicking at the sight of his bloodied garments.
His youngest brother stood in his path, mouth agape like the jester he was. Gregory's daughter clung to his leg. He watched his brother move to keep her behind him, out of sight.
Would she also teach her child, their child, to fear him like that? What kind of name would she pick? Would she continue to come to him if he spoke her name, and her name alone?
She wouldn't.
She would not sit in that chair in the library and disappear for hours into her world of words. She wouldn't ask him innocuous questions, and she wouldn't stop tugging on his hand with both of her tiny ones. "Piggyback, Uncle Hans. Piggyback!"
He hastily shushed her. Never mind the blood—something about his older brother looked wrong. The strange spark that had occupied his eyes over the last year had been extinguished, and the person left behind was somehow not the old Caleb.
This Caleb stared right through him—through everything—and it was the first time he was glad to be invisible. He didn't want to be seen by Caleb right now, and watched in horror as his brother's mouth opened to say—
"Wake up, dreamer."
OoOoO
His cabin door burst open and Jesper stumbled in. "Uncle Hans, the ships… did you fall out of your bed?"
Teeth gritted, Hans pushed himself up. "No, I got ejected. Did we crash? What the hell are the captains—"
Right. There were no captains. No men on the oars. He was the one responsible for carrying them across the sea.
"Yet you slept so very soundly," the voice reminded smugly. "I pray you had merry dreams."
Cursing, Hans shoved past his nephew, only to lose his footing and slam into the doorway. The ship wasn't even swaying that badly—he made sure of that—but it felt like his head was being crushed. His body hesitated to respond to his commands, making him feel like an imposter in his own skin.
The door to his left swung open and Caleb stepped out. Their gazes locked immediately. Imminently. His hair was also mussed from sleep, yet his eyes were bloodshot. For the first time since the blood anchor had entwined their consciousnesses, Caleb's mind was wide open.
Hans' thoughts flooded with her. The woman who haunted Caleb's dreams. Neither lover nor mistress. Just her. She was the past, the present, the future. The reason.
Gisela.
Caleb's eyes flashed in the darkness. Then he wordlessly turned and climbed the steps up to the deck. Hans followed.
Outside, an unexpectedly frosty gust nearly swept them off their feet. The rest of the fleet bobbed behind their ship, sails billowing like wraiths in the moonless night. It ought to be dark on the open sea, yet a terrible brightness rebounded off the surrounding mist, searing Hans' eyes.
"Odin's beard," Jesper breathed. "Is that what we're up against?"
A giant ice wall towered before them, hissing and crackling.
Hans cast his senses into the water and discovered that it ran down to the ocean floor in the same manner that it cleanly melded with the neighbouring cliffs. Tidily impenetrable. "Not 'what'," he told Jesper. "Who."
His nephew jumped at the distant sound of war horns. "They've already spotted us!" he cried. "You weren't supposed to bring us this close. How could you fall asleep? It's a miracle we even made it here without getting lost!"
"How would you like to be the one dragging an entire fleet across the North Sea?" Hans snarled back.
"You think I've been sleeping without a care? I'm the one with an actual job to do. I've spent every waking moment memorising these stupid blueprints—"
"Then you should know what to do," Caleb said as he studied the ice wall with vague intrigue. "Get going."
"Father, I…" Jesper swallowed and stood taller. "I won't let you down."
Yet he gave Hans a pleading look. One that begged not to go below deck alone, into the darkness of the cells. But they both knew that Hans could not help him. It had to be Jesper. Because, now, they knew what Caleb had been doing in the crypts.
"Do you not have something to say to me?" Caleb asked once Jesper was gone.
"What—you want me to apologise for intruding on your sweet dreams? In case you've forgotten, none of this was my choice."
"Naive little lies," the voice tutted.
The war horns had died down. What kind of chaos was unfolding on the other side of the wall? To think that Anna was now the queen. Did she have any idea what she was doing? Did the people expect Elsa's powers to keep their idyllic lives intact?
"Hey." Hans waited until Caleb glanced at him. "Sofia should be here."
"And?"
"Gregory's gone. He's not in your way anymore. If we're going to do this, I want your word that your… soldiers won't lay a hand on her."
"Or what?" Caleb laughed. He patted Hans' cheek. "Worry not, little brother. We are family, and blood is thicker than water."
Hans thought of Aksel and Runo. His stomach churned. The scars on his chest itched. Family. "Rudi will reach Weselton soon. The brute doesn't strategise; he'll lose his forces in a day. You shouldn't have given him free rein."
"His role is merely to keep the Duke occupied. The method matters not."
"And Hendrick? You really think it was a good idea leaving him in charge of the kingdom? He'll be on the first ship out of there as soon as the people realise you're gone and start rioting."
"You sound terribly concerned for one who so readily cast his home aside for another nation's throne." Caleb closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. "Beautiful climate, is it not? I'm beginning to understand why you desired this kingdom, little brother."
Hans watched Caleb. Their parents' firstborn and favoured son. King of the Southern Isles. A man who had only ever learned to love one thing. One person.
'He'd tell us about this peaceful little kingdom in the north. I want to live there.'
"You never planned to wage war on the entire continent, did you?"
Caleb's face remained disgustingly serene. "Only a madman would do such a thing. It's called a diversion."
Entertainment, Hans thought. It's entertainment to you. "Do you even intend to go back to the Isles?"
Caleb made to pat him a second time, but Hans stepped out of reach. "I am tired, and Gisela will want to travel. 'King Hans of Arendelle' has a nice ring to it, no?"
A crown on his head. The adoration of the people. His own place.
Not good enough. He needed to be different from his brothers. Stronger.
For now, Hans would do Caleb's bidding. He would vault off the ship's railings and land on the water's surface, buoyed by a mere thought. In perfect control. He would stride forward on the waves, ignoring the increasingly cold draught billowing through his coat, until his boots crossed from water to ice. He would stand on the Snow Queen's doorstep, in the shadow of her desperate wall. And he would not freeze.
I'm going to tear her down, Hans thought darkly. Then you will teach me how to control the rest of the spirits.
The voice in his head chuckled. "You would make demands of me, child? You, who have read my journal and heard my voice?"
I'm not afraid of you, False God.
The Nokk shrieked and rattled its chains as Hans pulled on the wellspring within him. With the might of the ocean buzzing at his fingertips, he placed his bare hands on the ice.
He had no use for a crown. He was a fuse. A tsunami. A reckoning.
Oh, the world would learn to fear him yet.
A/N: Hello, it is I, the airheaded author who promised a snow sisters chapter and instead ended up delivering a Westergaard chapter 128972 months later. I was stuck for ages until I realised switching chapters around fixed my problem. Thank you for putting up with my flightiness!