Chapter 11: Leaftaking
As her ship and the honorable captain which helmed it plowed steadily through the cold waves towards Arendelle, Elsa stood on the deck and allowed the wind to flow around and through her as she considered what she was to do, how she was to do it, and how to manage the inevitable fallout that would occur once certain details (Hans Westergaard) were made known at large.
First of all, she was a queen, and her duty was to her kingdom. This was a detail upon which she refused to budge. Hans was quite aware of this and to his credit, he respected her duty – perhaps it was because he had grown up in a royal family himself; he knew that's just how it was for royals like themselves. Duty to country had been drilled into them both since birth, and she knew Hans had a particular affinity for his own country and people. Though much of the looking glass through which he viewed the Southern Isles had been colored darkly by his family experience, Elsa could still sense that deep-rooted dedication which one who is the product of generations of duty to one's country must possess.
It was because he loved his country that he sought to rule it; otherwise, she was sure he would have abandoned the Southern Isles long ago.
Therein lay a particular quandary, for how were they to be together if their duties would keep them apart? Hans didn't seem worried at all about the hitch; he behaved as if it would all just work out for the best in the end, even though the physical world and its unalterable rules made it difficult for Elsa to see how. He'd grown so delighted by his experiment in "order" that he almost seemed to have put blinders on, doggedly pursuing his first initiative and ignoring what might come after. He was only concerned presently with obtaining his kingdom.
Earlier, as they'd taken a carriage to the docks, he had assured her he planned to do it by means entirely bereft of murder.
"No murder at all?" she had inquired of him.
She and Hans had bundled into the carriage, and once they were alone and in transit, they had wasted no time in throwing themselves at one another with immediacy; it was difficult not to do so since their rash acceptance of possessing feelings for one another and the admittance of them, and worse yet because they knew they would be physically separated for an undetermined duration. The physical was so very intoxicating at this stage; Elsa felt as if she had little control over her actions – she just wanted to be near him, and nearer, and nearer, still.
And so, she had curled upon his lap and in his arms and they allowed the dense miasma of electric static energy wash over and through them, dulling their minds a little, even slowing their banter, yet it was so heady and the intoxication was so thorough that the sacrifice was only a trifle – they'd have burnt it at the stake, sacrificed it atop a pyramid if their offended intellects had stood in the way of this delicious opioidic fog - which they breathed in and out like the dense sweetness of sunrise, like the taste of dew on the flesh of an apple, like the brush of first wetness on the grass against the ankles which trod it.
"No murder," he said to her, his lips close to hers, his hands bewitchingly affectionate.
"I'll believe it when I see it," she replied with a light smile.
"Are you implying I'm incapable of the simple task of acquiring a kingdom without murdering anyone?" he asked. "It shouldn't be too hard. I do already have the benefit of being an heir, though lowly appointed; I am a prince, after all."
"And the Duke is helping you, is he?" she asked.
"He's… well, yes and… yes-ish? We must consider how the Duke functions," he replied. "He has perfected positioning himself favorably into an art form, and he seems to know which way the wind is blowing, no wordplay intended. The Duke has an instinct about him, doesn't he? Thus, yes - in his way - he is providing assistance by aiding me in my pursuits. It will all benefit him, of course, and I don't resent his own self-promotion at all, for I would do the same in his position. I look at it as a boon of fortune that his ambition aligns with mine. And with ours."
"It's incredible how quickly he got over his fear of 'witchcraft' with the promise of increased profits, isn't it?" she mused.
"Mn," agreed Hans. "He is perhaps the most expert of negotiators, however, and that's why I need him. The Duke is unrivaled at building alliances; he's had to be, for Weselton is, for the most part, not a military power, and the first step of any coup, my dear, is to build alliances," he told her. "That way, if for some reason things go sideways, I've got enough support to right the ship, so to speak."
"And to keep it going in the direction you want," she said. "You have the support of Arendelle, darling."
"I don't only want the support of your ugly, old husband-country," he replied. "I want yours. I want you."
"I want you, too," she returned boldly, firing straight from Cupid's bow into Hans' most delicate depths.
"Ah, yes… ahem," he said, and he shifted a little – she'd embarrassed him, and it delighted her. "I mean, I want you to assist me with your boundless power on the day it is to be done."
"Oh Hans, do I get to freeze the Southern Isles again?" she asked, piqued.
"Elsa, no," he chided. "No. Bad snow queen. The Southern Isles is not as resistant to permafrost as Arendelle; your actions were very destructive, and you shan't do it again; I'll not have it. The Southern Isles is my beloved country, after all, to whom I am seeking to be bound to as her king."
She pouted and he seemed powerless at her moue; he fell into it, lost, both directionless and driven. Determined to keep him focused, she informed him, "Despite what jealousy I might experience over your love for those silly isles, you will have my power at your side on that day; I promise it to you."
"Am I, perhaps, the most fortunate man who lives?" he asked, his question rhetorical and filled with wonder as he gazed upon her. "I've done nothing to deserve this, least of all to you. How can this be? How can we be? I am aghast at your capacity to forgive a man his abject trespasses."
"Have you forgotten how many times I've attempted to destroy you?" she asked, leaning upon him. "Yes, you don't deserve my favor, not at all, Hans… yet here we are. I love you."
And it was the first time she'd said it to him, perhaps the first time she'd realized it was fully true. Yet, it came so naturally and so easily that it didn't frighten her at all.
"I will miss you like the sun misses the moon when she hides her face in the darkness; I will chase after you with each sunrise; I will tirelessly pursue you through the grand mechanisms of the ordered heavens until the exquisite, blinding moment when again we meet," he spoke, his voice recklessly passionate.
"Hans, when you love, you love so very madly," she observed. "And with such abandon! It's both terrifying and admirable."
"I have not loved with such abandon, not hitherto," he said. "Not ever. I am, indeed, gripped with a madness. It's as if it has been crushed inside of me and the release of it is such a relief. I assure you my experience with you, Elsa, is singular. I could venture that I have never loved if this is what love is."
"Yet, you know how to love," she said. "For I've never felt so loved in my life – and the cold darkness in which I've lived since my parents' deaths has subsided; perhaps even the glacier of isolation in which I was placed through my childhood may melt away in time."
"We shall see, shan't we?" he bemused, perhaps thinking of his own childhood trauma. "The first blush of love blinds, but when vision returns the shadows of the past remain."
He then returned his attention fully to her.
"And you, Elsa. The snow queen, cold and unforgiving… yet you have such warmth within you," he said. "Such piquant passion, such radiant heat. You said once that I was unfairly beguiling, that I possess the gift of charm, but I protest that fate has played a cruel trick, for you beguiled me beyond my capacity to forbear; I heartily pursued forbearance, and you might recall how admirably I did try – yet all is lost… and yet, in another fateful twist, all is thus gained."
"Yet we have work to do if we are to gain what we desire," she told him.
A small smile brushed across his face, like the effusion of light brightening a room when the sun emerges from behind a cloud.
"It is a curious development to me that I seem to have acquired a brusque confidence, even what one might describe as 'hope', in the combination of us," he said.
"The combination of us?" she returned, smiling. "What an odd turn of phrase."
"We are," he said, sinking into a warmer tone, "such a… wonderful combination."
And then she knew what he was referring to, alluding to. He meant their combined elements and, she wasn't sure why, it made her blush and glance away. But he caught her chin with his fingers, he delicately, firmly returned her gaze to his and he said, his voice expressive, caressing her with sound: "We have, of course, agreed not to pursue 'combined use of powers' without expressed consent of the other party…"
And the way he said 'combined use of powers' sounded so sensual, even lascivious. She caught her breath and considered slapping him; but he danced along the edge of being barely covert enough to evade offense and went on: "…under any circumstances, unless they be dire or life threatening. Well, I would argue my case for 'dire'. I so direly need to feel your powers mixing with mine that I beg of you to allow it, Elsa… I need to feel you once more before we part."
She felt breathless after his hardly indecent yet subtly indecent proposal, at his blatant need, at his power playing at his edges, refraining yet ready, even eager… for hers.
But the truth was he hardly had to ask; aggrieved at leaving their combination behind and allured by the heady promise of their blending, she fell against him, into him, into their messy alliance, and the wind and ice sculpted abstract facsimiles of the passion they shared; hardened, still testaments of movement fated to melt in silence..
If one cared to poetically describe what their combined elements did within that carriage, one might have described it as the autumn wind making careful, passionate love to winter. But that would be a simply insane way to describe weather patterns.
Elsa shivered in remembrance, however.
It was different this time. It wasn't the epic chaotic madness of in the field, and it wasn't the understated gentleness of the opera house. Hans was deliberate, he was intentional; he became as an artist, a sculptor hard at work – but first he had used his element to draw them together, suspending them in the middle of the carriage space. If they'd been on the ground, their position would have been kneeling, but they were not – gravity was denied as they hung like two parts of a whole drawn together by magnetism, yet held apart by the thinnest membrane of space, scarcely touching yet thoroughly engaged. One hand lay on the curve of her hip - the heat of his fingers seeped through the fabric – and every minute shift or twitch his fingers might make drove straight into her notice. With the other, he took her hand in his, raising it deliberately like a dance, as if he enjoyed this part of it, as if the art of how one did something was equally as important simply doing it; the joy of movement, the thrill of creating beauty. He drew her hand out, their arms extended, and he gazed in appraisal down the length of their conjoined limbs. His fingers were delicate, gentle, yet promising strength as they messily interlaced with hers.
They didn't have to speak, not when they were like this. She knew this was when he meant for them to combine, and he'd created a sort of focus with their joined hands, a highway through which their combined powers could be driven, cast through, and made into wind-ice and ice-wind, the creation of which Hans wrested total control and Elsa allowed it because, for the time being, he was the mad creator, the artist driven to make. She leant her power to him, and as she felt him draw her power like an inhale for his use, she gasped – the mixture of feeling him draw on that quality which was most hers, the tenuous trust required to allow it, and the exhilaration of vulnerability overcame her and she closed her eyes; his jawline, then his lips, came to brush her temple – it was a gesture of recognition, of affection, of acknowledgement - and their breathing mingled and aligned, their chests brushing, faint and alluring, with each intake.
Then she felt him begin. She felt him become wildly focused and voraciously alive as he combined their powers, mixed them together, blending, creating, and despite being overcome with the heady sensation, she had to see. Opening her eyes, the first thing she noticed was Hans, the intensity of his gaze past their hands towards his making, the delicate furrow in his brow and the taught jaw, the diagonal tendon in his neck, superimposed with tension – she'd never seen him so serious, so focused, so intent. The wind and snow and ice were driven outward from them at his direction into the physical; shapes that resembled the intricate formation of frost, yet without the perfect symmetry of normal frost formation; his creations had an asymmetry that belied itself, that were evocative of symmetry but beguilingly unbalanced, the angles carefully positioned to be refractive of light in a way that reflected a myriad of colors, the shapes loosely resembling those of wondrous formations of precious, elaborate crystalline figures deep within the earth, yet with a culture about them, the touch of the human, of humanity. They became surrounded by Hans' creations, as if they hung suspended in the midst of a carriage-sized geode, sculpted by man, made of ice and wind.
She would have remarked that his creations were beautiful, but she didn't have to; he knew already, for he could feel everything she might express in words, yet better. More perfectly. His eyes came to hers, locking in, grasping her gaze in his, and he might have thanked her, but instead he released her and — raising his chin a little, his lips parted and it charmed her, it beguiled her — he lifted his hands outward, gesturing with grace and there was a pulse; a silent gasp of air, then an absence of air, then a return of air which coursed outward from Hans into the sculpted geode around them and bounced, refracted, gushed against the angles of all he had made, surging and magnifying, pulsing into a shivering vibration pulled taught, then tighter, then strung tightly like a bowstring. It was pulled relentlessly until it broke, snapped, as if in half – then it struck her, bound into her, sinking deeply, deep into her bones and hung there in her marrow; a thin, quiet, deep subtle vibration, a single intoned note bowed soft yet with powerful pungency across the strings of a cello. It sounded deep within her then detonated — exploding outward like shockwaves, coursing through her entire body like the reverberations of sound blended with overtones, midtones, halftones, all harmonically bouncing against themselves like water rings from a dropped stone, creating new tones from each collision. She became lost in it; it blinded her senses so thoroughly that her head had fallen back, and an instinctual, ancestral moan escaped her.
Hans had caught her, his hand splayed across her back as a support. His eyes had been upon her at every moment of his creation of this note, as if her reactions to his making was the sole source of his pleasure. She knew it wasn't - it couldn't be. The very act of combining was pleasurable in itself, perhaps too much so. Yet, he gazed upon her satisfied, and he might have said, "Now perhaps I can be with you longer, in some small way." If he had needed to use words, he might have said that, but as the now subdued tone hummed deeply inside of her, she knew what he might have said, yet with more nuance. She knew he was desperate to be with her longer, to be a part of her, and never to part, and it was tempered, balanced with the sharp thread of sorrow that they were, inevitably, soon to part. Hans hung so beautifully on that juxtaposition; he seemed to thrive upon it. The misery and the ecstasy, together – he breathed it in.
They shared a gaze in which many things were said which could not be defined in words, yet were eternal, written in the very foundations of the earth – a natural tapestry in which they were only a part, yet an integral part, one which would never end and would play out again and again.
He made the axis upon which they were suspended to turn, to shift backward until Hans was above her, and she was below, held firmly as if the air were the ground beneath, and with a slow, ponderous release of pressure, he reduced the space between their bodies until there was none, until his weight bore down heavy upon her, until she was consumed by his scent, his embrace, the inexorable perfect molding of all nature in order at once, and his mouth fell to her neck and she welcomed him.
The wind and ice sculptures melted slowly, their shapes losing their edges and angles, growing soft, dripping down the walls and benches, falling apart with a mild chaos as rivulets of water trickled to the floor of the carriage in dense puddles, before disappearing at last.
And now the page had to turn on a new chapter; though her time in Weselton had been brief, upon her return nothing was the same. She could see Arendelle coming into view, only a blur of purple and grey, muddled by the low clouds of winter and the fog of snow that always clung at its edges. It felt comforting to return to the dense winter of her homeland, but she wondered if Arendelle had any inkling that its queen was not the same queen who had left its shores just a few days before, that this queen was determined to marry the man who once had tried to take Arendelle for himself – madness! – and was bound to aid him in arresting and conquering his own kingdom in turn. Her heart sunk at the thought of it ever coming to light.
"Your Majesty," the captain said, drawing her attention to him near the wheel, and she realized he was bundled thick against the cold; the entire crew struggled in the onslaught of winter's wrath, shivering in its wake. "There's been some ice forming 'round the docks."
"Ah, yes," she said, seeing the faint tinge of white in the water. It wasn't thick yet, just chunks and some layers, and was common at this time of year, but it was enough to concern a seaman trying to dock his ship unmarred. "I'll clear the path for us, captain."
"You are most kind," the captain replied, bowing to her as she rose to the fore, impervious to the cold with scarcely a shawl over her gown, now blown half to the wind and, approaching the mast like a carved figurehead come to life - mermaid, goddess, or in this case, queen… or perhaps just a witch - she threw out her arms and felt the cold wind pass through her (and with it the reminder of a deep hum of Hans in her bones), and though the frigid gale of winter was harsh and cruel and unforgiving to many, she feasted upon it; she grew stronger in its buffeting gusts and she parted the fray, commanding the ice to move aside, to make way, to defer asunder; and it obeyed her because she was its queen.
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