Usual content warnings, though the predominant one this time is the one for self-harm, albeit not as blatant as in other chapters.

To His Royal Majesty, King Sigurd of the Southern Isles,

Prince Hans has been charged with attempted regicide against myself and Princess Anna while visiting Arendelle for the coronation. His delay in his return home is due to keeping him for questioning. It has come to light that Prince Hans is, what it appears the general public calls, a magician.

Unfortunately, I have not been able to receive further details from him regarding motive, nor from Princess Anna due to the essence of time. Because of this, I have sent Princess Anna along with a gentleman companion named Kristoff to provide testimony should you choose to convict him. I have not made him stand trial in my kingdom because I do not believe he is of sound mind and I cannot convict him with clear conscience; and because, as a sign of good faith between our kingdoms, I believe you should be the one with full discretion as to what becomes of Prince Hans.

May your rule continue to be merciful and just.

Queen Elsa of Arendelle

His hands on the paper turned weak. He looked up to the crowd in front of him in the throne room, an entourage of guards, both from Arendelle and the Southern Isles. At the front stood a red-haired woman dressed in a gown befitting a royal meeting with the court — Princess Anna of Arendelle, he presumed — along with a blond-haired, muscled man in clothes more plain and practical; the princess' companion, Kristoff.

At the forefront, knelt down in obeisance with chains at his wrists and ankles, face turned to the floor, shoulders tensed, was his son. His youngest, most reclusive son, Prince Hans.

King Sigurd ran quivering fingers through salt-and-pepper hair, reading and rereading the letter in his hands. It was so formal, lack of any attempt from the Queen of Arendelle to establish a hint of what kind of leader she was. All he could perceive was distance, especially in regards to his son's case.

Also, that was a peculiar way to end a letter. Did she really mean for him to be merciful toward his son? Was she implying that she didn't find him guilty? Or was she taunting him with those words? Was she intending the Southern Isles to suffer the headache and infamy of putting one of the princes on trial, as consequence for the charges set against his son—

His son was only "charged."

No trial, no final conviction of guilt.

Was Queen Elsa intending him to read between the lines?

Chains clinked in front of him. A sniff.

King Sigurd looked away from the page again. Hans was quivering as he sobbed into the floor.

The monarch's heart clenched.

No. He will not lose another son. Not again. He can't...

He cleared his throat, "Prince Hans."

The sudden flinch of the prince's entire body hurt the king. Had he not shown all of his sons that he loved them? That he was kind and would never lay a hand on them? He never wanted them to experience the knot of fear he felt towards his own father, once upon a time. Was he turning into him without his notice?

Prince Hans seemed to try to rein in his emotions, his breathing slowing as he pulled himself together. He didn't look up as he responded, "Yes, Your Majesty."

His son was already condemning himself. He could hear it.

"My son, have you read the contents of this letter?"

"I have not."

The king turned to everyone else. "Are any of you aware of the contents of this letter?"

Everyone answered in the negative.

"As far as I know, Your Majesty, you are the only person who's read it. Kristoff and I have a general idea of what it might say, though."

King Sigurd nodded and folded the letter along its creases. He stood up to a candelabra beside his throne and looked into the flames. His soul mourned for his firstborn, Søren, as he remembered the day he witnessed fire erupt from his son's breath after a heated, private discussion with him. He couldn't recall much after that, though. He remembered waking up, likely not long after the accidental magical display, his chest throbbing from second-degree burns.

But it was nothing compared to the torture he experienced when he helplessly witnessed one of his precious children deteriorate into irreversible madness. And here he was, going to have to face the same situation again.

No. He refused to lose another.

He rent the letter into two and set the halves alight from the candle flame, the parchment dangling delicately between his fingers. He dropped the burning letter to the floor between him and Prince Hans.

Hans finally looked up from the floor to look at the flaming pieces, then to him. His eyes were bloodshot, and tears stained his cheeks.

King Sigurd took off his crown and placed it atop his throne before he knelt to the floor before his son. He needed Hans to know that he wasn't being his king, but his father. He took his son's face in his hands, remembering the day he was born, fretting if he was able to love yet another child of his own, fearful about whether or not he had enough love to give like he had with the twelve others before; because, God forbid, he would raise a neglected child.

He remembered the joy of holding the tiny infant and finding that, yes, Sigurd was able to love another son; that even though he saw traces of his own father in his son's features, there was no fear or regret, but an all-consuming desire to protect and embrace the child.

"My son," Sigurd said, feeling his own tears well into his eyes. "Hans, don't be afraid of me."

Hans looked back at him, his face unreadable.

Sigurd turned to the other occupants in the throne room. "You are all dismissed. Please escort Princess Anna and her companion to the guest chambers."

They all bowed and left, leaving father and son alone on the floor, silence pervading in the air.

Prince Hans was a magician...

He wondered what severe wrong he'd done to have two of his children to suffer from this curse.

"Are you... are you really a magician?" King Sigurd whispered, his voice breaking into silence at the last word.

Without breaking eye contact, Hans nodded wordlessly.

"Can you show me?"

Hans shook his head. "I can't. I don't... I don't want you to hate me."

"My son, I can never hate you."

"But... I'm dangerous. I should be executed. I failed our kingdom because I didn't do the right thing and turn myself in years ago and—"

"No. You didn't fail the kingdom. I know that, given the circumstances, you likely weren't even aware—"

"But father, I... I've killed a man."

"You... what...?"

Hans inched himself away, curling in on himself. "I've made too many mistakes, father. I thought I could fight it... but it was foolish. The guilt of killing that man ate at me instead. I shouldn't — no, I won't be allowed to live. Everyone will know, and I've ruined our family name and—"

The prince began to hyperventilate, his body shaking, eyes wide in a panic. "Oh God, I've tried so hard. I can't do this anymore, father. I'm just... I'm scared of myself. I thought escaping to Arendelle would help me forget about Viktor. I thought that I could avoid revealing what I am if I fled from everyone who was suspicious of me. I was wrong."

Sigurd watched helplessly as his son continued his downward spiral, lost in his own mind and no longer speaking to him, saying things that jumped from one subject to another, admitting and denying guilt, questioning if he was a monster or not, if everything was for naught in the end. His son grew more frantic, outright condemning himself, a lost look overcoming him.

It started out as a faint sense of... wrongness of the room around them, like their surroundings were echoes of sorts, the feeling in the king's gut not matching up with what his eyes were telling him, his sense of balance and his general sense of presence telling him another story.

And then a corner of the chamber behind his son shattered like glass.

Hans' frantic words grew more jumbled, blending incoherently with his sobs. The shattering cascaded through the entirety of the throne room, the world's shards pushing and coalescing further into ruin, as if the image of reality was a mirror that broke to reveal another mirror underneath to continue the cycle with increasing speed. The room turned, Sigud's stomach lurching along with it, his feet telling him that nothing was amiss, yet his eyes telling him the world was ending, a storm of pure chaos erupting around him.

At the center of all of it, his son remained kneeled and unaware of the spectacle happening around him, his hands curled into fists around clumps of hair at the sides of his head, his mouth forming sentences that no longer made sense.

King Sigurd reached out to Prince Hans, taking one of his son's wrists into his grip.

Hans yelped in pain and drew his wrist away, slipping out of the king's hand, awareness returning to his eyes. He blinked a few times at the king, the turbulent throne room flashing into white.

Then the world was back to visual silence.

There was a stickiness in Sigurd's hand. He looked at it and saw that there was blood. He looked to Hans in alarm and saw rows of lacerations along his arms that he hadn't seen before. Hans eyed the blood on his father's hand, wide-eyed. Another, smaller flash of light, and Sigurd was no longer able to see the wounds. He doubted if he even saw them in the first place.

"Father, I ask that you don't pardon me," Hans said.

King Sigurd stilled, still kneeling on the floor in front of him, his mouth barely moving as he responded, "My son, I ask that you trust my judgment as king of this land and as your father." He pulled him into an embrace. "And on my honor as both, I promise you that, no matter what, I love you and that we will make this right."

And if it was right to end all his son's suffering by means of... "showing mercy..."

Maybe Sigurd wasn't fit to be a ruler. Maybe his late father was right all along.

He shook his head and banished the thought.