So.
The long-awaited chapter! Finally!
Sometimes real life gets in the way - in my case it was work, mental illness, a sick pet, and a death in the family. While I appreciate your readership and adore you for being you, please understand that sometimes life is hard and time gets away from me. During those times, your understanding and kindness really makes a difference. A happy writer is a better writer. :)
ETA: In an effort to avoid confusing too many people, I thought I should probably mention that this chapter takes place immediately following the events of Chapter 18.
I certainly hope this chapter was worth the wait and that you still like me enough to fill me in on what you think of it. I hope that in my rush to get the chapter posted I didn't miss too many typos.
As always, warmest regards,
ssg.x.
CHAPTER 24
THEN FALLS THY SHADOW
It looked almost exactly like his grandfather's old naval cutlass. Hans remembered sitting at his grandfather's feet while he regaled him with tales of his adventures at sea. As he told his stories, he would let Hans hold the cutlass in its scabbard across his lap. Hans would run his fingers along the cold brass, letting his fingertips linger on every scratch and scar. Almost every mark had a story behind it, and Hans would sometimes listen to the same one a dozen times over.
Hans glanced at his hands. They looked no different than usual, though the painful tension he'd felt in them before the cutlass appeared was gone. As a matter of fact, he felt good - stronger than he'd felt in days. But how did…?
He remembered a conversation he'd had with Elsa about the clothes she'd made herself to wear in place of her torn dress.
"You made all that? Like, out of ice? How?"
"The same way I make anything. I think it, and it just…I don't know. It just happens."
Is that what had just happened? Did he just will that cutlass into existence simply by thinking about it? He already knew the answer to that question, of course, but he could hardly believe it.
"Jack Snipe," he whispered, cupping his hands together in front of him and closing his eyes. He pressed his lips together, really focusing on the image in his head, but nothing happened. He opened his eyes and sighed unhappily.
Maybe it was just a one-time thing. He glanced down at his chest. The snowflake's light became dimmer and dimmer, and he wondered if it was because Elsa no longer cared for him. Maybe he'd just used up any residual magic she'd imbued him with on that cutlass. With nothing left of her inside of him, he felt emotionally adrift. He started to lose his nerve.
Maybe I should let her go.
Really, who was he kidding? There was no way he'd be able to get anywhere near Elsa, not close enough to tell her all the things he needed to tell her, or say all the things he wanted to say.
Elsa…
Alma was right – whether it be three months, three years, or three hundred years – Elsa would never speak to him again. He'd bargained for her freedom and his, but he hadn't read the fine print.
He knew Elsa well enough then to know that she would lock herself up in her room the first second she could. She would no longer be afraid of hurting others. Instead she would be afraid of others hurting her. What kind of freedom was that?
And what kind of freedom would he have without her?
Elsa…
The frost on the windowpane grew thicker, effectively smothering what little light remained in the room. At even the softest utterance of her name, Elsa's snowflake blazed and the heart behind it thundered back to life and pulsed along every bone in his body.
Elsa…
He shuddered, fighting a suddenly adversarial gravity to stay on his feet.
"Elsa…" he whispered. "I don't know how to fix this. I don't think I can."
Elsa…
All at once his body relaxed, his shoulders slumped and his arms fell limp at his sides. He exhaled, long and slow, and gave his mind up to his body. He managed to empty his head of all but one thought. Pinpoints of light behind his eyelids like stars in a black sky spelled out her name. A biting wind wound its way around the room, howling like an untethered beast. Startled, Hans' eyes flew open. He turned away from the darkened window and gasped, taking several footfalls back.
Elsa stood not ten feet away from him, tall and elegant in her coronation gown and cape. In her hands she held up the orb and sceptre, both adorned with Arendelle's ubiquitous crocus. Her eyes were large and empty, there was no rise or fall in her breast, and no movement in the long cape that pooled around her ankles. No living, breathing thing could remain that still. But in every other way she was perfect.
Or it, rather. It was perfect.
And it wasn't the only one.
The room had become a shrine to all things Elsa. Icicles hung low from the ceiling like lanterns and rime coated the walls. The floor was overlaid in ice but he found that the soles of his boots held as fast to the frozen floorboards as they would have had he been standing on dry earth. Other ice sculptures, each one in her image, each one as impressive a work of art as the next, were scattered throughout the room.
"I think it and it just…I don't know. It just happens."
One held her arms out before her, no doubt in mid-attack. Her head was turned to the side as though she were acknowledging another presence in the room. Her eyes were wide as though she'd been caught by surprise. It was the Elsa he'd confronted in the ice palace, the one who was seconds away from killing Weselton's men.
"Don't be the monster they fear you are…"
He slowly circled the two sculptures, marveling at their incredible detail before stopping in front of the third. She reached out to him, beseeching him to remove the shackles forged from iron just for her. To protect the guards from her. To protect himself from her.
How laughable, he thought dryly.
A fourth sculpture depicted Elsa moments before he first kissed her, standing confidently with her shoulders pulled back, a gentle smile on her face. It was the first time he'd seen her really smile. And when she said those words – just me – he knew he'd lose himself to her, and why prolong the inevitable? So he kissed her, again and again until –
The mark on his chest burned bright at the memory of its conception. When he'd written that letter and instructed Hadewych to take it to Elsa, he had no idea he'd be setting off a chain of events that would bring her into his life in such an inconceivable way. He'd only meant to get his cherished old friend and long-time personal attendant out of harm's way.
And out of harm's way was Arendelle.
oooOOOOooo
Hadewych was the only other person who knew what had really happened to Cilia, and only because he had a knack for sniffing out any truths that might be hiding out in a palace full of gossip and lies. He'd been in the employ of the Westergård family since he was fifteen. As a favour to Hadewych's father, Grandpa Nikolaj chose him to be his personal attendant once he retired. Hans never found out how Hadewych ended up eventually becoming his own personal attendant. As one of the members of staff with the most seniority, Hadewych should have ended up tending to one of the oldest brothers. For years Hans thought that the attendant had been demoted, that he'd been stuck with Hans as punishment for making some sort of mistake. Maybe he handed his father the wrong pair of cufflinks on a bad day or something. It was the only thing that made sense to Hans.
For the first two years they were together, Hans barely spoke to Hadewych. Sometimes, when he would dress the young Westergård, their eyes would meet in the full-length mirror for just a second before Hans would look away, feeling awkward and embarrassed. Hans wasn't comfortable with eye contact. Cicero said that the countenance is the portrait of the soul, and the eyes mark its intentions. When Hans' brothers weren't pretending he was invisible, they were staring at him with cool, condemnatory eyes, and it left Hans with little doubt as to what their intentions for him would be once he was no longer under the protective wing of their grandfather. Hans got in the habit of keeping his eyes cast downwards when he walked through the halls. He didn't want to know what anyone thought of him, and he certainly didn't want anyone to know what he thought of them.
One evening while Hadewych was helping Hans into his tailcoat, their eyes met in the mirror as they usually did, but this time he didn't look away quick enough. He was surprised to see the older gentleman smile at him. It was a kind, guileless smile, and Hans couldn't help but be suspicious of it. So the next time Hadewych helped him dress, he watched and waited to see if the smile that baffled him so would make a second appearance. It did. Then a third appearance, a fourth, and a fifth…
Before long, Hans felt like he had a friend – a real friend. His first one. Someone he could talk to, not as often as he'd like, or in as personal a way as he desired, but it was certainly far better than nothing. A silent ally was still an ally, and that's exactly what Hadewych was - always somewhere in the background reminding Hans to stand up straight, maintain eye contact, and move with grace. He told Hans that his mother was a dancer, and that she had carried herself like one both on and off a ballroom floor.
"You are a prince," he told Hans while fastening his epaulets on the eve of his first ball. "Not just out there, but in here as well," he explained, gesturing to Hans' heart. "You may have your father's looks, but you also have your mother's poise. You have his pride and her benevolence."
Hans laughed before he could help it. "I'm sorry, Hadewych, but I don't have a kind bone in my body. Unfortunately I'm more my father's son than either of us would care to admit."
Hadewych chuckled. "Maybe I could have phrased that better. You have a big heart, but the misfortune of being surrounded by people who probably don't deserve to benefit from your kindness. Earn the respect of your people, Your Highness. They're the only ones who matter."
"Not the only ones," Hans said quietly.
"I'm sorry, Your Highness?"
"They're not the only ones who matter," Hans said again tentatively. The adolescent prince glanced shyly at Hadewych. The older gentleman smiled and stepped back to admire his work.
"You look very handsome, Your Highness. Just be sure to keep your chin up and to look people in the eye when they speak to you."
Hans tugged nervously at the hem of his tailcoat while doing the exact opposite of what Hadewych instructed even before leaving the room. "Yes. I will," he said half-heartedly.
Hadewych was insistent. "Your Highness?"
Hans looked up. "Yes, Hadewych. I will. Thank you."
"Your mother met her husband at a ball, you know."
As a safety precaution, Hadewych was always careful never to refer to Hans' mother by name, and only ever gave him the occasional, very brief glimpse into who she was. He seemed to know that Hans liked learning whatever he could about Cilia, even if his outward appearance never hinted at his interest in the topic.
As usual, Hans said nothing – only clasped his gloved hands in front of him.
"Maybe you'll meet someone this evening," Hadewych said pleasantly.
"I hardly think so," Hans snorted dismissively, trying to hide the blush that quickly rose to his cheeks by pretending to check his boots for scuffs.
"Alright, alright," Hadewych laughed gently. "Just remember what I said. You keep your chin up, otherwise you'll miss it."
Hadewych tapped Hans' chin. He obediently tilted his head up so that Hadewych could straighten his cravat, finally looking his old friend in the eye.
"Miss what?" he asked.
"The moment she falls in love with you."
oooOOOOooo
Hans stared thoughtfully at Elsa dressed in the boots, trousers, shirt and jacket she'd woven for herself. Around her neck was the tie he had given her, neatly tied in a bow, the ends tucked into the waistcoat just the way he'd always worn it. He wondered what would happen to the real one. It was still around her neck when he'd last seen her, sitting up in bed with that bandage wrapped around her injured head. He had tried his damndest not to look at her while he broke her heart, even though he knew that his plan would only work if Alma and his father not only believed his only interest in Elsa was the child he suspected she might be carrying, but that he also wanted to revel in the pain he was causing her like the smug, narcissistic young man that he was.
The smug, narcissistic young man he still was.
Hans couldn't imagine Elsa falling in love with him and not hating herself for it. He was sure he didn't recognize "the moment" for what it was because it probably more closely resembled the look of someone about to be trampled by a horse than the look of someone falling in love. He had hoped that a day would come when Elsa would love that not-so-nice side of him as much as he was sure she loved whatever was left when one took the not-so-nice side of him out of the equation.
He wasn't stupid. He knew she was in love with him.
She had been able to hurt him immeasurably - her tongue flung words in his direction that easily cut through the muscled wall of his heart, the piercing gaze of her blue eyes like swords thrust into his flesh with all her might guiding them. She couldn't have destroyed him so completely if he didn't love her. She wouldn't have had such a desire to destroy him so completely if she didn't love him in return. He was sure of it.
She could have frozen everyone and everything in the palace. She could have created a giant snow monster to crush the three of them underfoot, or pummeled the entire kingdom with a powerful snowstorm, the likes of which no one had ever seen. She didn't because she wasn't a Westergård. She derived no pleasure from ill-conceived acts of vengeance. Alternately, Elsa could have fallen to pieces the way she did that day on the fjord when he told her Anna had died, and that it was by her own hand. Just like that day, he'd told her that her life as she knew it was over, and that it was because she had trusted her instincts, and her instincts had once again betrayed her.
But she looked into his eyes and she fought back - not with a landslide of ice and snow, nor a landslide of words. Three were all she needed: I hate you.
The chill she'd placed in his heart did the rest.
He knelt down beside the last ice sculpture. Elsa folding in on herself, all the fight gone from her as though the only thing holding her up all this time had been Anna's determination to be a part of her life. Anna was her champion, and without her…
Hans reached out a hand and lightly touched her shoulder. He stroked her hair, which, of course, was solid ice like the rest of her. The train of her dress pooled around her and his knees sank into it as he drew closer to her. Unlike the rest of her, the train was soft and gauzy like fabric. How was it that he was able to remember it so vividly from that day, right down to the last detail? How it draped over one wilting shoulder, the way it lay across the frozen plane of the fjord, and the pattern that adorned it – snowflakes and stars. He remembered all of it.
He inched carefully around the figure, finally coming to rest in front of the sculpture. Her hand was curled into a fist that she pressed to her forehead, and her exquisite face was disfigured by grief, a kind of grief he'd never been privy to before. His heart beat maliciously in his chest as though it were a conscious being with a will of its own that had suddenly turned against him.
Suddenly aware of another presence in the room, Hans scrambled to his feet and came face to face with, to his abject horror, himself. He stood looming over an emotionally crushed and physically defeated Elsa, shoulders squared in his greatcoat, the sword in his hand an extension of the powerful and confident arm that held it. He wore a twisted smile of premature elation on his face as, unbeknownst to him, he stood mere seconds away from slaughtering the only woman who would ever love him.
Hans barely recognized the look on his face.
He looked like a monster.
He'd shrugged off that word – monster – when Elsa had pinned him with it. His father was a monster. That thing Elsa had created, the giant snowman that had almost killed him, that was a monster. He wasn't a monster. But there it was, made from fire and ice and the stuff of nightmares. Tears stung his eyes and he clutched his chest, drilling his fingers into the flesh and bone of it, hurting himself but not enough to distract from the overwhelming feelings of shame and self-loathing.
He retrieved the naval cutlass born from his hatred for his father and stepped up to the statue. He raised his arm and, in a smooth and perfect arc, brought the blade down hard against the side of the monster's head. The blow reverberated back through his entire body and for just a moment it felt as though every bone in his body had shattered at once. In a surge of light and sound the sculpture came apart, flecks of it dissipating into harmless mist that felt like cool, blissful heaven on Hans' burning skin. The other statues followed suit, evaporating into the air one after the other, and Hans soon found himself alone again. He dropped the cutlass and it too evaporated before it could even hit the ground. The room was dark except for the light from his heart. Its pounding tempered into a mild discomfort that was much easier to ignore.
Hans held out his hand. His fingers unfurled like flower petals to reveal a perfect Jack Snipe nestled in his palm. He tossed it up into the air and it vanished into the darkness as if it were a living bird that had taken its leave of him on flawless, frosty, gossamer wings.
"Won't you save us both?"
It was time to go see Elsa. He was finally ready to prove to her that her instincts hadn't let her down this time.
He was finally ready to become the man Hadewych always knew he could be.
