So.

It's been so long. I'm so sorry.

ssg.x.

CHAPTER 34
PAINT THE SKY WITH SCARS

Up until recently, Hans had not been one to readily admit defeat. He'd been fighting to survive being the lone red leaf hanging precariously from a diseased branch on the Westergård tree since the death of his grandfather. But without Elsa – laughing, shouting, in despair, in ecstasy... Elsa in any form – without her, his life was no life at all. He'd cut himself down from the branch, but now he hung on three words.

"I forgive you."

God Almighty, he'd have sold his soul to the devil that very second just to be able to wish the universe away when Elsa spoke those words. But he'd sold his soul a long time ago, and he wanted hers to stay exactly where it was. She'd withheld truths, yes, but she'd never lied to him. At least not until she'd spoken those words. She hadn't forgiven him – she probably never would. But she wanted to, and while that counted for a lot, it wasn't enough.

At least not anymore.

Because Elsa deserved better, and she'd finally managed to drive into his thick skull that he did, too. Or maybe…

Maybe deserving had nothing to do with it.

He'd had enough of living as an object of scorn. He would be with Elsa, but only if he could live by her side as her principled equal. Continuing to stand by and watch her bring herself down to his level was out of the question. Elsa had to forgive him, truly forgive him - they both knew it. In the meantime, he'd have to sort out the situation with his family. He knew his father, and he knew that he would send someone to "fetch" his wayward son just as promised, if he hadn't already. Salvation was somewhere out there on the other side of the door, but so was death, on a ship cutting water or already in Arendelle.

Hans sank tiredly into the lone chair at the small, round dining table, and scratched at the beard he'd sprouted over the past couple of weeks. He was grateful to have regained use of his fingers because the facial hair itched like hell, far worse than it did back when he was in his cell.

His skin felt dry and tight around his bones, like parchment wrapped around hawser, and when he stood, he could hear the creaking of his spine as he straightened against the back of the chair, and the sound of joints popping. He hadn't forgotten what Elsa had told him – that the power of the freeze might be killing him, that he could very well be freezing to death from the inside out.

He wondered how long Elsa was planning on staying away. She must have guessed by now that he'd been posturing when he said he'd try to escape if she wasn't willing to let him go. He wouldn't leave her, even if he could. He'd prefer not to be her prisoner, of course, but better that than being away from her. So long as she kept him here, he knew her heart, even if he didn't understand it. Thoughts of dying didn't trouble him as much as the single thought of leaving her did.

The injuries to his hands had healed considerably, despite him feeling like the rest of his body was falling into disrepair. He'd managed to speed up the restorative process by using the freeze to mend himself, knitting joints together and reinforcing bones with icy threads of blue electricity. Guided only by his mind's eye and little more than a rudimentary understanding of human anatomy, it took an excruciating amount of concentration to stitch himself back together again using the freeze. It was like trying to repair a watch while blindfolded. He could only work for a few minutes at a time, and he wasn't entirely sure his efforts would amount to very much once he was finished. He couldn't be sure of the permanence of his hard work. But trapped in that room, he needed something to occupy his time, something to occupy his thoughts.

He'd asked for something to read as politely as he could, but the guards didn't take requests, so he ended up with a cookbook, a collection of stories about trolls, and a particularly archaic book of maps. All three looked like they'd been used more often as doorstoppers than reading material. Still, they gave him something else to look at when his frustration or fear blacked out the windows. The troll book was a fun distraction. Some of the stories weren't new to him - he remembered his grandfather telling him a few of them when he was a child. As Hans read, he could hear the funny voices his grandfather would give to the trolls. They were almost always villains - anything ugly usually was in those folktales.

He thought about how he had spent his entire life surrounded by beauty – his palace, his clothes, his brothers, his parents. He thought about how ugly he was inside, how ugly his father and his wife were inside, and how Cilia and Hansa hadn't found out just how ugly until it was too late.

Elsa and Anna…they had both found out in the nick of -

Hans started at the sound of the doors opening. It felt far too early for dinner to be getting dropped off, but then he hadn't much of an appetite the past day or two, so his level of hunger wasn't exactly an accurate measure of time.

Curious after a moment or two of silence, he glanced up from the book of fables. Even if the guards weren't crazy about him, they would still greet him in some form or another when they entered the room.

But it wasn't a guard.

Elsa…

She stood with her back and her open-palmed hands pressed against the doors behind her. Her platinum hair was down and dishevelled, and she was out of breath. She looked utterly bewildered, as though she'd been running through a maze from some unknown danger and ended up here merely because she had to stop to catch her breath. He almost let out a sob at seeing her. Her eyes met his, and he leapt to his feet, almost completely forgetting himself. He bowed deeply, hoping he'd think of something to say before he stood back to his full height.

No such luck.

They stared at each other, neither saying a word. She waved a hand to seal the doors shut and carefully crossed the room until they were standing toe to toe. She looked like she had something she desperately needed to say, which was perfect because no words were coming to him - nothing beyond her name. His heart and the mark that branded it surged to life and light in response to Elsa's eyes seeking them both out. She hesitantly reached forward with trembling fingers for what he thought was the snowflake emblazoned on his chest, but instead she grasped upward, hand curling around the back of his neck. She yanked his head down to hers, her mouth violently connecting with his.

It was like being wrenched beneath ocean waves and discovering, once you've resigned yourself to drowning, that you can breathe underwater. He closed his eyes and his lips parted, and though he'd promised himself he wouldn't give in to his feelings again until he was no longer a prisoner of them, he returned her kiss with as much strength as his weakened body would allow him.

Elsa moaned, and the sound caused tears to spring to Hans' eyes. There was need in it, need pulsing in the fingers that tugged the hem of his shirt loose from his trousers, need vibrating in the hips that ground against him. He wanted so badly to touch her, to unbind her from her clothes as nimbly and as efficiently as she was doing away with his, but he was afraid that if he was too rough with his hands, he'd undo all the hard work he'd put into trying to mend them. It only served to further drive home the point that he couldn't love her the way he wanted to love her. Elsa's teeth grazed the length of his neck, and he leaned his cheek against her hair, soft as eiderdown against the coarseness of his cold, dry skin, and bearded jawline. With a sharp exhale she sank her teeth into the shell of his ear, and the shock of it - of her uncharacteristically hot breath searing the sensitive bit of flesh - almost had him recoiling from her touch.

"Elsa –" Hans gasped. He couldn't remember a time Elsa was a source of literal warmth, let alone the sole source of literal warmth in a room, but suddenly the chill of this prison cell felt uncomfortable and unnerving for the first time in ages, when moments ago he'd barely noticed it – hadn't noticed it for weeks. His braces were already hanging at his sides and his shirt was on the floor. Minding his hands, he wrapped his arms around Elsa, and the foreign heat rolling off her body in waves felt heavenly.

He had so many questions for her, had so many things he needed to say, but Elsa pressed kiss after insistent kiss against his mouth, desperate, for whatever reason, to keep him from speaking. His gut told him to pull away, that something was wrong. This wasn't Elsa, or at least not the Elsa he knew, and it certainly wasn't the Elsa that had stormed out of this room after threatening to keep him locked up against his will for as long as it fancied her.

He knew he should stop what was happening, at least until he was sure things between them were okay, but then her hands went to the fasteners on his trousers and her lips were at his ear again.

"Hans…" she breathed.

She was so warm and - God - it had been so long since…

"I want you inside me, Hans," she whispered. "Tell me you want me…please…"

I want your forgiveness, Elsa…

I want all your days…all your nights…

I want us far away from all this…

I want to mar –

"No," he said, disentangling himself from her hold on him and wrapping his arms around himself, bracing himself for the inevitable cold snap. Elsa cast her eyes back on his, hurt and confusion darkening her features. Her arms remained raised in front of her for one long, painful moment, open and beckoning for him to return to them. He swallowed hard and shook his head.

Elsa, I'm sorry…

"Elsa…" he begged hoarsely, his body beginning to shiver violently. "Your forgiveness. I want your forgiveness."