February 21, 2017
"Miss?" Kristoff's voice is gruff but kind. Elsa looks up slowly. There are deep bags under her eyes, her skin is wan, but her eyes are a clear and brilliant blue. Kristoff is momentarily taken aback.
"Sorry," she says quietly. "I understand. I'll be going now. No need for trouble." She stands, but her shoulders are hunched as if expecting a blow to fall.
"Uhh what?" Kristoff frowns. "No, no, no, no. I didn't mean that. I just wanted to see if there was something wrong with the coffee?" The lights of the little coffee shop give a little flicker.
"The coffee is fine," Elsa says carefully, thin hands clasped about her sweater covered elbows. How odd, that in February, in the Pacific Northwest, she only wears a sweater.
The television drones on in the background. Something about an emergency meeting of the United Nations and policy toward the recently unveiled undead. Kristoff doesn't bother to listen; there are estimated to be fewer than three thousand litches in the United States. That's less than one in every hundred thousand people, about a thousandth of a percent of the population. Chances are, he'll run across one in the street one day, but he won't recognize them for what they are, and no one he knows personally is likely to be one. "I'm just making sure," Kristoff raises his hands disarmingly. Elsa flinches and he feels bad for alarming her. "I've seen you in here a lot, I don't want to lose one of my most loyal customers."
"Your coffee is ok," Elsa shrugs self consciously. Her eyes are so clear, so beautiful, and so wounded. What could have possibly happened to such a young girl to break her so thoroughly?
"It's just, you didn't drink it," Kristoff takes a step back and the girl seems to calm somewhat.
"I…" she bites her lip nervously. Kristoff wonders what could possibly worry her in a conversation about coffee. Maybe it's unrelated? "I'm sorry," she says. Her words are a jumble. "I never drink. Or eat. That's why I learned to make it myself, but sometimes it's nice to just sit and enjoy the atmosphere. I'm sorry."
Kristoff can't imagine what she could have to be sorry for. And then it clicks. Never eats? Never drinks? She's dead. Her eyes are so clear though. He had expected the dead to have cloudy corpse eyes. It's obvious when he knows to look though. The way she hugs herself as if she's about to blow apart the moment a stiff breeze comes up. The way her shoulders seem to carry a burden heavier than her age could possibly produce. The way she flinches away from every movement like a kicked puppy. Kristoff's heart breaks a little. "Why do you get coffee then, if you don't drink it?" he's asking before he thinks not to.
"It smells good," she says quietly, those beautiful gemstone eyes fixed on the grimy linoleum. "And it's warm…" that seems to be all the words she has available. Kristoff silently berates himself for his indiscretion.
"You said you make coffee?" He sits slowly, to show he isn't a threat. The girl nods. "Want to show me?" he asks gently. She shrugs. "What's your name," Kristoff stands again and leads her to the gleaming appliances.
"Elsa," she says quietly. Kristoff wonders at the way she flinches when they pass the oven.
The coffee she makes is delicious and Kristoff knows instantly that he needs her in his failing shop. It can't be described as a cappuccino- too much chocolate, a delicate swirl of whipped cream. It isn't a mocha. Kristoff isn't sure what it is, only that his coffee shop must sell it. It's delicate and sweet. Shy and beautiful. Like it's creator. Elsa stands there, looking at the ground, hands twisted together as he tries it. And keeps on trying it. And wonders which five star restaurant he will have to try to hire her away from.
"This is good," he says and watches a tiny proud smile flit across her perfect face. "Good isn't the right word. Great. Fantastic. I don't even have words. Where do you work?"
"I don't," she shrugs, points to a small battered black case on her table. "I play the violin. Street corners, not operas. I get by."
Oh! Oh oh oh! Kristoff has a lucky star and it is shining bright today! "This is incredible," he takes another sip. "I have a job opening if you're interested?" He doesn't, but he'll find room in the budget somewhere. Maybe this traumatized dead girl will be able to save his floundering business.
She smiles, freezes, the happiness fades from her face like light from the evening sky. "I… I should warn you…" she dips her head uncomfortably, unwilling or unable to continue.
"That you're a litch?" Kristoff takes another sip. "Doesn't seem to have much to do with your coffee and your coffee is why I'm hiring you."
"Oh," Elsa lets herself smile. "I'd be delighted."
On the television, the United Nations spokesperson comes forward. "It is the conclusion of this counsel that litches, being possessed of obviously human intellect and sapience, deserve all of the rights afforded to humans. Any attempted genocide will be condemned by this counsel of United Nations as we would for any…" Kristoff tunes out the television again. It's good to see the world getting its shit together.
February 27, 2017
Elsa has been working at Kristoff's little coffee shop for less than a week, and already he's noticed an improvement. More customers, more repeat visitors. It's the best week he's had in a while. When he comes in today though, it's obvious that something is terribly, critically wrong.
Elsa stands in the center of the serving floor, looking wildly back and forth. Her hands are wound tightly in her skirt, her lip is bleeding slightly from where she's been biting it, and there's nothing but confusion and terror in her beautiful eyes. Kristoff takes a step toward her.
There are patrons all around. Standing, with ugly expressions and an ugly air. "Worthless corpse," one woman sneers. "Clumsy girl."
"Sorry," Elsa says automatically. There's a shattered cup at her feet.
"A corpse cooking?" a man says in tones better reserved for 'shit on my boot' or 'gum on the sidewalk'. "You're going to get us all sick."
"Es tut mir leid," Elsa says. "Kann ich meine geige haben?"
"You're in America," another man gives her a shove. She stumbles. "You speak American in America."
"I speak English," Elsa frowns. "I… I speak… I'm sorry…"
Kristoff is frozen in horror. Not the sort of deer-in-the-headlights accepting your fate sort of frozen, but a disbelieving frozen. How? How could people possibly be so… wicked? How do they hold such baseless hatred? How do they decide to be so cruel to someone that can't possibly have done anything so terrible as to deserve it? He cannot comprehend their thoughts. It doesn't compute so it must not be happening.
A woman has Elsa's battered violin case. "Let's see what the corpse has?" She opens it. The violin looks old. It's covered in tiny chips and scratches like it's been well used, but polished and lovingly tuned. The cheek rest is worn smooth from use, the bow's hair is frayed and worn but the wood is smooth and still perfectly arced. There's a little worn piece of paper tucked into the velvet case. Yellow with age and grey at the creases, it says "from Pabbie, to Elsa," on it in clumsy and faded handwriting.
"No!" Elsa cries out. She totters toward the woman but someone sticks out a foot and Elsa goes down in a jumble of too thin limbs. "Please," she looks up. "My… nicht meine geige." She would cry if she were able, but her old dead tear ducts are dry.
Something in the woman's expression sets Kristoff moving but he's too slow.
"Such a pretty thing for such an ugly corpse," she sneers, and then it's falling like Elsa did before. The old violin shatters, thin shards of wood ricochet around the little shop.
Kristoff is a freight train and nothing is going to get him to stop before those horrible people are a thin red paste. Elsa's broken, tearless sobbing brings him up short anyway.
"My… my… m…" she's stuttering, her shaking hands trying to piece together the varnished splinters. "I'm sorry," she says. "I'm sorry. Es tut mir leid." Apologizing to the woman who ruined one of her few precious belongings, or to someone else? Kristoff doesn't know, but the pity he feels takes the fight out of him and the tightness out of his fists.
"Out," he says in a voice that feels as small as Elsa looks there on the ground. It isn't though. Not small but quiet. Not pathetic but menacing. Kristoff is not a terribly large man, but he does have muscle and he can look very imposing when he chooses. A few of the men are larger than him, but the thunder in his expression and the murder in his eyes convince them that he is not someone to fuck with. Not right now.
"I'm sorry," Elsa repeats it like a mantra. "I…" She has to concentrate to force out what she wants to say. To not lose it to the shadows of her own mind. "I'll go. I. Sorry."
"Not you," Kristoff kneels and sweeps her into a loose hug. Loose, so she won't feel so trapped. "You lot," he growls up at the humans, and feels abruptly ashamed for his own humanity. "Get the fuck out of my shop. If I see you again, you won't be walking anymore."
Something in the crowd has broken. The almost tangible violence they were building to is gone, replaced by the sinking realization of how far they took their xenophobia. People leave. In ones and twos at first, then they're gone.
"I…" Elsa frowns. "I… why… the ground?"
Kristoff doesn't know what's wrong. He doesn't know why she can't hold a thought, doesn't understand the intricacies of the magic that keeps her in some semblance of life. Doesn't know why her sharp- if skittish- intellect isn't behind her clear eyes, but he does know one thing and that is this little battered litch needs someone to protect her.
December 19, 2020
Anna plays idly with Elsa's thin fingers and leans carefully against her. Kristoff watches from the counter like a slowly circling hawk, content to give them their space, but ready to swoop in if needed. His newspaper lies open on the counter but he doesn't read it.
"You drawing the shop?" Anna asks.
"The remodel, yes," Elsa gives a small smile, a light squeeze of Anna's freckled hands. "You think these braziers are too gaudy?"
"I think they're just the right amount of gaudy," Anna grins. "It'll be like a awesome Egypt castle temple thing."
"Eloquent," Elsa smirks. Anna shrugs.
"Pfah. Eloquence," she scoffs. "Tell me something about you."
"Not much to tell," Elsa goes back to her drawing. Anna gives a brief, frustrated frown. It's gone as swiftly as it came.
"Tell me something I don't already know about you," Anna wheedles. Elsa sets down the charcoal and dusts off her pale hands.
"I can fly aircraft," Elsa indulges after a moment.
"Really?" Anna gives a broad grin. "That's pretty awesome. What made you learn to do that?"
Elsa shrugs, but answers anyway. "I was fascinated with the space program. I thought it was… good… that humanity was going to the stars. I thought maybe you all could set aside your differences and rule the sky. I thought humans weren't destined to die on this little ball of mud. I thought learning to fly would help me when you did. You never did, and it didn't." She shrugs again, and picks up her lump of charcoal again. There's something troubled in her eyes.
"I think that's pretty optimistic," Anna grins and runs a hand through Elsa's silky hair. "We'll get there some day, just gotta remember who we are first." Whatever was bothering Elsa, it's gone. Not erased, but buried at least. "Tell me something else."
Elsa shrugs.
"Ok," Anna bites her lip and Kristoff wonders if she picked up the expression from Elsa. "What's the hardest part about being immortal?"
"You know when you get a song stuck in your head?" Elsa asks by way of reply. Anna nods so she goes on. "The worst part of being immortal is when you get a song stuck in your head, but no one remembers how it goes, and no one recorded it when they did. Or, when your favorite shirt rips, but no one makes that style of shirt anymore."
"People do restorations," Anna supplies helpfully.
"They do," Elsa agrees. "There was a lovely old man that restored my shoes for me." She scoots her chair back, lifts her foot. Her shoe is shiny and black, the buckles show a patina of age but no rust.
"Very nice," Anna admires the shoe for a moment because it's clear that Elsa is proud of it. "Where're they from?"
"When I was little, before the war," Elsa answers though it's more of a when than a where. "When I got my first job, I saved up- it felt like forever. Everyday, I would go to the shoe store, look in the window. I was so scared someone else would buy them first. It seems like such a silly thing to have been so proud of." Elsa shrugs.
"I don't think so," Anna replies. "I think it's perfectly normal to be proud of something you worked hard for."
Elsa shrugs again, but the way Anna scoots closer and grins eagerly prompts her to continue. "When I… died… the guards would take our shoes, put them in these huge piles. I don't know what they did with them. I'm sure I could look it up, but…" Elsa shrugs. "It took me a little while, but I saved my shoes. I'm not all that interested in clothes. Not as much as my mother would have liked, at least. It felt like I was salvaging something from my life before though. I don't know how to explain it."
"I think you explained it just fine," Anna says. "Fortunately for you, I am all that interested in clothes and I have sooooo many dresses that will go great with them!" Elsa groans, but it's not an unhappy groan.
Kristoff smiles and goes back to his newspaper.
...In a shocking 5-4 decision, the Supreme Court overturned President Weselton's controversial order sixty four. Justice Kay had this to say.
"I think the mistreatment of our nation's undead is wrong, of course, but as a Supreme Court justice I am bound by the constitution. Fortunately, the founding fathers weren't idiots, and the president's order is blatantly unconstitutional. I don't know whether magic counts as religion or armament but either way the constitution clearly protects it."
AN: well. The next chapter will be up "soon" so stay tuned. Pro tip tho, this is sortof a respite from the horrible, and we are not done abusing that poor old litch.
Speaking of pro tips, little friendly advice from an emergency medical provider; if it can break, please don't put it in your ass. If it's made of glass, doesn't go in your ass. If it's alive, please not in your ass. If you ignore this advice and do it anyway, then when you inevitably have to call an ambulance, just say what happened. Don't lie, don't be like "nothings wrong just take me to the hospital," just tell us the truth. I can't believe that this needs to be said...