Elsa doesn't feel the cold that fills the house in the dark hours of the morning. That cold which permeates everything in the winter, regardless of how high one turns up the heat or how many blankets one piles over themselves. Elsa doesn't feel it, but she still puts on those lovely heated mittens Anna got for her. The warmth is nice. Like a cup of coffee that doesn't cool off.
Anna wasn't in bed when she woke up. Elsa tries not to let that sting. There's no reason for Anna to waste her morning lying awake in bed. Elsa didn't mention that was something she was looking forward to, so there's no reason to think Anna could have guessed. Elsa sets her clothing to rights, checks herself in the little disused vanity mirror proper on one side of Anna's desk, and sets off downstairs. The excitable redhead sits by the dancing fire, a frown of concentration on her not-so-excited face. Papers lay strewn around her, propped against the brickwork of the fireplace or stacked messily around her blanket-wrapped feet. Several of the papers sport light scorch marks. Elsa tries very hard to ignore them. Tries very hard also to ignore the way the fire flickers, like a hundred colored paper streamers tied to a fan.
Anna's mother is there too, across the room in one of the voluminous arm chairs. There's a tense silence, broken only by the shifting of logs in the fireplace. An air of an argument which neither woman wants to pursue any further, but which wasn't resolved to either's satisfaction either. Anna looks up when the little lich enters and a smile replaces the frown.
"Elsa!" She cries, her eyes slip hungrily down for the barest fraction of a second. "You're wearing the mittens I got you!"
"I am," Elsa confirms quietly. Don't look at Anna's mother. Don't show your trepidation. What if she's looking- too late, Anna's mother IS looking. Watching her like a hawk. Elsa combs her loose blond hair over the side of her face but can still feel the woman watching judging… maybe it's all in her head? Elsa doesn't risk a second glance. "They're very nice," she says instead. "Thank you."
"SHE's polite," Mrs. Anderson says. Elsa would have missed the slight emphasis the woman placed on "she" but for the reddening her magic feels in Anna's cheeks.
"She still cares what you think," Anna mutters, loudly, calculated for her mother to hear. Mrs. Anderson doesn't reply though Anna leaves her room to. "Where are you sitting Elsa," Anna asks when it becomes clear her mother won't take the bait. "I'll move?"
"I can leave," Elsa says quietly.
"Don't be ridiculous," Anna scoffs, and shifts over to the armchair farthest from her mother. "Is here good?" Elsa nods silent and uncertain, but doesn't join her.
"Anna," Mrs. Anderson's voice is quiet but not pleasant. "Let's not do this in front of our guest."
"You started it," Anna sticks out her tongue petulantly. Elsa wonders if she could get away with a quick invisibility spell…
"So," Mrs. Anderson says. Her voice is louder and laden with an artificial cheer. "Elsa. What do you do?"
"I make coffee," Elsa replies, but doesn't peek around the protection of her hair.
"Oh," Mrs. Anderson forces on. "That's neat. What do you plan on doing when you graduate?"
"I'm not going to school right now," Elsa looks to Anna for guidance but none is forthcoming.
"Oh," Mrs. Anderson says again. There's an undefinable note of judgement. "What do you think of the black magic ban?" She glances towards Anna's discarded papers with a disdain that colors the winds of magic with its aura, a dizzying splash of emotion.
"Don't agree with it," Elsa murmurs.
"Pardon?" Mrs. Anderson asks. Elsa isn't sure how to reply so she stays quiet. When no reply comes from the little Litch, Anna's mother barrels ahead. "I just don't see why anyone needs it," she says. "It's just so dangerous, I don't understand why anyone would be ok with the risk. You know, if your own power can't fuel a spell it will start to take it from YOUR life?"
"Not if you're careful," Elsa replies. She glances at Anna, and a furtive thumbs up emboldens her. "Magic does what you tell it to," Elsa says. This is easier. Magic has rules. Just describe the rules. "It takes power to do things, and if you don't know how much power your spell will take, you can get into trouble, but as long as you aren't recklessly experimenting with powerful new effects, you'll be fine." A furtive glance towards Anna. "Most people stick to pre built spells and defined sources of power and they're fine. Back in Germany," she doesn't miss how Anna's interest spikes, "there was a group of people I knew that thought it was an interesting field of study. None of them were very strong, but they knew it and didn't try anything too powerful. I don't remember ever hearing about one of them being hurt by their own magic." For just a moment, Elsa can see old herr Oaken lying bleeding on the wooden floor of his shop, but she blinks it away quickly. He wasn't hurt by magic, his life was stolen by the brutality of the secret police, but maybe magic could have saved him. If she'd known then, the spells she knows now. If she'd been better with the ones she did know. She should have practiced more before the gestapo came. Then maybe herr Oaken and his lovely family would still be alive. Regret steals the rest of her argument.
Mrs. Anderson scoffs. "I don't see why anyone would be interested in such a terrible form of magic. It seems like it's only good for killing, and those who practice it have an unhealthy fascination with death."
Elsa doesn't reply. The memories come too thickly for that, but Anna does. "It isn't only for killing," Anna scoffs. "There's plenty you can do with magic that isn't killing. And anyway, I'm fascinated with NOT dying, so I DON'T have an unhealthy fascination with death."
"Healing isn't necromancy Anna," her mother says with a condescending glare. "Obviously no one cares about healing."
"The fact that you think there's a difference shows how little you know about magic," Anna is standing now. The lights flicker. She glances back at Elsa.
Elsa wishes she could forget the way the jackboots rang hollowly on the floorboards, empty like the promises of their party. Heavy feet on the stairs behind her, the echoes reverberate in the magic like ripples on a pond. For a moment she's back in Germany, reaching out for the intoxicating call of the magic, but then she remembers, pulls back, lets the power dissipate, steps gratefully aside glad of the distraction. Eugene steps past her and pauses as he runs into the near-tangible tension of the room like a brick wall. He blinks twice.
"Who keeps icy hot in their shower?" He addresses the room. "Someone might try to use shampoo… on their… erm. Parts? And grab the wrong bottle?" Mrs. Anderson whirls on him and Elsa gratefully lets the argument die.
Soon the house is quiet and comfortable, and they are left to their own devices. The weight of her argument seems to roll off Anna's slim shoulders like so much rain, but it clings to Elsa's tired soul like ice on the bottom of a road-weary car. The cozy Pacific Northwest home is nothing like the drafty little flat her family sheltered in, but everywhere she looks Elsa is reminded of her time in Germany. The way the fire devours its fuel reminds her of the roaring crematoria. The way the wooden floors creak underfoot reminds her of the sound of people moving about in the shop below, and of waiting silently for them to leave. The scent of old wood is the same. The way the hardwood floors leech warmth from her feet no matter how many pairs of socks she wears is the same. Eugene's laugh is the same as her long dead brother's. Mrs. Anderson's truncated yell when she drops a platter is the same as Elsa's mother's was. And when there's a knock at the door, that's the same too.
A hard staccato sound. A fist on the timber door, an aggressive confidence that sets the heavy door shivering in its housing. Anna stands, yells "I've got it" with all the energy of an exploding firecracker, and bounds off towards the front door.
Elsa KNOWS it isn't the gestapo; long and gratefully gone. She knows it can't be the plague police either; she's done nothing wrong, and they've no reason to look for her in Anna's parents' house. They would have visited Kristoff's Coffee- the soon to be christened Corpse Cafe- first, Right? Right? She KNOWS she's safe, but Elsa still cannot be in that too-strange, too-familiar house. While Anna is at the front door, Elsa sneaks out the back, pulling her magic about herself like a comforting blanket. The concrete steps are cold beneath her bare feet. The wind slices through her shawl like a scalpel through flesh. The snow picks at her face like so many freezing needles.
The forest is silent around her, the sort of poised stillness that only a heavy snowfall can produce, that wraps you in a thick bundle of restless peace. The slender needles of the evergreens brush against her like caressing hands. There's a brown truck with a yellow shield on its side parked in front of the cozy house, but Elsa can't look at it. Three letters on it, if Elsa stopped to read them they would say UPS, but all she sees is three letters and an official-looking shield, and the forest absorbs her- just another refugee animal fleeing the press of humanity.
She runs. The snow is cold underfoot, the first time she's actually felt the cold since that horrible winter where she died. It's a heady exhilarating rush, to be able to FEEL. The rocks are sharp, they tear at the unprotected soles of her feet. She revels in that too. The winds of magic are howling in her mind, a maelstrom of organic power in the underbrush. She feels that too. Brambles pluck at her thin clothes like the hands of the unwashed masses, hoping for a miracle from a holy man. Plucks at her skin too. It's intoxicating, like too much alcohol. A deep sea wave crashing down over the canoe that is Elsa. It washes over her and pours through her. It's not real sensation maybe, not a function of nerves and electrical impulses, but it's something. Echoes in the dizzying sea of magic. Elsa runs because she must, and delights in the pseudo-sensation.
AN: Well. This should come as no surprise to any of you, but this chapter was later than I had hoped. At least it didn't take a year. Many apologies. *hides from the angry mob*
As always, follows/favorites/reviews are the bestest ever.
Ambulance pro tip: fleshlights and exhaust pipes do not mix. Rubber has a low melting point and exhaust gets hot. It took us an hour and a half to get the poor bastard free.