II.
Years passed before the girl thought seriously again about the story of the boy who could make fire.
In the weeks and months following the prince's departure, certain things about him lingered on in her memory – his unpredictable temperament, his ever-present frown, and his warm, gloved hands – but most of all, his strange story continued to puzzle her young mind.
She and her sister pantomimed it again and again during their playtimes, pretending that the young prince was still in the room, reciting the tale aloud to them. She had told her sister the ending he had related to her before setting sail, and though she still found it suspect, it made for easier and more pleasant theater than the original one.
Inevitably, his absence could not be ignored, and they spoke of him less and less. They moved on to new games and stories that could be acted out using the older sister's talents, which had only grown stronger and more impressive with time. Their favorite remained building snowmen together, and they learned to keep a hidden stockpile in their rooms of carrots, coals, and twigs with which they could decorate her creations.
It was during one such occasion, two years after the boy's visit, that their regular routine went awry.
In the midst of creating one snow peak after the other for her younger sister to jump onto, the older girl slipped, accidentally striking her sibling in the head. In the panic that ensued, the girls were brought by their parents to a mountain forest filled with stone trolls, who warned that the older girl's magic would only become more powerful as she aged… and more uncontrollable, as well.
The trolls used their own magic to remove the girl's powers from her sister's memories, though they did not alter them otherwise. Afraid of her own strength and what other horrors it might inflict, the girl could not stop them from casting their spell.
Upon their return, the staff were reduced by half and the gates locked as the king and queen sought to keep their daughter safe—and to keep others safe from her. Where once she was asked only to keep her magic secret from those outside of family, she was now forced to keep it secret even from her younger sister. Though the burden was great, the original incident had left the younger girl with a streak of white hair, and it served as a permanent reminder to the older girl of what her magic had done. Thereafter, she could hardly bring herself to look at her sister, much less speak to her, without feeling shame.
Conceal it, don't feel it, don't let it show, her father would repeat to her in her darkest moments, taking her hands in his. Eventually she began to whisper it to herself without his encouragement, integrating the mantra into her evening prayers.
The sisters' separation devastated their once close bond, as the older girl locked herself in her room for hours at a time, only leaving if absolutely necessary. She took all of her lessons, and even many of her meals, alone; during spells in which she refused to leave, her parents even brought her stacks of books to keep her occupied in her isolation. When she could no longer stand to be by herself, they would come to her room and read to her, though she still tried to keep some distance from them.
Her younger sister protested these special allowances at first, and continued to knock on the older girl's door every night with confidence that she would have to answer at some point. After a year or more of these thwarted attempts, however, she finally gave up trying to see her sister outside of certain prescribed events. She played alone in their favorite haunts of the castle – the library, the gardens, the gallery – and took to speaking to the portrait of Joan of Arc for hours on end.
The older girl watched her sister with sometimes unbearable grief, tempted more than once to open the door. Every time this thought arose, the memory of the younger girl laying on the floor of the gallery unconscious would accompany it, and this quickly quashed any temptation to remove herself from quarantine.
Only once in the year that followed did her desire to be reunited with her sister create cause for concern.
It was a beautiful summer day of blue skies and lush greens, and the girl looked longingly out of her bedroom window at the bustling town outside the castle walls. Just inside of them, she watched as her mother and younger sister smelled and pruned roses in the garden, their smiles wide and full of warmth.
The girl's hands tightened, and without realizing it, ice spread out from them, freezing the windowsill. She gasped and backed away, and then began to cry, calling out for her father. When he arrived and saw what she had done, he sighed, holding her in his arms.
It's all right, Elsa, he said, and stroked her hair. I'll take care of you.
She continued to sob into his shirt until she fell asleep against him. When she awoke, she found herself on her bed, her father stoking a fire in the hearth. She rubbed her eyes groggily, and then made her way towards him, confused.
Was I asleep for a long time? she asked, squinting at the window. The ice on the sill was gone. Is it nighttime already?
Yes, my dear, her father replied, and wiped any remaining traces of tears from her face, resting the poker back against the hearth. And that's all right. You needed sleep. He knelt down to her level, and from his jacket pocket retrieved a folded handkerchief. But I have a special gift for you.
He unfolded the cloth to reveal a pair of leather gloves. The gloves will help, he told her, slipping them, one after the other, onto each of her small hands. See? You're good.
The girl stared at her covered hands, and something in her memories stirred, as if waking from a deep sleep.
So his parents told him couldn't use his powers anymore…
Conceal it, her father began, waiting for her to say the next part.
She complied. Don't feel it.
He smiled, and they finished together. Don't let it show.
…and they made him special gloves that wouldn't let his fire hurt anyone ever again.
She wore her gloves dutifully every day after that, and even slept in them at night.
When she was due for her first bath after they were given to her, she screamed and cried when her mother tried to coax her into taking them off, and then the girl froze the bath water when they were finally removed. She believed they had some special powers that could contain her magic like the ones in the boy's story, and so her mother relented, instructing the servants to allow the girl to wear the gloves, even while bathing.
It was a month before she tired of wearing them, hating the way the leather shrunk when wet. She paced nervously the whole night with them off, afraid that some great calamity would befall her and her family. But when the evening passed and sunlight arrived to her room, illuminating its familiar, unfrozen features, she was pacified, and took to only wearing the gloves during the daytime. Newly confident, she became a little more sociable with her family, accepting their invitations to family dinners and even taking a lesson with her sister on occasion.
Sometimes, though, when she looked at the gloves at night, she remembered the next lines of the boy's story – the boy's fire burned through the gloves, and he was so upset from being lonely and scared all the time that his fire spread and burnt down everything else – and the memory made her shiver so much that she would clutch them to her chest, praying that her gloves were different from his.
On one evening shortly after her twelfth birthday, she was following her usual bedtime routine – reading, reciting some poems aloud, and writing notes until she fell asleep at her desk – when she was startled by the sound of the wind whipping against her window. It was so loud, in fact, that she imagined it was crying out to her, begging her to be let in. The shrieks and howls became a mournful song, and she walked towards the window as if in a trance, turning the locks up as she imagined nature's will commanding her to do so.
As soon as the window was unlocked, the wind blew it open so forcefully that the girl was thrown back onto the ground. She cried out in pain and winced against the gale, picking herself up with effort. She pushed hard against the window until it shut back onto its frame, and finally locked it again.
She panted as she closed her eyes and pressed her back to it, sliding down to the floor below in a heap. As she did, she noticed that the carpet beneath her was cold—as cold as if it had been frozen solid. She patted it with her hands in a fright, and then opened her eyes, staring at the wall opposite with paled features.
A trail of ice led from her seat below the window to that wall, covering it almost entirely in strange fractal patterns. She nearly slipped as she ran to it, placing her hands against them.
… and he was so upset from being lonely and scared all the time that his fire spread and burnt down everything else.
The girl gasped at the sight of her still-gloved hands on the wall, and she shut her eyes tightly, banging her fists against it until she screamed.
Her cries summoned her parents to her room, and she turned to them when they entered, her hands tucked into her chest. I'm scared, she said, sniffling. Moonlight bathed her figure, casting a long shadow on the frozen wall behind her. It's getting stronger.
Her father's gaze was tender, but pained. Getting upset only makes it worse, he said, moving to hug her.
No, she snapped, backing away from him. Don't touch me. I don't want to hurt you.
He stepped back and exchanged a mournful look with the girl's mother. His head fell to his chest. I understand, Elsa. But… he paused, taking a moment to kneel down to her level. Please don't push us away. We just want to keep you safe.
The girl's lip trembled at her father's words, tears pricking at her eyes, but she blinked them back. She bowed her head to her parents, saying nothing, and did not move again until her parents had agreed to leave.
Once they were gone, she went to the fireplace, intending to imitate her father by stoking the flames—but the fire had long since been extinguished, the remnants of the wind's chill hanging in the air.
Many years passed in this fashion, one after the other, until the girl forgot what life was like outside of the castle walls, or even outside the walls of her own bedroom.
Although she knew the gloves could not contain her magic, she continued to wear them. The original ending of the story of the boy who could make fire haunted her, and she feared what might happen if she discarded the gloves for good. At times, she could even will herself into believing that they had special powers again, and for a while this belief was enough to keep her magic at bay.
Nevertheless, she remained adamant in her refusal of her parents' embraces, as well as the touch of anyone else. She insisted on building her own fires in her bedroom, and on bathing and clothing herself, limiting contact with the servants as much as possible. Her previous willingness to take the occasional meal or lesson with her sister likewise withered away, and she returned to her practice of self-isolation, making exceptions only for her parents when they would call for her.
On one such visit during an early afternoon of her eighteenth year, sunlight streamed into the room from the window as they entered. She curtsied, her lips pursing with concern as she lifted her gaze to meet theirs.
Do you have to go? she asked. Her gloved hands knitted together in front of her.
Her father sighed. You'll be fine, Elsa, he said, and put on a half-smile to reassure her. We'll only be gone for two weeks. And you can write to us while we're away. He glanced at the ink stains on her white gloves for emphasis, and she looked down, blushing. We'll look forward to reading your letters.
Yes, her mother echoed. You must write to us every day.
The girl – now a young woman – bowed her head, and smiled in spite of her trepidation. I will, she promised.
Her mother smiled, and then glanced at her father's pocket watch. Oh, dear—we really must be going, she murmured, touching his shoulder.
I'll be with you in a moment, my love, he replied, and she nodded as she left the room, blowing a small kiss to her daughter before she left. The young woman curtsied in response.
Her father waited until the door had shut, and then turned to her with a more serious look. Don't be afraid, Elsa, he said. We are counting on you to be strong while we're away—for yourself, and for Anna.
The mention of her sister made the young woman redden, and she looked down, her voice shaking as she spoke. It's hard, Papa, she whispered, but I'll try.
He smiled sadly at her, and began the refrain. Remember, dearest: conceal.
Her nose and forehead wrinkled, and she swallowed a grimace. Don't feel, she continued.
Don't let it show, they said together.
And with that, he pressed a kiss to his fingers, and then to the air, sending it to her; the young woman plastered on a smile, catching the kiss in her hand and bowing her head to her father as he left the room.
She sat by her window for the rest of the afternoon, watching anxiously as her parents embraced her sister on the path to the gates, and then as they were escorted through the gates by the guards, walked to the docks, and boarded the ship with their luggage. They waved to her sister from afar, and then at her own window as the gangplank was drawn back onboard, the ship ready to set sail.
She imagined herself bounding up to them as she had to the young prince when he left for his homeland, grabbing them and holding them tightly to her, refusing to let them leave.
She knew, though, that that could never come to pass—not with the way her hands balled up into fists until she could feel the snowflakes falling onto her nose before she saw them flurrying around the room. There was hate and resentment in her eyes as she regarded those hands, and she curled herself into a ball, burying her face in her knees, not wanting to watch their ship pass out of sight into distant waters.
He escaped, and went north, and became a King of another land. He never hurt anyone ever again.
She shook her head in her lap at the memory, and the snow fell faster around her.
It was through that same window that the young woman stood in solemn silence and watched some of the funeral procession for her parents a few months later, their ship – and lives – lost at sea during a storm.
Her younger sister had pleaded with her to come to the funeral and to say something to publicly honor the memory of their mother and father. She had refused, telling her you wouldn't understand, and staying in her room even as the younger woman trudged back down the hallway, sobbing.
Unable to see the full service from her room, she imagined that her sister had stood closest to the gravestones in the castle cemetery in her black mourning dress, a veil cast over her face, surrounded by their servants. The latter had probably been crying into their handkerchiefs as the priest had given last rites above the graves, gray skies casting a pall over the mourners. She supposed that as soon as the priest's speech had ended, rain had started to fall on the crowd, who all at once would have opened their black parasols and moved back towards the castle in a slow river of darkness.
She knew the ceremony was over when her sister returned to her door, knocking lightly.
Elsa? Please, I know you're in there, she said quietly. People are asking where you've been, and… Her voice cracked as she continued: They say have courage, and I'm trying to, I'm right out here for you, so let me—
Sniffles interrupted her speech. We only have each other, she said at length, and a sob escaped her throat. Just you and me. What are we gonna do?
The older sister listened with a grieved, pallid expression as the younger cried, unable to do so herself. Eventually, she heard her slide down the door, and then the soft thump of a head against its surface. On the other side of it, she herself knelt down until she was also sitting, her knees clasped to her chest, and exhaled.
Conceal. Don't feel. Don't let it show, she whispered to herself over and over again until her throat was too dry to go on.
Around her, the room was encased in ice, with snowflakes suspended in mid-air.
The death of her parents threw the young woman's routine into chaos, upsetting the life she had come to know and grudgingly accept over ten long, arduous years.
With her regular lessons ended, she was expected to take over the duties of her deceased father—but only in part, as she could not be coronated until her coming of age. These duties consisted mainly of signing stacks and stacks of regulations and reviews and pardons and sentences, with new papers seeming to appear out of thin air just when she had finished a load of others.
She recognized that the work adhered to her parents' wishes of keeping her confined, and limiting her contact with those who were not aware of her magic. At the same time, she came to realize that these duties also kept her from attending meetings of her father's council, where the decisions which were written on the papers she was asked to sign were made.
It seemed a shame, she thought, not to read what she was signing; and so, over time, she began to send more and more papers back to the council with written remarks and suggestions for revisions, or dismissing other requests outright as wasteful or poorly thought out. The work kept her mind and hands busy, and she thought little of the painful things that had so often preoccupied her in the past.
Her primary contact with the council was through a trusted servant cum adviser, the steward of the castle: an older man, Kai, who had served since her grandfather's reign. As he had known her for so many years, she relied on him as a mediator and mentor, confiding in him to an exceptional degree on official matters. In addition to delivering new papers to her room to sign, he was responsible for relaying to her the council's pleasure – as well as displeasure – with her actions, and was tactful in delivering good and bad news alike.
During one of his regular morning deliveries, he paused after setting the newest stack of papers down, standing before her desk with a look of concern. Your Highness, he said, drawing the young woman's attention away from the table.
Seeing his expression, she placed her pen down, her brow furrowing. Yes, Kai? Is something wrong?
He nodded. Do you remember a Prince Hans of the Southern Isles?
A lump formed in her throat. Yes, she replied, her palms growing colder. He visited here with his family when he was a boy.
Just the same, the steward confirmed. I'm afraid we've received some bad news. There was a fire in the palace several nights ago, while some members of the royal family were still asleep inside.
She shot up from her chair. Was he—
No, the steward interrupted. Thankfully, it appears that the prince wasn't there at the time, and was unharmed.
She exhaled as if for the first time that day, gripping the edge of her desk for support as she sat down. After taking a moment to recover, she turned back to him, her lips set in a grim line. But some members of his family were, she remarked, and the steward nodded.
His father, King Oskar, and three of his brothers, he said, sighing. It is truly an awful thing, Your Highness, especially since it's hardly been a year since our own King and Queen…
He did not need to go further for the young woman to know where his sentence ended, and she looked wearily down at her hands, and then at the papers.
I know, Kai, she said.
… and his fire spread and burnt down everything else.
The memory jolted her upright, and she turned back to her desk, her face red. I should be getting on with my work, she explained, gripping the pen. And I don't want to keep you from yours.
Of course, Your Highness, the steward said, bowing, though he studied her pinked cheeks for a moment longer than usual. But do call for me if you need me. I'll be close by.
The young woman glanced up at him to give a small and final parting nod, and then breathed once she was alone again, leaning back in the chair. She stared up at the painted ceiling of her bedroom as a light dusting of snow fell around her, unable to tear her eyes away from it.
The final words from the boy's story lingered on in the silence.
In the months and years after the first fire, others followed, claiming more and more of the Southern Isles' royal family along with them.
She was informed of each by the steward, and with each new report, his tone became less somber and more suspicious. She found the reports just as suspect, though she still urged the council to send supplies and goods to their woe-befallen neighbors in the south. She also sent letters of solidarity and condolences to the family which were, at first, dutifully received and acknowledged, and later went unanswered.
A part of her wished that she would have received anything from the boy, now a young man; but all the letters appeared to have been written by palace scribes, and signed by a member of the king's council, rather than anyone from the royal family.
Her councilmembers' concerns grew with each successive report, as well: where once they had written off the fires as resulting from poor infrastructure or other factors of insufficient leadership, they increasingly began to wonder aloud as to whether or not the tragedies were caused by accident… or by purposeful, malignant design.
None of the reports, however, indicated that the fires had resulted from foul play: in each instance, evidence had turned up which refuted the possibility of arson by domestic or foreign enemies. From old torches tipping over into hay bales in the royal stable, to servants slipping in a dining hall with a candelabra, there appeared to be an explanation for everything that was just credible enough to end official inquiries.
Eventually, the only survivors left were the young prince she remembered, and less than a handful of his brothers, all of whom were either hermits, invalids, or otherwise unfit to lead. In a state of disarray, the Royal Council of the Southern Isles had recruited the elder brother of the dead king, who was himself close to death – and perhaps senile – to take over the duties of the monarch. Even in dire straits, it seemed, they would not trust the kingdom to the youngest prince, and they offered no public clarification for their decision.
The young woman puzzled for hours over each piece of news in her room, doing her own reading and research, and wondering at the peculiar series of events. The total silence from the boy – no, young man, she would remind herself – that she had once known worried her, and his childhood story continued to play on her mind.
The details of it, however – details that she used to have memorized so well that she could recite every line of it by heart – were fuzzier to her in young adulthood. All that she could remember was the ending: both the original, morbid one, as well as the one the boy had told her before he departed, which was considerably more agreeable.
Sometimes, she swore she could recall that the boy in the story had many brothers, and that he was mistreated in some way by them—but then she questioned if that was the tale, or if that was the reports from the Isles, their details mixing together in her mind.
While the fires did eventually cease, the stories and theories surrounding them continued right up until a few months before the young woman's twenty-first birthday, amidst preparations for her coronation.
Finding her bedroom too confining for all that she had to accomplish before the ceremony, she gradually reacclimated herself to other – albeit still private – areas of the castle where she could prepare. From time to time, she would run into her sister in the halls when migrating from one place to the next, and they would awkwardly greet each other with hello's and polite conversation. These exchanges never lasted longer than a few minutes, as she found the deep longing in her younger sister's eyes difficult to bear.
One of her rediscovered haunts was the library, where she took to completing all official business. On an afternoon two weeks before the coronation, she nervously paced in the room, her gloved hands fidgeting with a letter her steward had delivered to her a few hours earlier. It had been the only letter he had brought to her that morning – an unusual occurrence – and she had recognized the seal of the Westergaard Royal Family upon it immediately.
The sight of the seal unnerved and distressed her as much – if not more – than the daily lectures she had received from her tutors on proper attire and conduct for the ceremony. A familiar dread filled her senses at the thought of what new horrors it might report to her, but upon seeing a trail of ice on the ground following her steps, she finally stopped pacing.
After exhaling, she stared at the coronation portrait of her father which hung on the wall opposite from her.
We are counting on you to be strong, the young woman heard her father say to her.
She swallowed, her chin rising to meet his faraway gaze. "I'll try, Papa," she replied to the air, and with a deep breath, she finally broke the seal on the letter, opening it with steady hands.
A soft gasp escaped her lips as she read its contents.
Dear Elsa—
I hope you will forgive the belated nature of this correspondence. I read and received all of your previous letters of condolence and support to my family over the last few years, and they have brought me, my brothers, and my brothers' families much comfort in these dark times.
The losses have been too great and too terrible to describe here, though I know from your own experience that you can appreciate what we have endured. I have been remiss to a degree that is inexcusable in not having reached out to you and Anna during your most desperate hour and after, and for this, you both have my deepest regrets and apologies. By contrast, you have been so gracious to my homeland, and I am eternally grateful and in your service for your good deeds, which far exceed anything that I could provide in return.
This being said, I have wanted for a long time to try and make things up to you and Anna, and I wanted to let you know first that it is my intent to travel to Arendelle to attend your coronation in one month's time. With the rest of my family and the councilmembers preoccupied with settling affairs of state in the Isles, I will serve as my country's sole representative. I hope this arrangement is agreeable to you both, as well as to your council.
Again, I apologize for the lateness and suddenness of this letter, and for any surprise or displeasure it might cause you in reading it. I look forward to being reunited with you and your sister under better auspices, and to see you crowned as the rightful queen of Arendelle.
Yours sincerely,
Hans
She scanned over the lines once, twice, three times—and then noticed a small crease at the very bottom of the paper, which she carefully unfolded to reveal a final note.
P.S. I promise not to be such a sullen brat this time around.