Author's Note: The longest chapter to date, as I had to accomplish with Hans's backstory in one installment what I did with Elsa's in several. It is an intentional choice on my part not to refer to characters, for the most part, by their first names; in part, to give the overall story a more fairy tale-like atmosphere, but also to demonstrate the anonymity Hans assigns to his own brothers and father, as their cruelty is so all-encompassing as to be indiscriminate. As we Frozen fans often glibly ask of Hans, "who hurt you?" Well, here's my take on the answer to that question.
IX.
The boy was five years old when the king presented him with his first pair of gloves.
They were white and soft, made of the finest kid skin, and he stared at them in bemusement.
Are these for me?
Yes, the man said. You're to wear them on your hands at all times, from now on.
He looked up at the king with a frown. All the time? Why?
The older man's gaze narrowed. You know why. Now put them on.
The boy crossed his arms, the gloves tucked against his biceps. No. I don't want to.
The king pulled his arms out until they were straight in front of him, seized the gloves from his grasp, and in two swift movements he forced one, and then the other, onto his small hands.
The boy wriggled under the older man's grasp, flames shooting up and licking against the gloves and at the king's skin.
The man let go of him with a grunt, pulling his hands towards his sides, and watched as the boy's gloves slowly disintegrated within the fire that enveloped them.
Insolent child, he rumbled. I will have another pair made, and you will wear them.
I won't, the boy exclaimed, shaking off the ash from his fingers. You can't make me!
The king scowled and snapped the back of his hand across the boy's face hard enough to make him lose balance and fall to the cold stone floor below.
The boy glared up at him with watering eyes, pressing one hand to the injured cheek and raising the other towards the king.
The older man grabbed the outstretched hand, his expression dark and hard even as the boy's fire encompassed his grasp.
You will never raise this hand to me again. Do you understand?
The boy's lower lip trembled as his fire sputtered out, smoke rising from the burnt edges of the king's gloves, saying nothing.
The king released his wrist, putting out the remaining embers. Good. Now get up, and go back to your lessons.
The boy rose with effort, his arms straight by his sides, and bowed.
Yes, Father.
The boy received another pair of gloves a week later, but did not raise a fuss when instructed to put them on, feeling his father's eyes boring into his small, shrinking figure.
He wore them dutifully every day after that, though they often made his hands sweat and slick from over-long use. He dared not allow the king to see him without them, for the risk of injury and humiliation was too great, hanging over him like a thundercloud.
His brothers, seeing the king's animosity towards their youngest brother from an early, copied it in the hopes of winning their regent's favor. After several entreaties to his father to make them stop were met with little more than a retort of sort it out with them yourself, the boy stopped asking, and retreated to the refuge of his bedroom.
There, he took to experimenting with his magic in-between lessons and meals, training his flames with his bare hands into the shapes of fantastical beasts and far-off places that he had read about in his picture books.
Eventually, however, many of his brothers intruded on this space, each with a new taunt or trick to play on the "Unlucky Thirteenth" prince. Whether it was placing a snake in his bed, horse manure in his boots, or dusting the insides of his gloves with chili powder, they performed each stunt with wicked glee.
Hardly sleeping through the night and instinctively checking every inch of his room each morning to try and discover whatever fresh horrors they might have planted for him, the boy's erstwhile hobby of fire sculpting fell to the wayside. In his newfound vigilance, he wore his gloves so often, and for so long, that their fine and durable needlework began to fray.
Even as he grew more adept at neutralizing their threats, so did his brothers' attempts grow in outlandish cruelty—and it was during one such attempt that his burgeoning ability to control his magic faltered.
Just after his seventh birthday, the boy returned to his room after supper to find a scarecrow stolen from the kitchen gardens laid out upon his bed, its straw stuffing strewn all over and tucked inside of his sheets.
Buried in its torn shirt were several daggers, and across its nondescript, yellow face was written "HANS" in animal's blood, a fact he discerned from the heavy smell of iron which permeated the air.
In his terror, the boy dragged the scarecrow to the bedroom of his oldest brother by its neck, fighting back sobs. The oldest prince was one of his only brothers who never seemed to be involved in the others' schemes, preferring to stay by the king's side and focus on preparing for his eventual role as future monarch.
When the boy banged on his door, the prince answered with a scowl.
What do you want? I'm in the middle of my studies.
The effigy fell from the boy's hand as he dragged it into the room. I think Magnus or Alfred did this, he said through sniffles, clenching his fists at his sides. I just want it to stop, Frederik.
The prince bent over the scarecrow and plucked a dagger from its body, eyeing it with interest, and then looked back at the boy as he slid it into his belt.
Are you really crying, Hans? Over a prank?
The boy shook his head, and his tears fell more freely. But they painted my name on its face with blood, and—
So what?
The boy was struck dumb by the cold indifference in his brother's reply, his mouth agape.
The prince's scowl deepened. You'll never become a man if you snivel and cower at every injury you suffer.
The boy's jaw tightened, flames licking at his fingertips and burning up the gloves on his hands. This isn't fair, he hissed through his tears, and in the next moment threw a ball of fire at the scarecrow.
His brother fell back against the door with a shocked exclamation, a mixture of fear and disgust swirling in his eyes as he watched the straw man burn. Sweat poured down his face as he turned his stare back on the boy, his mouth twisting.
What are you, devil!
The shout was loud enough to attract attention from a servant outside, who knocked on the door.
Is everything all right, Your Highness—
Get my father, quickly!
The boy's face paled at the mention of the king, and the flames in his hand were extinguished as quickly as they had come. His effigy continued to burn on the floor.
The smoke produced by the fire caused the oldest prince to cough and flee the room, leaving the boy alone to stare helplessly at his handiwork as the fire swelled, erasing his name on the face of the scarecrow and eating into the antique Persian rug below it.
By the time his father arrived with several servants in tow, each with scarves tied around their faces and bearing two buckets of water, the fire had consumed over a third of the rug and had begun to crawl up a bedpost. With their intervention, they were able to save the bed from being turned to cinders, and the boy was rushed out by a guard into a private meeting room adjoining the east wing of the library, far from the site of the bedlam.
He waited for what seemed a year in the small room, lit by a single candelabra the guard had left for him, before his father reappeared.
The king wore a thunderous glower. I've spent the last hour lying for you, to make sure everything looked like an accident, he began as soon as the doors were closed behind him, staring down his long nose at the boy's recoiling figure. Unfortunately, however, Frederik saw what you did, and now he knows what you are. And so do Antoni and Harald.
The boy's skin turned pallid at the mention of his two other oldest brothers. How do they know? I didn't show them it.
I told them, the king replied. I can't trust Frederik alone to bear the knowledge of this. Between the three of them, there is a better chance it will be properly contained.
The boy quivered. But—but they'll tell the others—
They won't, the king interrupted, crossing his arms. They've sworn an oath of secrecy to me, for which they will forfeit their lives if they dare break it. No word of this curse can ever be spoken.
The older man's eyes tightened.
Tell me the reason why, boy.
The boy swallowed the lump in his throat. The curse will lead to the ruin of our family, he recited, and to the ruin of the Southern Isles. It must be kept secret.
Yes, the king affirmed, and suddenly seized the right arm of the boy, grasping it as he rolled up the sleeve of the white shirt. And you would do well to remember that.
He withdrew a dagger from his belt a moment later – a dagger, the boy realized, not unlike the ones stuck into the scarecrow – and sliced a long, precise cut into the boy's skin from his elbow down the length of his forearm, drawing blood.
The boy shrieked and tried to jerk his arm away, his skin and the air around him growing hotter, but his father held him in place.
Every time you disobey me, I will mark your skin so that you will never forget it.
He wiped the blade on his pant leg before sliding it back into its leather scabbard, ignoring the pained whimpers of the boy as he released him.
The king glanced at the boy's bare hands, still dusted with ash, and glared at him. The next time I have gloves fashioned for you, they will be the last pair you'll have until you're grown. Do you understand?
The boy clutched his arm to his chest, where the blood stained his shirt red.
He bowed his head. Yes, Father.
The king uncrossed his arms. Good. Now go back to your room. The others will become suspicious if you're gone for too long.
The boy's lower lip curled and trembled. But my arm—
A servant will come and take care of it later, he snapped. Now go, before I lose my patience.
The boy kept his eyes trained on the floor, and bowed.
Yes, Father.
In the aftermath of the fire, the king grew stricter with the princes, their schedules consisting only of schoolwork and daily exercise.
They were watched closely by their tutors, with corporal punishment for misbehavior enforced regularly enough that the brothers, one by one, came completely under the heel of their father.
The younger and middle princes, unused to such harsh penalties, blamed their youngest brother for these new measures. Though their father had been clear and adamant in his insistence that the fire was the fault of a clumsy servant – the same that had alerted the king to its existence – and the servant had been whipped for his mistake, the sharp and dark looks which the oldest three princes cast at the youngest alerted the others that all was not as it seemed.
A few of them also spotted the bandages under the boy's shirtsleeve, and noticed his difficulty in keeping up with them in their fencing matches or other sports. This confirmed their suspicions that he had done something worthy of punishment.
Nevertheless, the heightened scrutiny of the princes' behavior made it harder for them to do much more than jeer at the boy, or slip notes under his door and into his pockets wherein vulgar obscenities were written that disparaged his appearance and character.
Even with this relative quiet, freed from the more terrifying provocations that had plagued his formative years, the boy's existence grew gray and dull—for of all his brothers, he knew that his father kept the closest eye on him, and was waiting for the boy to slip up again.
The king assigned an especially strict and cold nursemaid to watch over the boy, and she paid little mind to his grunts and whines when she would dress him, pulling his sleeve roughly over his wounded arm, or when he would cry out when given baths in ice-cold water.
Understanding that his pleas would lead nowhere, and seeing that they had equally little impact on the old woman, the boy withdrew into himself. He spoke only when spoken to, read voraciously, and the vicious remarks of his brothers became no more than passing whispers on the wind.
It was unexpected, then, when the king announced that the boy and his brothers would accompany him on a diplomatic visit to Arendelle, their neighbor to the north.
For many of the younger princes, including the boy, it would be their first voyage outside of the kingdom, and so they spoke about the opportunity with excitement; the older ones, meanwhile, greeted the news with apathy, knowing from experience how little time they would have to themselves outside of official meetings and events.
The boy, dreading the prospect of being quarantined with his brothers onboard a ship, steeled himself for months in advance. He paid close attention during lessons to the history of Arendelle, and memorized the names of everyone in the royal family going back several generations. Expecting that he might be isolated and kept apart from his brothers and Arendelle's royalty so that he would not cause an incident, he prepared a small pile of books to take with him so that he might still have some semblance of his regular life.
They departed on his eighth birthday for the northern kingdom, with several servants accompanying them (including the old nursemaid, much to the boy's displeasure), and the quarters were close enough that the other princes could not do much more than play the occasional prank on the boy without a tutor or servant spotting their misdeeds and reporting them to the king.
Aside from a dramatic bout of seasickness which plagued the younger princes during their first day on the ocean, the voyage was quieter than the boy anticipated. Once he had adjusted to the swaying of the ship, he found a measure of peace resting outside in the cool breeze, salty air, and warm sun, and was disappointed to leave it when they arrived after only a few short days at their destination.
Upon landing, he was kept apart from his brothers, and his nursemaid assigned to monitor his every move. For all the renown of the fjords, lakes, and mountains of Arendelle, he saw only dusty outlines of them from his bedroom window.
After a few days of being mostly confined to his quarters, he found himself wishing that they had never made the journey at all.
Midway through the first week of their visit, he was, without warning, shunted off to entertain the young daughters of the King and Queen of Arendelle. The girls' wide-eyed looks and endless questions irritated the boy, unused to the attention or expectation to converse, and he refused their invitations to play as he read his books or pretended to sleep.
It was not until the end of that week that the boy discovered the great secret of the older princess by accident, witnessing as she conjured snow and ice from her fingertips, molding the elements into the shapes of animals and castles and snowmen.
At first, this amazed him, and he watched the spectacle in disbelief. This astonishment, however, quickly turned into envy, as he saw the girl's freedom and joy as she played with her sister—and then to anger as he fled the room at the thought that he was unable to do the same.
The reappearance of the older princess that evening, along with her tearful pleas for the boy to keep her magic a secret, caught him by surprise. Recognizing the same fear in her that he held in his own heart, he acquiesced to her request, and stared at his door long after she had left.
In the days that followed, he became kinder to the princesses, and even joined in some of their games. It was a bond unlike anything he had known before, and though he still deemed some of their conversations and activities too juvenile to engage in (he drew the line at playing dress-up), their time together allowed him to relax and speak more than he had with anyone else in years.
His relaxedness in their company even led him to tell a tale of a boy who could make fire, modeling the story after his own life insofar as he could without revealing his secret.
But in the telling and subsequent pressing by the princesses for further details, he became reticent and cold, sensing that he had said too much. For all the comfort he knew it would bring to the older girl to know that he understood her troubles, the trained eyes and ears of his nursemaid and the scar on his arm kept him silent.
By the time he and his family were scheduled to depart for home, the boy's heart was heavy with regret. He had kept himself apart from the young princesses in the days prior to his voyage, though his refusals to see them had resulted in several icy baths and hard slaps to his face. He expected that they would never want to see him again with how he had behaved, and after being told as much by his nursemaid.
Just as before, however, the older princess shocked him in her parting request and gesture, leaving him with a delicate ice sculpture of his own. When the object melted in his hands before he could admire its craftsmanship, he cried, feeling its loss more keenly than any other hurt he had weathered in recent memory.
Upon their return to the Isles, the boy's brothers – finally free from the constraints of propriety expected of them as guests in a neighboring kingdom – once again made him the target of their antics and schemes, finding ways of getting around the tutors to plant nails on his mattress or needles in his hairbrush.
The maltreatment, while nothing new to the boy, startled him after going so long without it. He tolerated it without complaint for the first month following their return, but as their tricks escalated, he found it harder to control his instinctive reactions to them.
Burning small holes in his gloves with increasing frequency, he spent many sleepless nights learning to patch them up with sewing books he had discreetly borrowed from the library. His handiwork was rough, but decent enough to go unnoticed.
The nights spent in this fashion allowed him time to think on his visit to Arendelle, and to recall in vivid detail the way he felt when he saw the older princess's ice magic—as well as her pleading to know more about his own, by way of the boy in the story he had told her.
The innocent curiosity and genuine sympathy she expressed for this character and his plight touched him long after they had parted ways, and he began to wonder why he was not allowed to feel the same way about himself as she did.
One evening, after falling victim to a particularly inventive prank involving his favorite dessert (in which his brothers had paid off kitchen staff to serve him eclairs filled with grasshoppers instead of cream), he had burnt his gloves badly enough that he stayed up well past his usual bedtime to repair them.
He worked by the light of one candle on the floor, his eyes straining against the growing darkness to perform the careful stitching required for the operation. He could not risk lighting more than one, should a servant passing by his room see any light under the door and report it to his father; but as the hours passed, it became more and more difficult to focus on his task, and his eyes drooped as the flame died.
The boy was awakened the next morning by a rough shake by his nursemaid, and then a hard slap on his shoulder as the king hoisted him up off the floor to stand, dismissing the older woman from the room.
The king shook the boy's patchwork gloves in his face. Did you think no one would notice, boy? he asked, and threw them onto the floor. To think you would sink so low as to perform a woman's work.
The boy recoiled. I just thought—
What? That you could avoid punishment? the king interrupted, and scoffed. He grabbed the boy's chin and pulled it upward, examining the large bags under his eyes, and let go of him just as suddenly.
You know the penalty for using those accursed powers of yours. Take off your shirt.
The boy's lip trembled as he stood in place, remembering the girl with blue eyes and snow-kissed skin.
But I'm not the only one—
He stopped mid-sentence as the desperate, crying figure of the princess appeared as clear as daylight to him in the room.
You have to keep it a secret, she seemed to whisper to him again.
The king watched his son object with a half-formed thought, and then pause as if frozen in place, with a frown. Get on with it, boy, he growled, jolting the boy from his reverie.
The youngest prince bowed his head, and began to unbutton his shirt. When it was halfway open, the king turned him around and pulled it down until it hung loosely around his biceps, exposing his entire upper back.
Expecting the cut to be sudden and precise like the last one, his shoulders raised in anticipation, the blades tense and shaking. Instead, nothing happened for a time, and only the sound of the boy's sharp, terrified breaths were audible in the otherwise silent room.
I wanted you dead from the moment you were born, the king said at length, his voice low and menacing. For killing my Therese, my evening star. When I learned of your curse, I wished for it even more.
He paused to unsheathe his dagger from his belt. Were it not for the love she bore you, I swear I would have done it.
He pressed the point of the dagger into the bottom of the boy's left shoulder blade. And for my weakness, you yet live, and cause our family great shame. And this you must remember, as I must remember it, and bear this curse as punishment for our sins.
The cut was longer and deeper and slower than the first, running from that shoulder blade down to the small of his back, the king yanking down the shirt as he went.
The boy bit back his cries of pain all the while, swallowing his sobs, waiting until he heard the dagger slide back into its sheath before he dared to pull his shirt back up over his back. Fresh blood seeped through the cloth.
His mouth was dry, but he turned to face the king, repeating the words he knew the man wanted to hear before he would finally leave the room.
The curse will lead to the ruin of our family, he said, bowing, and to the ruin of the Southern Isles. It must be kept secret.
The older man stepped back a few paces, and grunted. Leave the gloves to the servants to repair, he replied. If I catch you doing it again, I trust you understand the consequences.
The boy's head remained bowed.
Yes, Father.
The king stayed a moment longer, and the boy kept his back bent and stiff, though the gesture caused him great pain. When the older man left, the nursemaid was sent back in to wash and dress the boy's wound, which pulsed and ached under the woman's callous ministrations.
As he struggled to stay conscious, the loss of blood draining him of his remaining strength, the visage of the princess reappeared to him at the other end of the room.
Her face was wan and melancholy.
Please, she said, her voice a distant echo. Please don't tell anyone.
His eyes drifted shut, and he nodded.
I won't, Elsa.
The memory of the snow princess remained fresh in the boy's mind as the months and years drew on, the cut across his back fading to a pink line.
Though he continued to suffer injuries of a similar scale at the hands of his brothers (including an especially brutal attack that left an long, dark scar across his chest), he once again became inured to their monstrous whims, turning ever more resolutely to his private studies.
These consisted of long nights spent reading books on mythology, legends, and fairy tales that he had managed to sneak out of the library at odd times of day, examining them for clues or insights into his condition. Having recorded in his spare time the routes taken by the guards on their regular rounds, and knowing the exact times when the nursemaid would check in on him, he taught himself how to navigate the palace without being seen.
In spite of the king's declaration during their last confrontation, and the general threat of being found out at any moment by his older brothers, the boy now knew that another child existed with powers like his—another child whose parents and sister were all alive and well and happy, and therefore did not seem to be "cursed" with her magic as punishment for past crimes committed.
With such knowledge, he felt his fear about the possible consequences of his actions dissipate, and he delved deeper and deeper into the far recesses of the library's archives, finding older texts with references to shamanistic rituals and practices long since forgotten. Others were written in ancient runes whose meanings he could not discern, and dared not ask his tutors to decipher for him.
The texts hinted at the source of his powers, and, presumably, the girl's: that they were elemental, of nature, and exceedingly rare. Though some tales and myths presupposed that they were the result of a witch's curse, or borne of the sins of the child's parents, others theorized that they were gifts from God, or passed down from ancient civilizations of trolls, elves, and wights who had intermarried with humans.
Even without a definitive judgement from the books, the boy grew emboldened by their notions and by their colorful, if faded, illustrations of this elemental magic. He tried to replicate the shapes and designs he saw in them with his own powers, and after many haphazard attempts resulting in some of his furniture, carpeting, and drapes being singed, he gradually developed an impressive degree of control over his abilities.
In the company of others, the boy showed an equal level of control over his temperament, asking for nothing and never complaining about the injuries he suffered at his brothers' hands. Without any fight from him, they began to lose interest in their persecutions, and moved on to other, more mature fancies, such as playing cards and pursuing young ladies at court.
(In the latter activity, however, they continued to actively discourage potential partners of the opposite sex who might otherwise take a shine to him, whispering that the "Unlucky Thirteenth" would surely make a poor husband, and an even worse lover.)
By the time the youngest prince turned fourteen, even the king had come to begrudgingly acknowledge his son's careful and studious behavior, rewarding him with a tan foal for his birthday.
It was not a unique or grand gift, as all of the princes had been given horses long before then, and at a much greater price to the king than the one accorded to his youngest son. Even knowing this, the boy recognized it as the first thing that he could truly call his own outside of clothes and books, and he raised the foal by hand, naming it "Sitron" after the sole lemon tree in the kitchen garden which had survived the harsh winter.
Ignoring the jeers and slurs thrown at him by his brothers, he visited the creature daily, combing down its mane, training it for riding, and checking its food and water to ensure that it was free of pests and parasites.
He whispered to the horse as if to an old friend, confessing to it his troubles, hopes, and dreams. In imagining that the creature could understand him and shared his burden, he found that the harassment of his brothers affected him less than before, and he directed most of his spare energy and time to looking after his newfound charge.
The king lectured the boy on smelling of manure, but otherwise allowed him to care for the creature in the manner he wished, pronouncing it a better use of his time than burning gloves and carpets.
The boy, in turn, grew less interested in his former studies of shamans and strange cultures, and no longer saw visions of the snow princess from his childhood. With little room in his schedule between his regular coursework, riding lessons, and chores in the stables, he hardly practiced his magic.
Nonetheless, he continued to wear his gloves out of habit, sometimes forgetting that they were not a part of his skin.
As he grew into a young man, his thoughts increasingly turned to what careers the king might allow him to have, given his specific circumstances.
The memory of the open sea on the voyage to Arendelle, and of the liberation he felt out upon it, thus directed his efforts towards following in the footsteps of his royal predecessors by entering naval service.
Knowing that the king would be skeptical or even averse to the idea, the young man became warier than ever in keeping his public appearance respectable and controlled. No untoward word left his lips, nor did he utter a single sentence that was not deliberately weighed and chosen for maximum personal advantage.
When, by his seventeenth birthday, his father had not yet approached him about his future, the prince took the liberty of requesting a private audience with him.
The king, having become less severe with age, still cut an imposing figure in person. He eyed the young man with suspicion, but also undisguised interest, as he waved for him to approach the throne.
Yes, boy? What is it?
The young man bowed. I'd like to follow in my brothers' footsteps, and yours, Father, he said. If you would have me, I would be honored to serve in your Navy.
And leave your beloved pet here, to be tended by the stable boys? the king mocked, chuckling. When his jab did not produce a reaction, his smirk dropped, and he sighed. I suppose you've comported yourself decently enough these last few years, though there is still the matter of your curse to consider.
The old man paused. However, it would look strange for a Prince of the Southern Isles to forego naval service, and I have no appetite for coming up with excuses for why you should miss yours.
The young man, expecting the king to arrive at this conclusion, could not help but smile a little when he did.
The king frowned. Do not look so pleased—I have not agreed to anything. But I will think on it.
The young man bowed again. Thank you, Father. I am grateful for your consideration.
The king grumbled something incomprehensible in reply, and waved for him to leave.
The young man complied and returned to the stables, greeting his grown horse with a triumphant smile.
It's happening, Sitron, he whispered, resting his forehead against his friend's. Soon.
His orders to begin his naval education were delivered to him by the king's page two weeks later, the ink still fresh on the page. It noted that should the prince pass the rigorous entrance examination, he would then gain admission to the academy, and upon graduation given his official commission.
It was a process he knew well from watching his older brothers go through it, and had prepared for in advance. He elected to undergo the examination only a month later, and though he had hoped to take it amongst his peers, the king forbade it, insisting that he be alone and monitored by a single tutor.
To his family's surprise, the young man passed the test with flying colors, and was promptly admitted to the academy. The dean noted him for being at the top of the entering class, and even the king was forced to acknowledge this accomplishment during the welcoming ceremony.
He continued to excel in his initial two months of basic training, earning the hard-won respect of his peers as they learned everything from drills and loading firearms, to studying navigation and maritime law. It was the first time the young man could recall being in a group to whom he felt he could truly belong, and he dedicated his every effort to integrating himself with them while remaining a stellar student.
Slowly, however, his peers began to withdraw from him, and even mocked him from a distance. Eventually, they did so openly, undermining him through tactics such as sabotaging his weapons so that they would not fire during drills, or sending notes to the instructors signed with his name, causing him to endure additional, harsh exercise on top of their regular routines.
It was not difficult for the young man to guess at the source of the change. Two of his brothers and most active childhood tormentors, Alfred and Magnus, were upperclassmen in the academy and had disliked his entrance from the start. This disapproval was matched only by the eleventh and twelfth princes' envy of his spectacular exam score and quick ascent to popularity within the freshman class.
The sixth prince, Stefan, served as a "special advisor" to the academy's leadership, a role which amounted to little more than having the power to "strongly" recommend the sons of his political friends and benefactors for admission. He happened to be quite close to Alfred and Magnus, and had worked the levers of power on many occasions to grant them special privileges unavailable even to other cadets of high renown. Like his brothers, he had never been shy in demonstrating his antipathy towards the youngest prince, though he could not go against the king in denying him admission.
The young man's suppositions were verified by one or two sympathetic classmates, who told him in confidence of the slurs and rumors they had heard about him from his older brothers.
These included stories ranging from the absurd – such as the one in which the youngest prince was actually born with mental deficiencies, and so had cheated his way to the top of the entrance exams with his tutors' help – to the vile, wherein they claimed it was common knowledge within the palace that he had sexual relations with his horse.
While he was doubtful as to what extent everyone believed these cruel inventions, he realized that the powerful positions his brothers occupied inside the academy meant that his peers would sooner submit to the older princes' wills, than to defy them by defending the youngest prince's honor and integrity. As they were all sons of the cloying, obsequious noble families he had grown up observing at court, he knew that his low status within the royal family would not, nor could not, assist them in meeting their lofty ambitions.
Recognizing the source of his misery did not make it any easier to bear, and as the months dragged on and the sabotages and pranks escalated, the young man came to the conclusion that he would find no greater peace or freedom on the sea than he did on land.
Privately, he had decided to see the course through to the end, though he often longed for the solitude of his old life. Most of all he missed his horse, and whenever the students were given their holiday and seasonal leave, the palace stables were the first place to which he returned.
In the company of the affectionate, happy creature, well-tended to by trusted stable hands during his long absences, the young man was able to forget his worries at the academy for a time.
His second and third years proved more fulfilling as he pursued the master-line and became a full cadet. His classes fell in line with his own interests in history, economics, and strategic warfare, and he specialized in naval law, thinking he might be able to excel in such a field after graduation.
Remembering the grievances suffered during his first year, however, the young man took care to publicly perform at merely an average level in all his endeavors. He did not score too high or work too fast to draw unwanted, jealous attention, nor did he do too little and draw scorn.
The effort of disguising his true intellect and ability, while shielding him to some degree from continued harm, weighed on the young man in a way that his brothers' schemes did and could not. He resented the smug looks his fellow cadets would shoot him when they saw how low the prince's test scores had fallen from his initial entrance exam, and the triumphant smirks they would wear when they tied rope knots faster than him.
Moreover, his instructors at the academy – many of whom had once praised him as a natural and thoughtful leader for his peers – openly expressed their disappointment in his sudden descent.
Sometimes, when he was out at sea on an exercise, he would allow himself a stray thought, or two, or three, about how he could incinerate everything and wipe those smirks and disappointed looks off their faces, once and for all; but upon seeing the gloves on his hands, these violent fantasies would die as quickly as they had come.
The curse will lead to the ruin of our family, he would hear his father say, and to the ruin of the Southern Isles. It must be kept secret.
Pacified by the sight of the youngest prince isolated and with lower marks on his assignments, his older brothers gradually stopped spreading some of the fouler rumors they had started about him. They graduated one or two years ahead of him, and as each prince exited the academy, so did the burden on their young brother lift a little bit.
Wary of their influence and reach with the other cadets still enrolled, he continued to keep his work unremarkable.
By the time of his own graduation three years after entering the academy, the king who had once given him grudging respect for his high exam score now regarded him with a knowing frown etched into his aged, grey features. The old man, along with several of his brothers, attended the ceremony for tradition's sake, sitting in their prescribed seats of honor along the sides of the stage.
The young man was unsurprised at seeing his father's unhappy look, and yet it sparked an old, dormant anger within him. His hands crackled with hot energy – it was the first time in years, he realized, that he had allowed himself to feel his powers even to that extent – but when his name was announced to come forward and receive his commission from the dean, he forced it down.
The heat pulsed back up through his hands, wrists, and veins, causing him to swallow with discomfort as he collected the rolled-up document and saluted the dean and his instructors. His face shook from the effort of presenting himself with decorum, his gloved fingers curling and flexing around the paper as he moved to join his fellow, newly-minted officers off-stage.
He was almost taken aback at how smooth the ceremony proceedings were, with no pranks or jokes attempted at his expense; then, catching the eye of the king in front of him, he remembered that none of his peers – nor even his brothers – would dare to pull such maneuvers with their monarch present.
When he returned to his bedroom in the palace later that evening, the relief he had felt at the end of the ceremony was extinguished as he unfurled his commission.
His hands shook as he read it.
Next to the king's royal seal, the words "WELCOME HOME" were hastily scrawled in tall, bold red letters—an addition made by one of his brothers at the last moment, he presumed. The young man lifted the page closer to his nose, sniffing it, and then recoiled as he dropped it, the paper landing on his desk.
It had been written in blood.
The note was an intentional harbinger, as the young man soon learned, of fouler things to come.
It began with his first assignment following graduation to the Mercator, one of the oldest frigates in the Navy, a small, battered ship dating back to the end of the eighteenth century. It had been scheduled to be retired many times over, but the king had insisted on costly repairs to extend its service life.
The youngest prince's appointment to it was a clear shot across the bow at his capabilities, with the king pronouncing that his middling finishing scores at the academy made him unfit to man any of the newer, more technologically advanced ships in the fleet.
And besides, the old man had said, the Mercator was my first ship—a fine one in her time. You should be honored to serve on her.
The young man did not protest, for part of him was glad just to be away from home. There, the king and his brothers, not to mention the council and courtiers, had easy access to him at all times in order to make his life a living hell.
Unfortunately, he fared little better with life at sea, as his position within the royal family – and his low scores at the academy – were communicated to the captain of his ship before he had even step foot upon it.
He was given tasks unworthy of his station and schooling, from scrubbing decks to repairing cables to rigging sails. He had trained, while in school, to concentrate in naval law; his current reality, being far from that, left him wanting for any work requiring intellectual rigor.
Unlike his brothers, he knew he did not have the luxury of cutting his minimum service time short to pursue a different career, nor was he even sure he would be able to after undertaking such a specialized education. He thus languished in his first few months of service, begrudgingly performing his duties as assigned and taking advantage of the port calls in Europe to finally experience the opportunities that had been denied to him at home. Among these were visits to brothels and gambling halls and other institutions of disrepute; he frequented these places alone, having been ostracized early on by the captain and, therefore, all of his mates onboard the ship.
Word of his foreign exploits inevitably found their way to the palace whenever the ship returned home, confirming and enhancing the existing stories that circulated the Isles about the thirteenth prince. He received a lecture from the king each time, the old man chiding him through rattling coughs about the need to be discreet – especially with your curse, he would add – and an accompanying threat to have his commission revoked.
The young man would promise to behave better each time in turn, though he knew that his father's threats were idle at best.
By contrast, his brothers used the rumors to their full advantage, denying him invitations to family events ranging from births to christenings to marriages and refusing him visitations with his nieces and nephews.
His oldest brothers – still, he hoped, the only ones who knew about his powers – were the unofficial ringleaders of this charge. The others (not including those whom had gone missing, were taken ill, or had chosen to become ascetics and abandon palace life) proved easy to recruit for this cause, as they were already poisoned against their brother from years of prejudice.
He thus spent most of his time at home exiled to the stables with his horse, just as he had been during his years at the academy, taking it for long rides through the towns and forests around the Isles.
As these rides became well-known, his absences from family gatherings were framed by his brothers as him declining to attend, his jaunts cementing his status as an irresponsible layabout.
With each fresh insult and snub, the young man became more and more driven to succeed in spite of his family's determination to see him fail. He refused to play into their low expectations as he had while in school, no longer deterred by taunts or threats of expulsion.
By the summer of his first year in the service, he had become so dedicated to his work that even his mates and captain began to show him reluctant respect. He was assigned less of the grunt jobs on the ship, and even began to supervise some of the crew, though he was careful to be far more polite and tactful in giving feedback than other officers.
Soon, murmurs spread throughout the fleet of the "Unlucky Thirteenth's" surprising prowess as a leader, with comparisons being drawn between him and some of his older brothers who were revered admirals still in the service.
When months passed without any sign of professional advancement, the men wondered at why the youngest prince had not been publicly recognized by the king, nor by any of his brothers, for his laudable work. His continued assignment to the Mercator when he had shown himself capable of handling a more difficult assignment was equally puzzling to them.
The young man, not expecting recognition no matter the caliber of his work, was unvexed by his fellow servicemen's quiet complaints on his behalf. It was enough for him that they should express them at all, for he knew that these grievances would eventually reach the ears of his family—and when they did, that they would reignite his brothers' ire and resentment towards him.
The thought of this would make him chuckle, and he waited impatiently for the day to arrive when he could see their irritated faces for himself.
He was not granted his next full block of leave until the week of Christmas.
The king traditionally held multiple holiday fetes and hosted foreign dignitaries for the holiday, and by the time the young man returned home, these events were already in full swing.
He passed by the great hall to catch a glimpse of that year's guests of honor – princes and princesses and ambassadors from Spain and England and the Ottoman Empire, plus some duke from a country he had never heard of – but otherwise kept himself out of sight as he dropped off his belongings in his bedroom, and then headed out to the stables.
He smiled in anticipation of seeing his old friend's face, their latest separation being longer than usual. He thought of all the events to catch him up on, and carried a bag of carrots he had bought at port that afternoon to offer in exchange for the creature's sympathetic ear.
Upon arrival, however, he was alarmed to find that his horse did not occupy his usual stall, nor any of the other stalls allotted to the royal family. He jogged to the ones given to visitors, thinking that perhaps his friend had been placed there by accident, and was startled a second time at the creature's absence.
His eyes darting to and fro in the dark, he dropped the bag of carrots and grabbed a passing stable hand by the shoulders, making the boy almost drop his lantern in surprise.
Boy, have you seen my horse? Sitron?
The boy blinked. Sitron? You mean—
Yes, the young man interrupted. The horse of Prince Hans, the Unlucky Thirteenth, my horse. Where is he? He frowned as he scanned the boy's face. I know all the stable hands, but I don't recognize you.
Espen, Your Highness, the boy replied, bowing clumsily as he took a step back. I was hired just recently, you see. I mean no offense, sir.
None taken, the young man said, his tone cautious. Well, Espen, perhaps you haven't been informed yet, but Sitron is my horse. Tan color, amber eyes, with a salt and pepper mane. I'm quite fond of him, and he's usually in that stall over there, but I don't see him there tonight. Do you know where he might be?
The boy swallowed. I, uh, yes, sir, Master Georg mentioned him. The thing is, sir, he's been missing for a few days, and—
Missing? the young man asked, his frown deepening. What do you mean?
Well, um, Master Georg thinks he's run off, sir, and—
Impossible, he interjected again, scoffing. Sitron is too well-trained to do such a thing. Where is Master Georg? I must speak with him about this.
The boy fidgeted, his hand shaking on the lantern handle. He's, uh, been given leave to spend the holiday with his family, Your Highness.
The young man's eyes grew slatted with skepticism. But he's always worked during Christmas, he mused out loud. Who gave him permission to—
He paused, shaking his head. Never mind. You wouldn't know. He sighed, waving the boy away. Go on, now, and tend to your duties.
The boy took a few steps back, almost tripping over his own feet, and rushed off to assist late-arriving guests with parking and settling their horses.
The young man, meanwhile, scoured the area for any sign of his friend – an old horseshoe, a half-chewed carrot, or even a stray hair – but found nothing except well-worn hoof tracks inside of the stall and along the entryway. The disappearance was so thorough as to make him believe that the boy might have spoken the truth, and something had spooked his old friend so badly as to make him run away.
Knowing his friend's calm and easygoing temperament, he wondered at what could have triggered such an extreme response; but the more he wondered, the more he worried. He searched the palace grounds for hours with only dim lantern light to guide his path, refraining from using anything stronger lest he scare off his horse.
His eyes were tired and near to closing by the time the palace steward found him and begged him to go inside upon threat of physical injury from the king. Though the young man was loathe to comply with the request, he had no desire to see the steward beaten for his perceived transgressions.
Relenting in his search for the evening, he followed the older man back into the palace, his head hanging low.
He combed the palace grounds and surrounding towns and forests ceaselessly in the days that followed, though he took care only to do so in the evenings when he would not be found out by his father.
The old man had castigated him for disappearing on the night of the ball in a wretched, weak voice, telling him I won't have you looking for that damn beast, boy over and over again until he had finally lost the strength to carry on.
The oldest prince was at his side always, assisting the king to his chambers or whispering news into his ear; he often shot his youngest brother looks so cold that they would make the ice princess tremble, staring warily at the youngest prince's gloved hands.
The looks and warnings mattered little to the young man, who passed each day of forced meetings and celebrations with guests with the same false geniality from the edges of rooms and halls. Though he knew what they thought or assumed about him, he would not give anyone the satisfaction of seeing him as anything less than princely.
As time passed with no sign of his friend, however, his hope of finding him dimmed, and it became difficult to hide his disappointment in public.
What's the matter, Hans? his brothers would ask, smirking. Rejected by the local whorehouses again? You know they don't have any fillies for you in there.
He had been suspicious of them and the king since his first night back, when the stable boy had told him of his horse's disappearance and of the stable master's absence. However, with no appetite for a futile fight or argument with his family, he had kept quiet, seeking clues out on his own that might pin the horse's vanishing on them.
This effort was made more complicated by the fact that the vast majority of the palace servants were fiercely loyal to his father and oldest brothers, and thus were of no help to him in identifying suspects. Their loyalty, having been purchased and maintained with adequate coin for years, was buttressed by the stories spread by his old nursemaid of the youngest prince's burnt carpets, gloves, and "unnatural" attachment to his pet horse.
By the evening of the king's grand Christmas Eve dinner, the young man was visibly sullen as he took his seat at the end of the long table in the banquet hall alongside his brothers, wives, their older children, and several guests of honor.
Of the latter group, one was seated directly opposite from him – an older man with scant gray hair atop his head but a full, bushy moustache atop his lips – and when the man recognized the prince, he bristled, frowning.
I could have at least been seated across from Prince Alfred, he grumbled loud enough for the prince to hear, adjusting his round glasses on his nose. The indignity of it all…
His voice trailed off to a mumble, which the young man ignored as he stared at his plate. Servants brought out one dish after the other to fill it: pickled cabbage, boiled potatoes, roasted duck and pork, and roasted potatoes with gravy. He picked at each in turn with an equal lack of enthusiasm, eating only as much as he could get away with without raising suspicion, and drinking his wine in moderation.
Once the main courses were swept away, he stared at the corridor from whence the servants carried the food, expecting dessert and glogg to follow.
Instead, the chef himself appeared with all of the dinner staff in tow, each carrying a covered bowl.
Your Majesty, he said with pride as he approached the king, I have created a special dish for you and your guests this evening.
The old man looked up. Oh? What is it, Birger?
The chef smiled as the servants placed the bowls down on the table, and took the covers off.
A rush of steam was released and the guests gave a collective gasp. A venison stew, Your Majesty. I know it is rather nontraditional, but your sons thoughtfully suggested its addition to the menu given your love of venison.
The king nodded, half-smiling at his oldest sons seated next to him at the head of the table. Yes, thoughtful indeed. Though I am already near to bursting, I cannot resist.
Very good, Your Majesty, the chef replied, and bowed as he departed. Velbekomme!
The appearance of the stew caused a spate of chatter to break out among the family and guests, who eagerly dug into the dish and lavished it, as well as the princes for coming up with the idea, with effusive praise.
The young man looked at the steaming bowl with apprehension. The chef never changed the menu for Christmas Eve dinners, always following the roasted duck with glogg and Ris a l'Amande, among other cookies and marzipan.
He glanced up at the other end of the table, and was surprised to find several of his brothers eyeing him in return. Some stared with amusement, chuckling under their breath or whispering to each other; others looked smug, their simpers small but obvious.
His lip twitched with a frown at observing this, and he looked back down at his bowl, his gaze becoming intense and focused.
Master Georg thinks he's run off, sir.
The words of the stable boy echoed in his mind as a gamy smell emanated from the stew, and the young man's eyes widened.
I won't have you looking for that damn beast, boy.
He fought the urge to double over and gag all at once, though he did grip the edges of the table suddenly, his face pale and his hands shaking.
Why aren't you eating, Hans? the king boomed from his seat, causing a hush to fall over the table. You must, lest you insult your father and brothers by refusing.
The young man's head shot up, his eyes meeting his father's, and his mouth open and shut slowly.
His oldest brother, at the king's right side as always, had a rare, wide smile on his face.
You'll never become a man if you snivel and cower at every injury you suffer.
He forced his hand to grab the spoon, dipping it into the bowl, and turned his gaze to meet his brothers'.
Yes, Father, he said, and brought it to his lips, swallowing the stew effortlessly. At his brothers' surprised expressions, he smiled.
Inside of his gloves, his hands were burning.