[4/5]
Kristoff is starting to get the hang of castle etiquette. Anna insists that he eat with her and Elsa whenever he's in town – which is more often now, given the whole 'Ice Master and Deliverer' business (turns out it is a thing, even if it's a thing Elsa completely made up) – so castle meals are quickly becoming a regular part of his routine.
When it's just the three of them, they eat upstairs with everything on the table at once. Anna will talk with her mouth full and Elsa will fuss with her napkin, and he will eat salad with a meat fork and no one will care.
When the castle has visitors, they will eat downstairs at a long table with weird skinny tablecloths and candles, and dinner service is brought out one course at a time. Anna will take small, lady-like bites, Elsa will still fuss with her napkin, and, if he remembers, he will brush his hair and not begin eating until after the Queen has taken the first taste.
Formal dinners are not on Kristoff's list of favorite things (whatever, it's a short list anyway), but Anna will hang on his arm and glow when they are introduced to Mister Visiting Whomever, make silly faces at dinner when Elsa isn't looking, run her foot up his leg under the table, and lately, slip out into the snowy garden or the library with him after dinner to do things that are definitely not approved of in the catalog of Things Proper Princesses Do.
These things are on his list of favorites, and he's not sure how he'll ever be able to tell her what a relief it is to not worry about where his next meal is coming from. Anna has not and thankfully will never know what that's like, real hunger, but a man can only eat so many carrots; he's grateful beyond imagining for her and Elsa's generosity, and so far totally incapable of saying so. In any case, for her delighted smiles and a full plate, he will gladly accept her invitations to dinner, which is how he came to be sitting, once again, in a tall straight-backed chair trying not to fidget while they wait for dessert.
At the other end of the table, Elsa is talking earnestly to the Duke of Somewhere-He's-Forgotten about tariffs and imports. It's a subject he's familiar with (lots of ice goes overseas), and is considering trying to break into their conversation when Anna leaps from her seat, claps a hand over her mouth and sprints out of the room.
He's on his feet without thinking, following the trail of her braids through the kitchen, out a back door and catches up just in time to see the heir apparent of Arendelle throwing up her dinner into some winter roses.
"You did NOT see that," she groans, pointing a shaky finger at him. "It did NOT happen."
"Whatever you say, princess." He takes her hand, and she sags, staggering against him. "Oh, oh, okay. Here we go." He hoists her up – compared to what he normally lifts, Anna feels like a paperweight – and maneuvers them easily through the kitchen, up the staircase and down the long series of hallways to her bedroom.
"You didn't see anything," she murmurs as he lays her in bed and tucks the sheets up under her chin.
"Of course not." He squeezes her hand softly, then ducks into the bathroom to grab a washrag for her face. It takes him a few minutes to find them – her washroom is as cluttered as her bedroom, towels on the floor and little bottles of ointment and lotions of every surface – but she's asleep by the time he returns, curled tightly on her side.
Kristoff meets Elsa at the bottom of the main stairs.
"What was that about?" She asks, voice low. The Duke of Somewhere-He's-Forgotten is talking with Kai in the corner about a painting, apparently undisturbed by the interruption in their meal.
Kristoff shrugs. "She barfed, that's all." Elsa gives him a look, and he rolls his eyes (call a spade a spade). "Fine, she's indisposed."
"Do you think she'll be alright?" Elsa's hand is on the banister; her face is calm and impassive, but a breath of frost is creeping along the underside of the polished wood. Kristoff coughs lightly and she snatches her hands up, tucks them protectively under her armpits.
"It's probably just something she ate," he says gently. "Anna's healthy. I put her in bed; she'll be fine tomorrow."
She isn't.
On the fifth day, she doesn't recognize him when he visits. He pushes a damp strand of hair off her cheek, presses a cool rag to her forehead and she doesn't stir: just looks right through him to the wall with eyes vacant, glazed and rheumy with fever. He has become an apparition.
Kristoff steps into the hall, and shuts the door behind him lightly. It's odd – he can't feel the floor under his feet, or hear the conversation of the various maids and attendants milling around – he shakes his head to clear it, but a white fog has wrapped around his lungs; it's closing up his throat, and burning behind his eyes.
Someone's hand is on his shoulder – a man with a monocle and gloves – moving him to the side, stepping to the room. Further down the hall another door is solidly frozen over, icicles and hoarfrost spreading from it like a disease.
By the next afternoon he's threatened a maid and punched the man the in the monocle (and doesn't remember doing either) and is lying on the cot next he's erected next to Anna's big bed, fingering the edge of her quilt.
Overhead the shadows change on the ceiling meaning someone has opened the door (which is still completely silent: it is no herald of nursemaids or doctors or any other members of the parade of sorrow mouthed people checking Anna's temperature and changing her bed linens and pointedly ignoring him laying a few inches away.)
He's an invisible man, so when he crawls up on the bed beside her no one notices or seems to care. Her sheets still smell faintly of sweat – it's the slightly sweet odor of the very sick. It coats his mouth when he curls around her, tucking her close to his chest. She feels tiny and frail and too warm, but her heartbeat is a regular pulse.
He lays awake all night, barely daring to blink even in the dark, waiting for the soft rise and fall of her shoulders and counting the seconds to keep the fog of fear at bay.
Something is touching his face. Whatever it is tickles his chin, and he shakes his head sleepily, burrowing deeper into the pillows and sheets.
Sheets. Pillows. This is not normal. His eyes snap open, then widen: Anna is peering at him, her nose just a few inches from his. Her face is still flushed and crumpled looking, but her eyes are clear and bright.
"You're in my bed," she mumbles.
He nods mutely.
"Figures I'd only get you here by nearly dying," she continues, voice sluggish. She tries briefly to sit up and gives up, sinking back into the mattress, trembling from the effort. "I mean, come on Kristoff."
She says his name and it's too much, after all of this, too much. He pulls her to him, hides his face in the spot between her neck and shoulder, and lets the dread and pain pour out. It comes up raw and heavy, and it hurts: boils and bubbles and forces its way out of his skin, up from his lungs and out his throat in a silent howl. He feels dampness on his cheeks and realizes that he's crying, something he hasn't done in years, but it won't stop now; tears roll down his nose and into his ears, and into Anna's hair.
It is a long time before Kristoff can let her go.
When he finally does, (regretfully, but he realizes he's clutching her too tight) she smiles faintly and brushes her fingers along his jaw.
"You grew a beard?"
"Not exactly," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I just haven't shaved. There's a difference."
She yawns, eyes drooping. "How long have you been here?"
"A couple days."
"Will you be here when I wake up?"
"Of course."
(People continue to stream in and out of her room - even Elsa joins his vigil, tight lipped and chilly - but when Anna wakes next, he's the first thing she sees.)