Once again, thank you for all the feedback. c: I wrote 200 words more- that's an improvement, no?
By the way, there are virtually no pairings except for Hans/Anna, and I managed to slip some Jelsa somewhere in here. Jack will play a small role in this, if I can fit him in. He is just royalty- I just picked a large city in Sweden. I will take care of Kristoff, don't worry, and I'll explain my reasons as to how and why eventually.
Pay attention to the parentheses, by the way.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Except for the combination of words (I don't even own the words.)
Victoria's hooves clack loudly against the cobbles of the dusty road. Hans brushes a crimson maple leaf off his cloaked shoulder, and frowns down at the stone. His exile is long over, but he has no desire to return to his (once) home- he does not belong anywhere, now. He does not want to risk someone recognizing him. He wonders what kind of reception he would be met with.
The scar tissues of wounds a decade ago feel rougher than ever- patches and uneven splats wrapped around the bleeding lacerations, which will never quite be the same way again. There are gray hairs intermixed with fine red threads, crow's feet around his eyes, though he never laughs. The world has given him no reason to, and he does not bother with it. He is not happy, but he is content, and that is all he can hope for, after all. Hans has left everything behind on the crimson snow and a blood red sunset, underneath dirt and flowers and grass and rock, buried so deeply it will never be found.
Still, he has to know. Has Queen Elsa's magnificent frozen castle melted, grinded and crushed and broken down into glittering droplets? How would Arendelle look in the clutches of autumn, red and gold and browns and blacks? Perhaps Anna has left him behind with the ghosts of an eternal, harsh winter, forgotten in the summer and spring.
Hans rides on towards the sunrise.
It is early evening by the time he reaches the boundaries of Arendelle, and he manages to sneak through the crowd easily- he left Victoria behind at an inn, under the guise of Henry Westershield, which he has legitimate documents for- his time in the southern parts of Europe was spent lying low, and he did not want to risk any chances. The memory is comforting, reassuring.
His gray cloak and light brown leathers do not attract attention- despite Arendelle being a close-knit community, no doubt many storytellers, traders and travelers pass by here often, on their way to Oslo. He fades gently into the background, a middle-aged man with light blue eyes and an unassuming smile.
Eventually, he makes his way to the brightly colored marketplace- he picks a stall selling leathers and furs and walks over with a faint, friendly smile. The man- no doubt in his fifties- waves off another fussy customer and looks at Hans. Hans tunes out the noisy chatter of the hurried crowd behind him.
"You do not appear to be around here," the shopkeeper says by lieu of greeting. "How may I help you? Last winter was especially cold, so I still have some thick furs."
Hans runs his fingers over a light, dusty cloak the color of rust, lined with dark brown fur. "I am not. How is the royalty?"
"'Queen Anna is betrothed to a man from the city of Gothenburg- the first son of a second prince. Princess Anna is yet to wed, much to the consternation of her sister. Personally, many believe she has a future spouse squirreled away somewhere, but I've yet to add my two cents."
Hans tilts his head thoughtfully. "When is the wedding held?"
"You are right on time- it is held tomorrow, and everyone is invited, commoners and blue blooded alike. It will take place in the castle, as per usual."
"Ah, thank you," Hans says, passing him the cloak. "I'll take that."
After a small amount of haggling, he manages to obtain the cloak for a reasonable price, along with sturdy boots and a new saddle for Victoria. By then, it is late evening, and he retreats back to the inn for a meal and sleep. He chastises himself for being grateful for Anna's unmarried state- it would not matter much to him, after all. At most, even if she was, he would content himself with an apology, and no more, but his heart still hurts just that little bit less. She would hardly welcome him back with open arms, and it was quite futile to hope at this point.
He would stay for the wedding. After that, he would leave.
(Don't be greedy, Hans. It suits you ill.)
The ballroom is even more opulent that what he remembers (Hans, do not think about it), no doubt in part to the sisters' more mature tastes. After all, the castle is now a strikingly vivid imitation of Queen Elsa's ice castle, but instead in stone, brick, and lattice work, and the high, towering, narrow arches and pointed spikes lend a surreal mood. Hans suspects Anna has a hand in many of the castle's crystal clear ice windows, shimmering and multicolored in the late afternoon sun.
The ballroom is a scaled version of the many hallways from what he had seen- high, vaulted dark mahogany ceilings with deep forest green and purple drapes covering nearly every available surface. The floor is a shiny marble, with fine etchings and paintings of old kings and queens from days past. Hans watches as his new, practical, but not too shabby looking boots clack over a woman's face- she has fine brown hair and light blue eyes. She reminds him of Anna.
He rubs a gloved hand over his face- he was here to enjoy the party, remember? Remind himself of the things he can no longer reach.
(Hans, stop, you know you cannot get everything you want, child.)
The room is cheerful and booming with life, and most are just a spiral of color, dancing around the room to the orchestra.
The groom is a tall, lean figure that looks sharp in blues and blacks, which contrasts so strongly with his shockingly white hair and electric blue eyes. He is very handsome, young- but not boyish, and his high, angular jaw and cheekbones lend a deeper edge to his bright smile. Anna could definitely see Anna falling in love with Jack- they make a stunning couple, so alike in coloring and coiled elegance in their limbs, and they seem to own the room without much effort, silver and shining. She sends Elsa a excited smile and receives a high chime of laughter in return, and her sister waves her off. "Go have some fun! Find a charming young man!"
"I'm too old for that!" Anna calls back, but makes her way around the ballroom anyway. Eventually, after exchanging pleasantries with others- some real and some merely polite veils (she has become very good with acting) she finds herself standing at the edge of a group of young, excited children, listening eagerly to a storyteller. His cloak is drawn over his head, presumably to add effect to the atmosphere- the ballroom was not the best place to tell any stories, after all, not with the noise.
His voice is a smooth baritone, and it seems so familiar, but Anna cannot place her mind on it. She finds herself being drawn into the story- it is enthralling, and she is hooked. He weaves a tale about a distorting mirror, shards of glass, a Snow Queen, and a best friend who refused to stop believing, no matter what. It reminds her of a nearly-endless winter a decade and one ago. (Reminders, the reminding, and the reminded. She thinks of red hair and fair skin and freckles and a blue-eyed smile, the dead smell of rotten roses. It hurts.)
The young girls seem glad that there was a happy ending- so do the boys, but some seem upset by perhaps the lack of action, or the ending to the story. Anna can never tell. The storyteller does not seem to notice her- the children are sweet and engrossing without even trying. Someone pipes up, demanding more in a high treble.
The storyteller laughs- it is as velvet as the weaving of his tale- and throws his hood back.
(She never found him.)