Author's Notes: Thank you all for the lovely comments last chapter; I'm glad you enjoyed the respite from the otherwise unrelenting gloom of this fic. And here's hoping you enjoy this next installment even more . . .!
He brought her many more bouquets in the days that followed—bouquets filled not just with orchids, but also with blue anemones, fringed pink, and even maple leaves—and each successive bundle looked more alive than the last.
She had even started to run out of places to put them after a week had passed, and so some had been plucked for their petals, or turned into poultices for her baths.
They calmed her spirit to look at them, sometimes for hours on end; they were, in a way, her only living, breathing reminder of her sister, and so she treasured their presence in that room.
She would have been so happy to see this curse finally lifting.
Indeed, it was obvious to everyone in the kingdom that—for whatever reason—the powers that be had decided to, at long last, put an end to the misery of winter. And though many of the streets and sea-lanes to other lands remained closed off by ice, the melting had proceeded far more quickly than anyone could have imagined, and life was slowly returning.
Hans had even told her in passing that he might finally be able to send word to his father and brothers in the Southern Isles of the change in Arendelle's fortune, though she remained somewhat sceptical that the winter would disappear that rapidly.
Even his more frequent visits over the past week had done little to assuage that uncertainty, as minor a feeling as it felt then. She took an odd comfort from his presence now, and his conversation—which, while still small, was far more agreeable than before.
The flowers don't hurt.
She blushed as she glanced at the pink petals strewn across her pillow; he had left them there during his last visit that morning, giving her a slight grin as he did it.
Still, she knew that even now, his frequent, more cheerful appearances were hiding something grim beneath them.
She had caught glimpses of that from time to time, especially when his expression suddenly went cold or stern during their talks—usually, of course, whenever she tried to ask him questions about politics.
I suppose the people are still unhappy with him, even now.
Perhaps that wasn't an entirely fair assumption to make, she mused, remembering how easily the public's sentiments could be stirred by certain individuals making any one of a number of possible accusations against Hans and trying to undermine his position.
(The Duke of Weselton came most readily to mind, as she'd heard Hans mutter and mispronounce his name on multiple occasions under his breath.)
Even with his bona fide credentials as a public champion in the first few days of the winter, she supposed that the cold season had simply lasted too long—and been too harsh—for most to hold on to the memories of his kindness with conviction.
It's not so easy for me, either.
Like the people of the kingdom, she felt a certain restlessness about the climactic shift; mostly it had to do with the notion that she should still be locked away in that room while the world returned to its former state, and that her existence would likewise continue to be kept a secret.
But it's not as if the melting snow will change what I've done.
One look at the orchids gave her a solemn reminder of why she remained in her current place, and why she would likely stay there for a long while yet.
I wish I could have held you one last time, Anna.
She closed her eyes at that thought, pressing her bare hand against her forehead; she was starting to get used to the feeling of her own skin again, leaving her gloves to the wayside for much of the day.
I guess I have him to thank for that.
It made her stomach flutter to remember the line he'd repeated to her, and to recall the feeling of his bare hands against hers as he pressed the flowers into them.
In retrospect, it was clear to her that his fingers had lingered upon hers a few seconds more than had been necessary—and that she hadn't been bothered by him doing so.
No—I wasn't bothered at all.
She flung herself back onto the bed with none of her usual grace, digging her face deep into the petal-covered pillows.
Oh, I wish I was!
"Asleep already, Elsa?"
She wanted to bury her face even deeper, hearing that amused query; instead, she lifted herself from the bed, though the dark rouge in her cheeks had not entirely left yet.
"I was just resting," she said matter-of-factly, observing with some irritation that he was grinning at her. "I wasn't asleep at all."
"Of course," he replied as he leaned against the window-frame, his pose becoming slightly slumped. "I could use some shut-eye myself at the moment," he added with a yawn, not bothering to cover his mouth as he did so.
She frowned a little at his impropriety, though she was too used to it by then to make any kind of reproving remark about it.
She moved to stand opposite him by the window after a minute, watching his fatigued expression curiously.
"You should rest, then," she said finally, taking him by surprise.
He looked entertained by the idea. "What, here?"
She reddened and turned away towards the window.
"If you like," she mumbled.
His smile was wide. "What was that, Elsa? I don't think I heard you."
Her heart pounded, and she glared at him, albeit half-heartedly.
"I said," she began, enunciating every individual word, "that you can sleep here, if you like."
He grinned again in his particularly aggravating—but somehow engaging—manner as he stroked his chin, considering the offer.
"Well, if you put it like that," he teased, his grin growing at her petulant frown, "then I really can't refuse."
She rolled her eyes as he chuckled to himself and walked to the bed, sprawling himself across it. He flicked away the petals from the pillows after a minute, giving her a perplexed look.
"I don't know how you can sleep with these everywhere," he remarked, ignoring her annoyance as he cleared the space. "That smell is just so …pungent." Seeing her peeved, he added: "And not in a good way."
She crossed her arms at the judgment, though she offered no pithy comment in return, simply turning away from him again.
The gesture appeared to upset him. "What is it?"
Her frustration with him, though ever-present, diminished at the question—his tone, after all, sounded genuinely concerned (or at least as concerned as she thought Hans could be).
"It's nothing," she answered quickly, though she knew that it wouldn't satisfy him.
He sighed from behind her. "Then obviously it's something."
She frowned at the pointed observation, but remained quiet.
He wouldn't understand, anyway.
"You know, Elsa," he started again, "it's okay to say what's on your mind, from time to time."
She flushed at the comment; even if he said it from a place of wanting to listen to her, it was still difficult for her to trust him with her most private thoughts.
Especially when I don't even know his.
"There's nothing on my mind," she lied, not wanting to explain the knotted feeling at the bottom of her stomach.
He didn't sigh at her again, to her surprise; neither did he move from the bed as she might have expected him to by then.
"Well, at least look at me."
Perhaps it was the force of his voice that turned her head then—or perhaps she really did just want to look at him in that moment, and show him what was on her mind without having to say it aloud—but all the same, their gazes met suddenly, and her cheeks turned redder than his hair.
They stayed that way for a long while, staring at each other. Somehow, it had the effect of calming her down, and when she spoke again, her voice was almost serene.
"It's just … the flowers you bring me," she said softly, touching a bouquet by the window, "they always remind me of—of Anna."
His eyes lost some of their lustre as he looked away.
"Oh," he said simply.
She elaborated after a moment, gesturing to the orchids: "These were her favourite, actually."
His reply seemed laboured. "I see."
She frowned at his apparent dismissiveness, at first; but as she observed his silent, sullen expression, she wondered if she was interpreting his answers in exactly the wrong way.
He did love her, after all.
She suddenly wondered if the comment about the flowers—innocent as it seemed—hadn't actually reopened a wound that she herself had inflicted upon him, and the notion made her feel a little sick at her own ignorance.
Of course he doesn't want to talk about that—not with me, anyway.
Still, a part of her remained curious as to the exact nature of the gloomy look that had taken told of him, and in spite of her best instincts, she continued.
"Hans, did—did Anna say anything, before she died?"
His countenance darkened almost immediately.
"I mean, did she—did she say anything about me?" she pressed further, ignoring the sudden tension in the air. "About what I did?" Her heart tightened in her chest as she imagined the scenario for the thousandth time. "I couldn't bear it if she—if she said that—"
"I don't want to talk about this," Hans said suddenly, cutting her off mid-sentence as he rose from the bed, sweeping his jacket behind him as he made his way to the door again.
She panicked at his sudden exit. "Wait, Hans—I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked. Please don't go—"
"Goodbye, Elsa," he snapped tersely, and left.
"Hello, Elsa."
He spoke in that same, soothing tone as when he'd held out his hands to hers to place the flowers in them, and—just as it had then—she felt utterly enchanted by it.
"Hans."
His name was on her lips before she even had time to wonder as to whether it was, indeed, him or yet another apparition conjured by her overly active imagination.
Her eyes strained in the darkness to find him, though she didn't have to look far: he sat beside her on the side of the bed, watching her reorient herself. She sat up and met his stare while rubbing her eyes.
He looked pensive. "I'm sorry about earlier," he said after a while, relaxing slightly. "I shouldn't have lost my temper like that."
She felt as if every day—and, apparently, every night—brought with it more and more surprises about the King's true nature, and her jaw hung a little low, unsure of what to say.
He continued in the silence that followed. "I know you meant well," he said softly, and she saw then that his face appeared to be glowing—though, upon closer inspection, she realized that it was nothing more than a trick of the moonlight filtering through the open curtains. "It's just … the memories of her, they're still so—so fresh, I suppose."
She reddened at the admission.
So I was right, after all.
She swallowed her nervousness. "And I'm sorry too," she said at length, her shy gaze meeting his. "I just … sometimes, I don't think before I speak."
He grinned at that, and pressed her cold hand within his gloved palm. "It's a fault we share, it seems."
She couldn't help but smile at the reassurance, though the feeling of his warm, large hand on hers caused all her previous anxiety to return full force.
"Hans, your—your hand," she said after a moment, staring down at it pointedly.
He followed her look and began to draw back, embarrassed. "Ah, sorry—I didn't realize—"
"Don't apologize."
He looked up, taken aback by her sudden interjection; and as she suddenly grabbed his hand before it could completely retract to his side, his eyes widened even more.
"Elsa, what are you …" he began, watching hesitantly as she turned his hand over in hers, and with the other gently touched the inside of his palm.
Though her face was red even in that darkness, she looked at him with surprising determination.
"I—I didn't want you to let go," she explained haltingly, her cheeks darkening with each succeeding admission. "I … I just wanted you to—to take your glove off."
After a minute of simply staring at her in surprise—a minute which, in her estimation, seemed to last an age—Hans finally grasped her hand back with a fervour she hadn't anticipated, and smiled nearly from ear to ear.
"You're charming, Elsa; did you know that?" he asked her with pinking cheeks, and she blushed even more horribly than before at the rhetorical question, unconsciously pulling away from him.
He held her fast, and his smile spread into a clever smirk. "Now, Elsa," he said more quietly, his grip relaxing, "if you want this glove gone, you'll have to take it off yourself."
The teasing request was simple enough, she thought; in fact, it was hardly a difficult task at all.
But it's him asking it.
Her heart raced as their stares locked in a battle of the wills, and she felt her fingers sweat in his grasp.
This shouldn't be hard.
She pushed down her apprehension at the playful glint in his eyes, and forced herself to look back down at their entwined hands, her lips pursed in thought.
Just do it already, Elsa.
She scowled as she finally pulled off the accessory in one, jerking movement, flinging the glove to the side to express her displeasure with having had to remove it in the first place.
Hans laughed quietly at her tortured expression, and she, in turn, faced him with her fiercest glare; but, after a few seconds, this dark look quickly collapsed, and she sighed at her own weak will.
So much for trying to look serious.
Her lip twitched at the thought, though she refused to show him a smile at her own expense. Instead, she directed her attention and curiosity back to the original point of interest: the right hand of the Prince of the Southern Isles.
"Any reason you felt the need to take my glove off?" he asked, amused, as she considered the hand in hers. She gave him one sharp glare as her reply, to which he only grinned and sighed.
"Fine, no more questions," he joked.
"Good," she said with the tiniest hint of a satisfied smile, flashing him a fleeting, twinkling blue eye before looking back down at his hand.
It's strange to see it so up close.
She turned it, bent over to see it more clearly, and became fascinated with his palm; timidly, she traced the lines in it with her other hand, her fingers gently grazing the surface.
She looked up in surprise when he shuddered at this, and she could have sworn that she felt her blood race faster when she realized that he was blushing.
"It just tickles, that's all," he excused himself, though he didn't pull his hand away from her.
She smiled at the comment, finding him, in that moment, strangely … cute?
"Sorry," she said, though the apology was more reflexive than genuine; he even smiled when she said it, and the two shared a little laugh.
As their laughter died down, however, Hans's expression grew more serious again, and she regarded the change with some concern.
"Hans …?" she asked, mystified by his sudden intensity. "Is there something wr—"
She froze when she felt his lips on the top of her right hand, the sensation burning against her icy skin. She could feel him nearly draw away as her hand grew colder in surprise at the gesture.
But he smiled then, and—much to her surprise—turned that same hand over and kissed it again, though this time his lips rested upon the inside of her wrist.
She jumped at the sensation, wanting to recoil and remain in place all at once; the latter desire, however, won out, and her heart beat faster than ever in her ears, nearly deafening her.
"I'm sorry to give you such a shock," he said gently, and drew closer to her until their faces were only a foot apart. "But you are too sweet, dear Elsa."
Whatever coldness had numbed her skin before now subsided with that comment, as patently ridiculous as it sounded to her cynical, stony heart, and she wondered at how she could even hear him at all above that awful racket her heart was causing.
Won't you just shut up for a minute, please?
It calmed down long enough for her to gather her wits and look at him with as staid and cautious an expression as she could muster, though her voice still wavered when she spoke again.
"You—you should be more careful, Hans," she said, and she hated how her voice shook as he continued to plant butterfly kisses along the inside of her hand and across the lengths of each of her fingers. "My power, it—I could hurt you, and …"
A strange sound escaped her throat as his kisses moved down from her hand to the inside of her forearm, his body continually pushing against hers as his kisses grew bolder and drew nearer to her face.
By the time he had reached her shoulder, he was half-kneeling on the bed and his hands were gripping her waist—whether for balance or some other purpose, she was unsure—and she felt as though she were about to drown under him, her legs unconsciously squirming with each successive kiss.
"Hans," she breathed out finally, nearly gasping as his mouth moved along her collar.
When he ignored this, she swallowed, struggling to keep her head above the water.
"Hans," she said again, trying to make it sound more urgent—to make it sound more like she actually wanted him to stop.
He nipped at her neck as his other leg drew up onto the mattress, his body now fully hovering over hers.
"Hmm?" he hummed absently against her skin, making her quiver.
She found herself unable to answer to that, almost losing what little of her sense remained as his teeth grazed her earlobe.
It's too much.
"Hans!"
He paused, though his breath was heavy against her ear, making her blush furiously. He drew away a little after a moment, disappointment clearly etched into his features.
"What is it?"
She closed her eyes so she wouldn't have to look at him; still, she felt his bare hands rubbing her sides ever so slowly, lulling her into a kind of daze.
Finally, she said, with laboured breaths:
"I—I'm afraid, Hans."
His hands paused on her sides, and he looked concerned.
"Of me?"
She shook her head slowly, and laid her trembling hands atop his, bringing them together and placing them in her lap.
"Of what I—of what I feel," she said slowly, and looked up at him with clear but frightened eyes. "For you."
A look of understanding dawned across his lusty gaze, turning it suddenly serious; but she was sure she had seen, if only for a second, that it had briefly gone cold.
Just as soon as she suspected the worst, however, his eyes cleared, and that genuinely charming, affectionate smile returned to his face.
He brought her hands to his lips again, and kissed the tops of her knuckles. "Oh, Elsa," he said in just above a whisper, and brushed her bangs out of her eyes. "You really don't know, do you?"
She stared at him with a kind of wide-eyed innocence, not sure whether she was confused more by the question itself or by the tender, adoring way in which it had been posed.
"What do you mean?" she asked, and gave him a small smile, searching his emerald eyes for an answer.
He sighed as sweetly as ever, and kissed her hand again; somehow, though, the feeling wasn't as comforting as before.
"Elsa," he said her name again in that wondering tone, "ah, Elsa! You foolish, foolish girl …"