Author's Note: And now comes the second-to-last chapter of The North Wind, as promised; thanks again to everyone who has faved, followed, and reviewed the story thus far. This will be my last intrusion at the top, as the last part - Part XII - will be presented without comment.
However, if any of you are interested, I would be willing to do a Q&A chapter following the last part - so if you've been wondering about how I wrote the story, its themes, or my characterisations of Hans and Elsa, please feel free to leave a review including such questions.
Sleep.
It was strange, she thought, how she had gotten so much of it whilst whittling her days away up in her parents' bedroom, since it now escaped her almost entirely.
And it wasn't as if she had so much energy to spare in the first place—in fact, she was bone-weary, and needed rest more than anything else.
But every time she felt her eyes finally begin to flutter shut, unable to stay open any longer, something—or someone—forced her to awaken again.
That morning it had been a guard reading a message from the Duke with details of the public execution—where, when, what they were and were not allowed to do and say—and she had been just conscious enough to make out, albeit fuzzily, his gruff, terse words.
It's only a few hours away, now.
Night was drawing in around them as her head swayed from side to side, and she wondered, vaguely, when the guards would start snoring.
Five minutes? No, probably more like ten . . .
It was the only sound she could rely on to remind her that she was, in fact, still alive, since her talks with Hans had virtually ceased.
Even though she felt as though she had finally come to grips with what he'd said by then, she didn't know how to respond to it—nor how she should respond to it.
I hate him.
No—I don't hate him.
She frowned tiredly at her conflicting thoughts, and brushed a stray bang from her face.
I hate . . . what?
Her forehead scrunched in contemplation, and finally, when the answer came to her, she felt a little relieved.
I hate that he waited so long to say it.
There was a part of her that had innately known, all along, that he had been regretting his decision to lock her in one room or another. That much had become apparent the first time he'd blown up at her, after she'd asked him why he insisted on keeping her in the castle.
You don't understand at all!
She thought, upon recollection, that the phrase had been tinged with more than a hint of shame; then again, that could have been her exhausted mind manipulating her memories to fit her current image of Hans. Either way, she was sure, now, that he was sincere in his remorse, and in his desire for her to leave.
Still, she couldn't bring herself to tell him that she knew of his guilt—that she'd known, in fact—nor could she find the will to speak to him at all in the long days that followed.
I'm afraid I'll say something I regret.
There—there was the problem, she thought with an acrid look: her inability to be truthful with herself . . . or with anyone else, for that matter.
I wish I wasn't like this.
She frowned at the piteous thought, her fists clenching.
"I wish," "I hope," "I'm afraid" . . . why am I like this?
Her lifelong timidity was unnervingly obvious to her then, and she suddenly hated it—hated it more than Hans's poor timing, or anything he'd ever said to her even in his cruellest moments.
Her fingernails dug painfully into her palms through the gloves.
I can't do this anymore.
The snoring outside startled her, and she wondered how long it had been going without her even realizing it. Her eyes shot over to the grate, and finally—without hesitation—she tucked herself by it, and spoke to him.
"Hans," she whispered, not knowing how long the guards had been asleep. "Hans, are you awake?"
A pause, followed by a dark, sullen voice.
"It's hard to sleep the night before your execution."
She pursed her lips to keep them from frowning, and leaned down closer to the opening.
He started again before she could say anything:
"So you're talking to me again, then?"
Her mouth twitched at the question—full of cheek, but tinted with his unhappiness at her silence—and she rested her chin in her palm.
"I considered never doing so again," she admitted, though, to her own surprise, without the retaliatory bite she had wanted to convey.
He was relieved. "I didn't think you would, to be honest." And, after a moment: "Not that I would have blamed you, if you chose not to."
Her eyebrow rose curiously at the comment; he seemed to be covering his tracks after every sentence now, not wanting to upset her in any way. It was a bizarre reversal, considering how eager he had been to offend her at every turn just a month ago.
"On the contrary," he continued, "I was hoping you would have taken my advice by now, and I'd have woken up this morning to find a giant, gaping hole where your cell used to be."
She grimaced a little at the image, remembering how she had broken out of a cell in just that same manner before Anna's death—only to have been dragged back again into another one after it.
"I can't do that, Hans," she said, and added quietly: "Not again."
He didn't rebuke her immediately as he had before, but she knew he was frowning at the wall between them.
"Besides," she sought to explain, "it's not as simple as before. Not with you here, and—"
She faltered at the last second, her heart thudding in her chest.
What was I going to say?
"Elsa?"
She was blushing, but she didn't hate the feeling as much anymore.
You know what you were going to say.
Her eyes darkened.
"I can't leave you here to die, Hans."
He was silent at that.
It would have scared her before, she mused, that deafening silence of his; but then, she also felt that it gave her room to think, and to remember.
She pinked, and her gaze lightened.
You're charming, Elsa; did you know that?
"I dreamed about you."
The words left her lips in a drawl, and she held back a sigh.
Yes, it had been a dream, that night—that much was clear to her now.
It hurt a little to remember it, in that confined space. She hazily recalled how real it had been at the time, and how she'd nearly convinced herself that it had actually happened—those kisses on her wrist, her arm, her neck . . .
She supposed, in the midst of this fantasy, she had gone numb; for after the Duke and his men broke into her quarters that same night, tearing her from that blissful sleep, she had been too much in shock to even understand what was happening.
And too pitiful to retaliate against them.
Her hand twisted.
Ah, Elsa! You foolish, foolish gi—
"I dreamed about you, too," he said, cutting short her thoughts. "Often," he added suddenly, softly—but there was no embarrassment in this admission.
She reddened; she hadn't expected that last bit.
"I wish I could see your face right now," he teased. "I bet you're blushing."
Her ears were hot. Too hot.
"I'm not," she denied.
He chuckled. "Well, if you are," he said affectionately, "I'm sure you look adorable."
She took her gloves off and pressed her face into her hands, feeling them burn to a scarlet colour.
Secretly, though, she was smiling.
"I liked it when you blushed," she blurted out, and promptly dug her mouth back into her palms. "Forget I said anything," she mumbled, mostly to herself.
His voice was far too pleased for her liking.
"You did?" he asked, and in spite of his coy tone—which, she supposed, was part and parcel of his unique charm—he did sound genuinely curious, too.
She managed to lift her head up from her scorching fingers long enough to reply, though she stumbled all the way through it.
"I thought—I guess I—I thought that I was seeing the real you, in those moments." She paused, bringing forth the picture of his pinking cheeks to the front of her mind. "You were never easy to read either, you know."
He laughed unexpectedly at this remark. "Are we already talking about each other in the past tense?" he asked ruefully. "'I did,' 'you did,' 'you were,'" he continued along the same vein, the humour gone from his voice. "How depressing."
His observation—correct as it may have been—snuffed out whatever spark of life had been struck between them, and her eyes tightened.
I don't want it to end like this.
She looked out the window into the night sky, full of blinking stars, and shivered in spite of the warm breeze that filtered through the bars from outside.
I can't allow it to end like this.
"It doesn't have to be this way, Hans."
He sounded uninterested by the note of hopefulness in her voice.
"Maybe not for you, Elsa," he replied, "but for me . . . yes, it does."
She frowned at his fatalism—since when did he start sounding like her?
"No," she said firmly, "not for you, either."
"Elsa . . ." he began, but she cut him off, her brow furrowed determinedly.
"I can get us both out of here," she said, leaning even closer to the floor. "I can use my powers—just like you said—and break us free."
She thought the suggestion would please him, especially since he had come up with it first; instead, she was surprised to find him as defeated as before.
"That's not possible, Elsa."
She frowned. "Why not? The guards are asleep, just as always; and I could get us far away from here long before they even knew what was happening."
In his cold silence, she felt her voice take on a kind of angry desperation.
"They wouldn't find us, Hans—didn't you say, before, that you knew they would never find me?" She was babbling now, but she didn't care. "Don't you still think that's true?"
He finally spoke again. "I do," he acknowledged, but in as reluctant a tone as possible.
She pressed her bare hands against the grate, as if the action would somehow make him understand the urgency of the situation.
"Then why don't you come with me?" she countered, nearly growling with frustration. "Don't you see how little time we have left before they kill us both?"
"Elsa . . ."
He was warning her—trying to tell her to keep her voice down, since one of the guards had briefly stirred outside.
She found it impossible, her heart impatient with his slow, inadequate replies.
"Please, Hans," she practically pleaded, "just trust me."
He sighed—and oh, how she hated those sighs!—and spoke her name again in that weary, beaten way.
"Elsa, I—I just can't."
He was hiding something from her. She could smell the stink of it from a mile away, and it seemed even more offensive to her than the pile of mouldy meat sitting in the corner of her cell had been.
"Why?" she demanded.
His answer was slow to arrive, but eventually, it did.
"Because I deserve this," he said hollowly. "I deserve all of this."
She stared at the grate in bemusement, her teeth gritting together.
I don't understand him . . . I don't understand him at all.
"What are you saying, Hans?" she asked, rubbing her temple agitatedly. "How do you—how could you deserve to die like this?"
When he didn't respond straightaway, she sat up straight as an arrow, incensed by everything about him: his clever quips, his brooding silence, his sudden despondency, his continued rejection of her proposal to break out of the prison together.
He's infuriating.
She gripped the bars on the grate, and her fingers turned white.
"For Heaven's sake, Hans," she fumed, "what could possibly make you want to—"
"I let her die."
She blinked, confused.
What is he talking about?
"I let Anna die, Elsa."
She frowned uncomprehendingly.
What is he talking about?
His voice cracked slightly. "That day—when she came back to the castle, freezing—she told me that she needed an 'act of true love' to save her," he said, and swallowed. "A true love's kiss, I suppose."
His tone was curiously pained as he continued.
"But I didn't give it to her. I just . . . left her there. To die."
Oh, Elsa. You really don't know, do you?
She couldn't control the ice that flowed from her fingertips, coating the grate, and her mouth hung open.
I feel so thirsty.
"Why?"
He paused; perhaps he was surprised that she had spoken.
"Because I wanted to take the throne for myself," he continued, and sounded as parched as she felt. "I never would have had a chance to rule, otherwise."
A memory flitted through her mind—you have twelve older brothers?—but it left just as quickly.
All she could think about was how badly she wanted a drink of fresh, clean water.
"I tried to kill you, too, after you escaped from the prison," he admitted, and she wondered if there was remorse in his voice—or if she was hearing him at all anymore. "But I didn—I couldn't bring myself to do it."
She stared blankly at the wall; trails of ice were creeping up it.
My mouth is just so . . . dry.
"Why?" she asked again, automatically; in a way, she wasn't fully aware that she had even spoken.
"That's—" He paused. "I just couldn't."
Water. Ice. Something.
Her eyes clouded over, not noticing that the floor beneath her was becoming frozen solid.
"That time I saw you up there, on the North Mountain, I—" he trailed off. "I thought you were terribly beautiful." He sounded tired, resigned. "It would have been a crime, to kill something so beautiful."
Her blood ran cold.
Anna was beautiful, too.
"I guess I—yes, I think I must have—I fell in love with you that day, though I didn't realize it until later." His teeth chattered a little from the cold seeping through the grate. "And I wanted to keep you here, close to me—without having to share you with anyone else."
She felt nothing—a kind of dead, black void inside—and yet, the ice continued creeping, up, up, up.
"Now you know why I can't leave this place with you, Elsa," he finished. "I'll pay with my life tomorrow for all the things I've done to you—though that's hardly payment enough."
Icicles grew on the ceiling, sharp as knives at the ends.
Thirsty . . . I'm so thirsty.
"You remember what they told us this morning? About the execution?"
She didn't reply.
"They'll keep you here to wait your turn while I'm up there, on the scaffolding," he reminded her. "But before they hang me—before the rope snaps my neck—you have to go."
He swallowed thickly again; the sound made her head throb.
"Don't look back, or forward, or to the side—just go."