Warning: Bambi's mom dies. Again. Violence. Hans is a classist piece of crap. Also, minor coarse language. Story upped to a 'T' because obviously I can't write anything under that rating.

Review Responses:

Dreamsandimaginations: Good! I'm glad you do. The troll isn't actually dead, he's just a drama queen *cough*muchlikesomeoneelseinthisstory*cough* Thank you for the review!

Guest: Oh, I know I'm not the only one! Plenty of people have had this same idea (Cinderella III, A Twist in Time anyone?). This is just something that sparked from a conversation I had. Thank you for the review!

Brightness Davar: Thank you! And I totally forgot about the Wicked references so I was pretty confused at first when I read your review lol.

Shlevznark: Thank you once again for your support! Yeah, this is not a short ride for certain. The only way to even get this story shorter than it would've been was to make Hans compliant (which. . . probably isn't very in character but oh well). Also, I hope you're feeling better. Take care!

Bucaneers1: Thank you for reminding me to get my butt moving and finish this chapter lol.

And thank you favoriters (I just made that word up) and followers for your continued support!

Hans groaned as he meandered through the woods, kicking rocks away from his feet as he glared into the thick fog that had settled over the trees. He was only four days into his travels, and he already found himself wearing down; although his physical condition had improved from, well, near-death, he was still weak from months of immobilization. He could feel sleep deprivation sneaking up on him, ready to pounce at any moment and rob him of precious time. His eyes wandered to the grey clouds thundering above him ominously, flashes of lightning in the distance blinding his sensitive eyes that had become accustomed to the darkness of his cell. Wincing, he tugged his shoddy, ripped jacket around his shoulders and pulled the map out of the troll's potato sack, studying it with a grimace.

He wasn't lost. Not at all. He had been reading maps since he was a small child, not to mention his little bout in the Navy! Unfortunately, the trolls, or Kristina(?), or whoever made this map really didn't know how to make a map. And, that left him a little. . . confused. Just a tiny bit.

The "map" consisted of inconsistent charcoal lines that, upon examination, appeared to be messily scribbled-out paths. Drawings of what he presumed to be landmarks covered the paper in some attempt to be usable, except said landmarks were smeared beyond recognition. The writing at the right-hand corner of the diagram was completely illegible- whether it had been written in another language or by a man with stubs for hands (which probably wasn't too far from the truth), Hans has no idea.

It didn't help that he had no clue which way he was going. The sun had been hidden from view for days, clouds blanketing its usually blinding light and throwing off his internal clock. That, and the fact that he had been trapped inside a hole in the ground for years also really cut off his natural affinity for directions.

He sighed and spun on his heels as he surveyed the forest. Miles of huge pine trees towered over him, stretching into the booming clouds that hovered above his head. They grew close together, thin and spindly like giant spiders, with their roots twisting through the dirt and slithering across the ground to create a thick, coiled web. Overgrown brush, riddled with pine needles and green cones, covered the ground and made the area hard to traverse. Man-kind hadn't swept a destructive eye over this land: a peaceful place for wildlife and trolls, perhaps, but an annoyance for travelers such as himself.

Hans crumbled the useless map up and tossed it back in his bag, slinging it over his shoulders with a sigh. He brushed a lock of dirty red hair away from his eyes, grumbling about the need of a haircut- they'd be calling him Rapunzel soon enough. Maybe if he was lucky Anna would mistake him for her absent cousin and help him out with the whole evil witch affair. It wasn't too far from the kidnapped princess's story, if he remembered correctly.

As he removed the debris from his eye, a flash of green in his peripheral vision caused him to turn. To his left, a thick patch of moss clung to the trunk of a pine tree, its tiny leaves clinging to the bark like a child would its mother. A dim light seemed to blaze forth in his mind as a hypothesis formed, information pulled from a childhood long-gone from history. With a soft grin, Hans paced around to the other side of the tree, which was absent of any growth.

His brothers had been overall useless for most things concerning him- they were providers of abuse and neglect, no more and no less. Yet, he vaguely recalled an older brother- he was unsure of which, as his face was oddly fuzzy in his memory- showing him a patch of moss growing on one of the trees in the forest. He could only assume that this took place after the first time that the twins had dumped him off in the middle of the woods and left him for dead. He had been lost, wandering aimlessly for over a day before he had managed to stumble back into the nearest village, tired and thirsty. He was around four at the time.

Afterwards, he remembered that his brother had explained that for the moss to grow, the sun would have to hit it directly, and therefore only the southern side of the trees would have moss. If you were to follow the growth, you'd be going south, and the other directions could be determined based on that. He had assumed that he was in the northern mountains, considering the lack of people and the overabundance of trolls and wildlife- and therefore, if he were to follow the moss, he'd eventually hit civilization!

In the very back of his mind, he couldn't help but snicker- here he was, owing success to his brothers, those of which no longer knew him as such- not that they ever truly cared to do so.

He picked up the pace, ducking under low-hanging branches and hopping over rotting tree-stumps that lay dead in the mucky dirt. He could only assume that it had rained before he had even begun his trip- after all, the dirt didn't turn wet on its own- and he could only imagine how much worse the ground would get if he stopped long enough for the turning weather to catch up with him. Even with several days of dry weather, his worn boots slid down his ankles with every step and threatened to fall off his feet and be lost to the mud forever.

He wondered, absently, if this Kester guy was a freaking behemoth. Man's shoe size was double his own.

Within minutes, a sudden shift in the air and a hush of the birds above signaled the gale's immediate arrival. The wind began to blow, the air swirling felled leaves on the ground and shaking the tree branches. The storm was getting closer now, the light mist from earlier having subsided for sparse, small teardrops that began to occasionally pelt his head. A chunk of hail landed no more than a meter away from him as the thunder above rumbled threateningly.

Hans grimaced, the plans that would actually contribute to any progress in his journey abandoned as abruptly as the storm arrived. Instead, he spun on his heels as he surveyed the forest, searching for any glimpse of shelter for the time being. The barren woods only allotted the thin, spindly trees as protection. . . which, with a good wind and a burst of lightning, could very well cause his second death. He groaned in exasperation, mumbling curses to himself as he tumbled through the woods in search of a smaller, thicker tree to hide under. He ran straight ahead, stumbling awkwardly over the ground in his over-sized boots in an attempt to dodge the increasing number of hail. In fact, he was so focused on his plight that he didn't even bother to look where he was going until his eyes caught a peculiar looking log outstretched in front of him, positioned perfectly so that any unsuspecting idiot would fall into (or over) its trap. His feet were flying across the ground, far too quickly for him to stop, and he let out a sharp gasp as he suddenly realized what was about to happen.

He tripped. He felt the shock ride up through his shoulders as his outstretched palms sunk into the wet ground, his face mere inches from a mouthful of dirt. His hands sunk further into the mud as he scrambled to get up, brown sludge sloshing up against his fingers and leaving a modest layer of dirt behind. He groaned and pushed upwards, his legs stretching out behind the lumber that he tripped on as his knees awkwardly pressed onto its. . . oddly squishy side. Said log let out a ragged breath of pain as it felt Han's sharp bones digging into its wounds.

Hans screeched and fell forward, his face slamming into the mud puddle that he had so valiantly attempted to avoid earlier. Sputtering, he spat out a mouth full of mucky water as he scrambled forward, his leg scraping across the side of the dying creature that lay behind him.

A young doe laid in the mud, rain pelting her side as she gasped for air. A deep gash tore up her abdomen and through her neck, exposing the rib cage beneath. Rivets of blood cascaded down her ticked pelt, mixing with the rain to create a thin, pink river that congregated beneath her body. A wide, brown eye framed by dark lashes settled upon Hans, watching him silently as he fumbled in the mud.

Hans gulped, staggering to his feet. The animal made no attempt to get up, the only sign of life being her pounding chest and her wide, teary eyes. Carefully, he tiptoed around her, studying her condition with a thoughtful look. She tossed halfheartedly in the dirt, all of her energy leaking out through her skin by the second, the hail pelting her hide and leaving near-dents behind. She let out a weak groan, her head sinking further into the mud as the rain began to pool around her body. He glanced around; no sign of a predator or hunter, and no shelter to be seen either. Something had to have injured the deer, and it could be anywhere- and with his luck, it'd get him next. Plus, with the storm arriving, his time was shortened to basically nothing. He didn't have time to mess with her!

He shifted as his stomach growled, reminding him of his days of almost complete starvation.

He had a few pieces of fruit in his bag, but nothing substantial. The trolls had evidently thought that he would reach some form of civilization by now, and would be able to purchase a better supply of food. However, between the lost days trying to follow their crappy map and the weather fluctuations, he had already spent a portion of his food reserve. And if the weather continued the way it was currently, he'd be walking for even longer than expected. A while without a proper meal. He loathed the very thought of escaping the prison, only to find himself with a rumbling stomach again.

Besides, venison was good.

Hans grabbed his bag from around his shoulders and sifted through the contents. He bit out a low "ouch" as his thumb grazed across the needle and thread that Bulda had insisted he carry with him. At the bottom of the pouch, he could see the axe, its unkempt blade bleak and sad in the shade of the rain clouds.

He braced himself against the wet soil and swung the axe down onto the doe's neck. She screeched, her legs kicking out as she scrambled for footing as the dull blade coupled with his weak, shaking muscles barely made an indentation in the deer's thick hide. He gathered himself and heaved another blow, and another, ignoring her cries as the adrenaline rush granted him more force behind each swing. The doe's wailing faded into oblivion as her neck gave way, the axe finally piercing through her pulsating veins and spilling the blood that lay beneath. She choked, unable to catch her breath as her throat collapsed, feeling the cold hand of death smothering her screams.

Hans knew that feeling all too well.

After what felt like an eternity, but in all reality was only a few seconds, the deer's chest slowed to a halt. Her wide, beautiful brown eyes settled on him for the last time, blinking furiously with pain and fear. A final, sputtering breath left her broken body, her soul with it.

He stared at the deer, the rain splattering against his hair and soaking the jacket that hung limply from his shoulders. He looked down at his muddied pants and back to the body, and with a sigh, swung the axe back and began to hack through the flesh. She'd make a good meal, later.

Hans hissed, throwing the useless sticks to the ground and stomping his pile of tinder into the mud. Both were thoroughly soaked, rendering him without any source of warmth to combat the cold rains that poured down around him. He was currently huddled underneath a squat pine tree, the rainwater rolling off the thick needles and protecting him from at least some of the storm. That being said, he was still cold and unhappy and soaking wet, and he was four days into his journey and there was still no sign of civilization or Christian Troll-man. Therefore, this blessing was ignored and instead he sulked in a puddle of mud with a pout on his face.

Grumbling, he fixed the ratty blanket around his shoulders and stared off into the growing darkness. It was difficult to see past the sheet of rain that ran off the pine branches, and the cloudy sky blanketed the sun's dying light, leaving behind black curtains that sheltered him from the world beyond.

Hans huddled further into the blanket, attempting to get into a more comfortable position that didn't require drowning in a mud puddle or getting poked in the eye by pine needles.

He glanced down at the chunks of meat that he had obtained from the doe. He had attempted to properly skin and quarter her, but lack of proper tools and time left him with shoddy cuts of flesh that had ribbons of hide still clinging to it. Without a fire, there was really no point in taking the time out of his day to cut up the deer anyway. In the summer morning, it would become rancid within hours, and he'd be left without much for food. . . again.

(In some ways, this reminded him of his imprisonment. He was cold, tired, and hungry, and trapped in a small space surrounded by darkness and there was nothing that he could do about it.)

The rumbling of his empty stomach snapped him out of his contemplation. Grimacing, he rummaged through the now dirty potato sack lying next to him and felt a large apple inside. He had been limiting himself to only a couple per day as his rations were sparse- and with his malnutrition, the small portions didn't bother him as much as it could have if he were still a healthy young man. He traced his fingers around the apple, feeling for any indication of worm holes or rotting. Interestingly, he couldn't find a single imperfection on the peel- it was perfectly round and smooth, with no indentations or bruising of any sort.

A flash of lightning illuminated the fruit's exterior, revealing a bright, juicy red skin, the color of the doe's spilt arterial blood. He blinked, and the color, the blood was gone- the light had faded as fast as it had appeared.

He shook the thoughts away and bit into the apple, the sweet juice flooding his mouth. It was fresh and ripe, much better than some of the apples that you could pick up in the market. The Isles' apples were never very good- they didn't stay on the trees long enough to truly ripen, and they were always more acidic than he would have preferred. However, it was what he was used to, and was what he ate when available.

A tinge of copper touched his tongue, and he withdrew the fruit from his mouth. His tongue searched the edges of his teeth, the taste becoming more evident along his gums. Frowning, he turned the perfect apple in his grimy, calloused hand. A thought entered his mind.

Why hadn't the witch's magic fully healed him?

It was hours later, long after the storm had passed and the wind died down to a gentle breeze, that Hans awoke to darkness and whispers.

His eyes snapped open, or at least he thought they did. They felt open, but it was dark- very dark, hole-in-the-ground dark. His breath hitched, his hands clenching into tight, sweaty fists- if he could see, he was sure his knuckles would have been white. Was he still in his cell? Had it been a dream? The witch, the trolls, the grasping hands and deer?

He jumped to his feet, smacking his head on a tree branch.

Nope, not a dream.

The whispers, however, remained, soft voices dancing in the still night.

Hans peeked out from under his cover. The storm had passed, leaving a path of destruction in its wake- he could see several downed trees, water standing in low areas of the forest and miscellaneous flora littering the ground. He moved a foot and heard a soft splash- he had been sleeping in a puddle, evidently. He groaned and tugged at his wet pants, the cold seeping into his skin as the material clung to his legs. He gathered up his belongings, stuffing a few pieces of surprisingly chilled meat inside of his sack and ducking out of the cover of the pine tree.

It took several moments for his vision to adjust to the bright light of the moon. He was still half-asleep despite being startled earlier, and he still wasn't used to so much light after years in darkness. He blinked rapidly, trying to scatter the hovering shadows in his eyes. . . and froze when they finally focused.

Dark silhouettes moved in the distance, their bodies framed my moonlight. No torch accompanied them, and their voices were hushed to almost nothingness. A group of travelers, it seemed, were headed his way.

He wondered, briefly, if he should attempt to contact them. They were traveling in the middle of the night after a bad thunderstorm without anything to guide them but the full moon, and they were whispering and practically crawling on the ground. At the same time, Hans was doing the same thing, so he figured he ought not to judge too harshly.

Pursing his lips, the ex-prince waved. "Hey!"

The silhouettes froze in their tracks as though they had run into a brick wall, each one pausing in their position. Their whispers died down into nothingness, as though a switch had flicked their voices off. Hans scoffed; obviously he had already noticed them, it wasn't as if he wouldn't see them if they didn't move! Suddenly, the person in front- the leader, he assumed- turned on their heels towards Hans. One by one, the others did the same, their bodies moving mechanically at the beck of their leader. Hans shifted backwards, feeling the air go still with tension. Perhaps curiosity would kill the cat. . .

He began to back up as the group drifted closer, his back hitting the tree that he had been hiding in earlier. He grunted, realizing his mistake as the moonlight revealed a hodgepodge of characters: five men, all of varying shapes and sizes but with similar levels of shadiness, surrounded him. Their grimy linen castoffs hung off their shoulders like capes, and their stringy beards hoarded dirt; those with smooth faces boasted thin, wrinkled skin and dark bags under their eyes.

Actually, Hans fit right in at the moment.

The young man grinned charmingly (as charmingly as he could be, looking like an ex-convict. . . wait.) "Hello, fellows! I apologize for calling you over, I thought you were my traveling group!" He chuckled, boasting a strong grin, although his stomach was turning on the inside. He absently fiddled with his ragged jacket as the men glanced to one another, their eyes holding a devious glint within.

The man in the front, whom had led the group towards Hans, loomed forward, baring a set of broken teeth with a grim sneer. He studied the ex-prince in the light of the moon, bearing witness to his red-flecked skin and saggy cheeks, his hair a field of rotting wheat and bunches of greasy cowlicks. Hans grimaced when he stepped close enough for him to smell his breath; it was a lovely combination of garlic and necrotic gums, enough to make most grown men vomit.

Absently, he wondered if his smelled about the same- minus the garlic, that is.

"Ay', what're you doin' out here at this time of night?" he hissed, his rancid saliva hitting Hans in the eye. Hans flinched at the contact, his face scrunching up in disgust. Yuck. He didn't need an infection right now. "Don'tcha know the wolves roam 'ere, and there ain't enough food for all o' 'em to be happy and fed?"

Hans smiled sweetly, wiping the spittle out of his now red eye and folding his hands behind his back. "I'm on my way to. . . oh, I don't even know the name of it. . ." he gave a half-hearted shrug, his eyes darting between the gang. "I was traveling with my men when we got separated during that awful storm. We were headed towards the ice houses north of the capital. Perhaps you could point the way? Trust me, I'm in quite the hurry and I'll be gone in an instant." Yes, instant indeed.

The leader seemed to consider the offer, his brows raising and pinching as though he were in deep concentration. Watching the thick hair bounce and move, Hans thought that they might have actually been caterpillars resting on his flat forehead.

The man- Bushy Brow, he decided- suddenly leaned around Hans, seemingly staring at the ground behind him.

"What'cha got there?"

Hans eyes went wide, all casual confidence leaving his body in one swift breath. He had forgotten his bag, which was still gripped within his white-knuckled fists behind his back. He grinned, giving a wary chuckle as he pushed the bag further behind himself. "Nothing of any interest, certainly. I am homeless."

"Hm." Bushy Brow hummed, leaning further to the side as he inspected the potato sack. Hans retaliated, turning his body so that the bag remained out of sight.

"Ay!" An odd, spindly creature chirped eagerly, clasping its bony, claw-like fingers together as it stooped forward. Hans hadn't noticed its presence before, but was now reconsidering the phrase "ignorance is bliss". It might have been a man once, but it was reduced to skeletal proportions, with purplish skin and a visible lack of body hair. It wore a pair of baggy, ripped slacks and nothing more, constricted pupils burning against its grey eyes. Hans shivered at the sight of it.

The little. . . goblin. . . smirked, licking its thin purple lips with unidentified hunger. "Sa ya mut carreh evr'ytin wit you den, eh?"

It took Hans a moment to decipher the message. The creature spoke with a flat accent, void of enunciation and proper grammar-which, frankly, Hans found to be quite fitting for its physical appearance.

Its deduction skills, however, were a bit better than he originally would have estimated.

"Perhaps, but rest assured it's nothing of interest." Hans shifted his leg to the side, covering the arm that reached into the bag and found its grip upon the bloodied axe handle that lay within. He didn't like making messes; he was a prince, after all, and messes required cleaning. When it came between him and survival, however, he figured that blood could wash out of clothing with a few drops of cold water.

"Ya speak quite prim un' proper fer a beggar."

The group nodded, muttered agreements resounding throughout them. Hans frowned. Either this creature was far more intelligent than it appeared, or he was losing his touch after years of dormancy. He couldn't decide which he preferred.

Bushy Brow considered this briefly and waved a large, hairy mitt. With the motion, his gang stepped forward, their bodies completely blocking any entrance of escape.

"We can tell ya the way to your ice house", Bushy Brow sneered, "if you give us your bag."

He reached out, clasping Hans' shoulder and jerking him away from the tree. Hans stumbled, swinging his arm forward to brace himself against Bushy Brow.

Unfortunately, it was the same arm that was holding the axe.

Hans and the thieves gaped as they stared at the axe sticking out of Bushy Brow's arm, blood gushing around the wound and dripping onto the soft dirt. Bushy Brow blinked rapidly, his eyes fixated on the splinters of bone jutting around the blade, bits of muscle drooping like dead flower petals across his arm.

Hans met his stunned eyes, cloudy and tearful, and gave a weak smile. "Sorry?"

He swung the bag out, knocking Bushy Brow onto the ground. The goblin was the first to react, its spindly legs bracing against the ground as it let out an inhuman snarl, lunging towards the ex-prince. Hans spun, the bag slamming into its thin abdomen and sending it flying into another of the thieves. The two remaining men were standing too far apart to do anything as Hans dived towards the opening, jumping over the downed bodies and sprinting across the mud.

He dashed through the woods, his shoes rattling on his ankles as he stumbled over the brush lying in his way. Suddenly, a sharp scream filled the forest not too far behind him, accompanied by unintelligible shouting. He could hear Bushy Brow's brusque commands in the distance, caught between mad rage and pain, steaming in the summer air. He sprinted faster through the wood at the roar of leather boots slapping in the thick mud, the minion's angry yells echoing around him. He ignored them, hopping across rocks and ducking under branches, adrenaline pumping through his bloodstream with a renewed vigor that he hadn't felt since he was dying.

The air turned cold against the bare spots on his face, sweat pouring down his forehead and blanketing his skin in a glossy veil. He couldn't see more than a meter in front of himself, his only light source being the full moon glimmering with wicked amusement in the night sky.

He winded through the trees, taking odd turns in hopes of losing his pursuers. The forest was far too still, and he realized that he was probably heading away from his original destination, and with it civilization. If he continued in a random direction, he'd be even more lost than he already was.

He put on the brakes, coming to a stop where the trees thinned to almost nothingness. The voices were drawing closer by the second as he frantically considered his options, his head whipping to the sides. Keep running and possibly lose them, and be lost himself, or risk them catching up trying to find his destination. The answer should have been obvious, but he really couldn't afford to waste any more time. He was already way behind, and soon he- and the rest of the world, but mostly he- would be facing the pits of the underworld reborn on Earth.

He hissed, kicking a flower aside and stomping it angrily into the mud. Those stupid trolls made it sound so easy! "Just go back and make all the things the way they're supposed to be!", they said, "True love blah blah frozen heart blah blah witch blah blah blah" they pretty much said. Yeah, right! The very Earth was against him, trying to stave off his efforts to save it!

He grimaced, his eyes darting back and forth across the empty meadow. It appeared to stretch for some distance, leaving him out in the open and susceptible to attack. He started to turn around when he heard another yell, one that was far closer than it had been before. His instincts took over and he darted towards the meadow, his feet trampling the grass underneath. In the distance, a dim light suddenly blazed forth, twisting lazily in the summer breeze. Travelers? Travelers that weren't shady thieves? Without even considering the last time that he ran to people without questioning their motives, he took off towards it, not even slowing down as the figure containing it became more apparent.

There was a man, shorter than Hans but broader, huddled up against a dinky looking shack with a torch pressed against his chest, the flames licking the air and sending a billow of smoke into the breeze. Behind him was parked an old wooden sleigh hooked up to a single bull reindeer with a comically large face, resembling that of the trolls in that aspect. A small shop stood just a few meters in front of them, the windows framed with dim lanterns that illuminated the name "Oaken's Trading Post".

At the sound of Hans' footsteps the man glanced up, a confused expression flitting across his face. He set the torch in a sconce, and took a step forward. "Hey, are you ok-"

Hans slammed into him, sending them both flying through the doors of the rickety old trade.

In that moment, the lights seemed to have gone out again. Hans blinked rapidly, rubbing his sore head as he rolled onto his back. He was thankful for the mat that had happened to be lying on the ground, weakening his fall.

"Get off of me!"

He pushed himself up with his elbow and glanced at the man beneath him, who was struggling in vain to get up. Perhaps he wasn't made to be a mat, but he functioned as one well enough. It could even be a future career path- he was much better at it than the floor was, either way. He began to get up when a large, dark shadow fell over the two. The living cushion's face fell even further, and Hans turned around to face the giant hovering above them.

Some sort of Goliath stood there, sporting a vomit-green knit sweater with rainbow accents that only a mother could have loved. His rosy cheeks and mutton chops reminded Hans of his father, but all of the icy cold had been boiled to a more reasonable degree that may have resembled warmth- possibly just a bout of drunkenness, but warmth nonetheless.

"Yoo-hoo, anybody home?" he whistled in a voice and tone that did not suit his stature.

Hans hoisted himself up off his unintentional meat bag, who hissed in pain and swatted at his face. In the light of the small shop, Hans could make out his features- a Laplander, judging by the squared face and blonde hair, his pale skin spattered with dirt and grime. He was young, perhaps the same age as the prince himself if not just a few years younger. He held a gloved hand up to his nose, and Hans could see a drop of blood running down his lip. He sent a wild glare up at Hans, pushing himself up off the ground to his full height, which wasn't nearly as intimidating as the muscle factor.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he grunted, his voice stuffy from the blood in his nose.

Hans grimaced, sending a glance to the broken doorway. "Um, well. . ."

Goliath shook himself out of his shock, his already wide eyes becoming akin to dinner plates at the sight of the downed entrance. "You broke my door, you nut!"

Hans bit his lip. "I can explain!"

Before he had the chance, however, Bushy Brow burst through the empty archway, his namesake furrowed to points upon his wrinkled forehead as he heaved an angry breath. He had torn the axe out of his arm and was gripping it against his wound, blood streaming through his pudgy fingers and down the wooden handle. Behind him, Hans could hear the sound of his abandoned henchmen flooding the forest, their yells echoing in the night. Bushy Brow let out an inhuman snarl as he hoisted up the axe and lunged for Hans.

The prince dropped to the ground and rolled, avoiding the sharp blade that dug itself into the thin wall where Hans stood just seconds before. Wood chips fell like rain as Bushy Brow pulled the axe out and whipped around, rapidly swinging it downwards in hacking motions at Hans' legs while the man scrambled backwards. Hans pulled a leg back just as Bushy Brow slashed across the empty space where it had been and swung his other foot out, catching the enraged thief's ankle and sending him crashing to the ground where his chin smacked firmly against the floor. The axe flew out of his hand, skirting across the wood and sliding to a stop next to the downed door. The men made brief eye contact, blood flowing down Bushy Brow's chin where his teeth had gone through his thin, papery skin.

They both surged forward, Hans' broken fingernails grasping for hold as he scrambled to his feet, lunging for the weapon. Just as he did, Bushy Brow's elbow slammed into his mouth, knocking a tooth loose and sending him back onto the floor. The thief clambered across the ground, reaching out for the axe handle when Hans dove. His fingers latched around Bushy Brow's meaty ankle and he found himself being dragged along for the ride as he repeatedly punched the thief's calf, trying to slow him down. Bushy Brow kicked out, attempting to force the prince off him when Hans pulled his leg back, sinking his teeth into the frail Achilles tendon set out before him. Bushy Brow screeched, shaking his leg rapidly as Hans chewed, trying to ignore the gross taste of sweat, blood and body hair. Bushy Brow reached out and found a grasp on the axe handle and twisted back, jerking his leg forward and swinging the weapon at Hans' face. The prince screamed, releasing the ankle and rolling away just as the axe met Bushy Brow's leg.

The men paused. Bushy Brow looked almost offended at the axe- it had injured him twice now, after all. Hans stared, flabbergasted at the sight and busted out laughing. "This time it wasn't even my fault!" he said gleefully, admiring the display of stupidity like a carnival side show. Bushy Brow screeched, tugging out the axe with a spray of blood and leaped, sending the two tumbling across the ground where they slid to a stop. Bushy Brow held Hans down with a blood-soaked hand and raised the axe back with the other. "I don't usually bury a man", he hissed, "but I think I can make an exception!" He swung the blade down and Hans closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable end.

It never came.

He opened an eye and saw Goliath wrenching the thief's arm behind his back, his large fingers crushing the hand that held the axe. The giant's already red cheeks flooded with rage as he spun Bushy Brow around, snatching him up with a single fist clenched in the material of his beggars clothes. With a snarl, he stormed towards the opening and sent the leader flying through the doorway, his back slamming into the Laplander's sled with a resounding crack. The reindeer bellowed, raising onto its hind legs and kicking into the air with fear. Bushy Brow made to get up, but his shirt was caught on a loose nail in the wood of the sleigh. He paled as he realized what was happening and could only scream into the night as the reindeer fled, dragging both the sled and the thief with him. The Laplander, who had stood stock-still as the fight ensued, screeched and sprinted towards the opening, helpless as his steed took off into the night.

"No, no, no, Sven! Get back here-"

Goliath hoisted a shocked Hans up to his feet, gripping his shoulder with an iron fist. With his other hand, he grabbed the Laplander by the hood of his tunic and dragged both men to the glaring hole in the wall. The blonde continued panicking, flailing his arms in the air while he yelled at the retreating reindeer. Goliath smacked him across the cheek, silencing him effectively. The boy took several seconds to completely calm down, and Hans thought he saw a tear running down his face. Whiner.

"You two vill fix my door." Goliath said after a moment, tapping his foot against the floor.

"What?' The Laplander hissed, stomping a foot. "I didn't do anything! I was here to get supplies when this nutcase tackled me!"He pointed to the offending nutcase, who supposed that his accusations were fair enough. "Sven is gone! I need to find him!"

Goliath, however, didn't agree. He stood in front of the opening, preventing the men from leaving. "You vill fix my door and you vill not complain. Understand?"

If looks could kill, the iceman's glare would have punctured Han's lungs and bled him dry. As it was, however, his boyish features bore similarity to an angry Patrijshond puppy and Hans almost laughed.

Almost. He wasn't quite that stupid.

I like to imagine the fight scene between Hans and Bushy Brow at the end to be set to the tune of "Lollipop" by the Chordettes. Makes things more interesting.

Don't worry about the rest of the thieves or Sven, they'll be back soon enough.