QUICK NOTES:

Chapter edited for development. Added a bit of context from the story that precedes this one, since I'm following my own canon at this point.

Arendelle and its peeps aren't mine.

Chapter 5

All Kristoff wanted to do, after several days' ride down the mountain, was unload the last of his haul at the castle, settle his reindeer in at the stables, and collapse on the narrow bed in his apartment above them. A small part of him wanted to seek out the princess, as well, but he dismissed that idea before it had the chance to take hold. As if she'd want to have anything to do with him this soon after his arrival—he was ragged and disheveled, and he smelled overwhelmingly like Sven.

No, he needed a bath. And a haircut. And maybe some dinner ... And sleep. Lots and lots of sleep.

Which is probably why he was incapable of comprehending the simple fact that the castle gates were closed. He'd passed through the service entrance without incident, ignored Sven's hopeful glance toward the stables, and pulled up outside the gate with the sole purpose of delivering his ice and leaving at once. If he'd been any less weary, he might have noticed that the streets of Arendelle were empty. He might have observed the city's uncharacteristic stillness. And he might have looked upon the shuttered castle with suspicion. But he did none of these things, because he was cold and tired. And because seeing the castle in all its magnificence reminded him that he did not belong there. And because he was desperate to see Anna again ... But mostly because he had nothing of magnificence to offer her. Unless you counted Sven.

There was no denying that Sven was a magnificent beast.

These muddled thoughts competed with the palace guard for poor Kristoff's attention, and it was all he could do to stare incredulously at the man who refused to let him pass.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Bjorgman, but neither man nor merchandise is permitted to enter this castle."

"But—" Kristoff scrubbed a hand through his hair. "What am I supposed to do with all this ice?"

The soldier shrugged apologetically and suggested he unload it into the harbor.

Kristoff stared. He lowered his chin and leveled his eyebrows, and when he spoke his voice had assumed the rather less-than-friendly tone he'd been accustomed to using all his life before having met Anna. It wasn't a conscious thing, really. Just a reflex.

"I beg your pardon?" he grumbled.

The soldier—hardly more than a boy—took a step backward and staggered as his heel met the wall behind him. You could tell a lot about a person by the way he treated ice, and the mountain man was clearly not impressed.

"Uh, s-sorry?" stammered the boy. "It's just that we can't … um, we can't accept anything that might … that might be …" He swallowed nervously, "contaminated."

"Contaminated?"

The soldier nodded helplessly. "The fever, sir. Surely you're aware—"

"My ice is not contaminated."

"Certainly not, Mr. Bjorgman, but until this infection runs its course—"

Kristoff shook his head. "Wait," he said wearily. "What infection? Why are the castle gates closed?" He looked up at the fastened window casements. "Where is the queen?"

The soldier shifted his feet and peered at him with a regretful expression. Then he explained what had been happening to the city in Kristoff's absence. The latter listened with increasing dread. He brought his hands to his head, closed his eyes, took a deep breath.

"Are they all right in there?" he asked quietly, his voice tight with restraint.

Because in spite of appearances, Kristoff was a sensitive man who did care deeply for others. It was for this reason that he'd rescued Sven and halved all his meager provisions for him when he'd found the young reindeer left to the mercy of the elements so many years ago. And it was for this reason, also, that he'd allowed himself to get involved with the royal sisters in the first place. Of course, he'd stood to benefit from bringing summer back to the kingdom, in those days, but after being menaced by a pack of wolves and a giant snow creature he couldn't really be blamed for concluding that Anna was more trouble than any of this was worth.

But then he'd gone and pretty much thrown himself into an avalanche for her—sent her away with the only thing in the whole world he'd ever held dear (which was Sven). And now his thoughts were fixated on that same troublesome, exasperating, gravely significant individual.

Anna.

"Yes, sir," replied the guardsman, now. "They are unaffected by the outbreak."

Kristoff nodded. It was clear to him why the gates had been closed to all outside influences. The best thing he could do for Anna—and for her sister—would be to stay away from them. And so he steered Sven back toward the stables, where they could warm up and rest and discuss what to do next.

"Please tell the queen—" he began, but then hesitated. Tell her what, exactly? That he'd made it back? What difference would that make? Elsa had far more pressing concerns than whether or not her official ice deliverer was on the premises. He sighed.

"Never mind."

If only he could see Anna—just to assure himself that she was safe. He didn't know much about ailments such as these, how they could endanger a whole population in a relatively small amount of time. Ask him how to set a broken bone, or to prevent a hypothermic stupor, or to treat diseases that were endemic to reindeer, and he was your man. But he'd never really spent much time in human society, and so he had little understanding of how an epidemic could spread like wildfire through a village—a city—like Arendelle.

He did know one thing for certain, though: his ice was as pure as the rarefied mountain air, and he'd sooner die of dehydration than waste it in favor of the stale, copper-tinged stuff the people of Arendelle used for their daily needs. So he settled Sven in to his stall at the royal stable with a generous pile of carrots, and then he channeled all his frustration and all his anxiety into the laborious task of unloading each block of ice into barrels. These he stored in a well-swept corner near the cast-iron stove below his loft. Finally, he located a large pot, stoked up a good flame in the belly of the stove, and set a sizable quantity of ice to boil. Later he would portion out enough warm water to bathe in. The rest he would store away to cool, and this he would use for Sven and himself as drinking water.

It tasted nothing like the city; it tasted like home.

Sort of a quiet chapter, but it lays the groundwork for … later developments. I'm sure you can guess …

As for offering a realistic portrayal of how society falls apart during a plague—particularly before and during the nineteenth century—yeah. I'm not doing it justice by keeping things confined to the castle grounds. But my reasoning, aside from the fact that I don't have time for adequate research and such, is sort of twofold: 1) the source material is Disney, and 2) well, it's a world with magic. It will never be entirely realistic. So.

I'll probably go back and add more context in the future.