Chapter Two

It was not a very long way by sea to the Southern Isles from Arendelle, but to Hans it felt like an eternity. He brooded in the prison cell of the ship, unable to sleep and refusing to eat. Though he was uncomfortable from the chains binding him to the wall, he was more bothered by the insult than the injury. The arrogance of Arendelle, to keep him filthy and chained like some common prisoner! He may be thirteenth in line for the throne, but he was still a prince of the Southern Isles! They had no right to treat him so basely!

The door to the prison hold opened. Hans blinked and then shut his eyes briefly to adjust to the sudden flash of daylight. He heard footsteps thumping on the wooden steps, a slow, deliberate walk, then the distinctly ordered steps of soldiers.

Hans opened his eyes, the pops of stars from the unexpected light clearing. A man stood before him, the most colorless man that Hans had ever seen. He was a very handsome man, strong and broad-shouldered, tall, but there was nothing of pigment to him. His hair was so pale blond as to be almost white, his skin was porcelain, and his eyes were such a light blue that they were nearly colorless. He even wore white, everything white save for the gold trim of his jacket. Hans had intended to complain to the first person he saw, but he was momentarily distracted by the oddness of this pale apparition.

Edvard had also paused to assess. He had never seen Hans, having spent most of the voyage to the Southern Isles in his cabin while Hans had been locked in the hold before he had arrived. The would-be usurper was smaller than he had expected, a slim, handsome youth not far past boyhood. There was fire in his green eyes, though, Edvard could see that much.

"Prince Hans," Edvard greeted him, bowing slightly, as if they were merely at court. "I am Prince Edvard of Arendelle, now restored to my former position as Ambassador to the Southern Isles, by order of Queen Elsa. I have been entrusted to see you safely home, and our journey is near its end. I should like to give you the chance to wash and eat before you're brought home. Can I trust you with accommodations more befitting your status?"

"It's about time someone remembered my status," Hans said bitterly. "What am I going to do? Kill your entire guard and swim back to Arendelle? Just get these damned chains off me!"

Prince Edvard said nothing.

"All right," Hans grumbled. "I won't cause any trouble. You have my word of honor."

"That is worth somewhat less than nothing, but I will give you the chance," Edvard said. He nodded to the guards, and stepped back. "Unchain him."

Hans was escorted up to the deck of the ship. He could see his homeland on the horizon, and dread filled him. For a moment, he did consider fighting his way off of the ship and swimming somewhere, anywhere but the Southern Isles. He was surrounded by drawn swords, however, and he knew there was no chance of escaping alive. He stomped across the ship sullenly, following Prince Edvard.

Edvard brought the youth to the royal cabin, and they entered alone. Hans looked around the cabin, sharp green eyes searching for some way to escape. There were windows, but they were too small to go out of. He knew the guards would be standing right outside the cabin's door.

I can take him, though, Hans thought, eyeing the back of Edvard's neck. I could do that, at least.

Hans set the thought aside for the moment. A bath had been drawn up for him behind a privacy screen, and fresh clothing in his size was laid out on a chair. He went behind the screen, stripped off his battered outfit, and went about cleaning up.

Hans felt better once he was groomed. His mind cleared of the pure blind rage he had been feeling in the dark cell, and he was able to contemplate revenge more properly. By the time he stepped around the screen, Edvard had a table set with food and drink. He sat down across the small table from Edvard. The two princes considered one another for a moment.

"I spent a lot of time in the Southern Isles when I was younger," Edvard said conversationally. He removed his white gloves and set to carving his food with neat, quick strokes. "Your father, King Adam, and I were quite close. Is he well?"

"How would I know?" Hans muttered. He was famished, but he was drowning his anxiety with wine before touching the food. "My parents forgot all about me once I was five. I left at fifteen to find a legacy elsewhere, and no one even noticed."

"They'll notice you now."

The thought made Hans drink a long swallow of wine.

"I remember that King Adam was quite strict, and you people of the Isles have a fondness for the rod," Edvard said. "How is it that you've come to be such a terribly ill-mannered boy?"

"I'm no boy!" Hans snapped. He could no longer keep from the food, and said around a mouthful, "I am past eighteen, a man grown!"

"Only a boy would feel the need to say such a thing," chuckled Edvard. He took a sip of wine himself. "My niece Anna warned me that you are quite a good actor. Is that why your father has not disciplined you enough? Did you have him fooled?"

"It's easy to fool someone when they aren't looking at you."

"Lost in the shuffle, were you?" Edvard asked. "It happens sometimes with families. I cannot believe that King Adam doesn't love you. My old friend has ever cared for his family above all else."

"Maybe my father is as good an actor as I am, then," Hans scowled. "He collects heirs the way a dog collects fleas, and speaking of dogs, my mother whelps like a prized bi-"

"Prince Hans, you forget yourself," Edvard cut him off sternly.

Hans looked shocked, and a little confused. He frowned, flushing with anger, and went back to viciously devouring his food. Edvard was vexed by the reaction. Had no one disciplined this boy?

"My father loves his children by degrees," Hans explained finally. "His firstborn, Adrian, will be the king, and his second, Gunnar, is the captain of the royal guard. His third, fourth, and fifth sons are all members of the royal council. His sixth and seventh sons are captains of their own ships in our naval fleet. Two more are soldiers who will be generals one day. Two are scholars. The second-youngest, my brother Jakob, must have seen the uselessness of being at the tail end of the family, and so he became a man of religion. Do you see how our usefulness degrades down the line? Do you think my father doesn't notice?"

"It is only natural that a king would spend more time with his eldest children if they were involved in the kingdom," Edvard reasoned. "Your father has a duty, and your brothers are old enough to share that duty. You would have grown into your talents and worked with your father someday, had you been patient and proven yourself worthy."

"Would have," Hans echoed. He pushed food around with his fork, and then looked across the table at Edvard. "It is your word against mine. Old friend of my father's or not, do you really believe that he'll execute his son on your say-so?"

"Execute?" Edvard asked, stunned. "Is that what you think?"

"Isn't that why you've come to escort me home yourself?" Hans asked. His hand trembled a bit, and he set down his fork. "To demand that justice be done?"

"No one wants you executed, Hans," Edvard assured him. "I have come as Ambassador to the Isles to ensure that you are officially banished from Arendelle, but Queen Elsa has no other demands. We will leave your punishment to your father and your brothers."

Hans tightened his lips into a grimace. That might be worse.

"Your father is stern, but he loves you, regardless of what you think," Edvard said. "You will be banished from Arendelle, possibly confined to the castle for a time, and given a nasty spanking, but I doubt he would do worse than that."

Hans blushed at his condescending comfort. His rage welled up inside of him again, and he pounded a fist on the table.

"Am I supposed to be grateful for that?" he snarled. "How dare you! How dare you bring me to my home as a prisoner! How dare you sit me down here and patronize me and treat me like a child!"

"How dare I?" Edvard asked flatly. "You came to my kingdom and threatened my family, tried to usurp the throne from my nieces and myself, and you think that I am treating you poorly?"

Hans had had enough of the simpering Arendelle royals and their haughty outrage. He stood and threw the rest of his wine into the man's face. It seeped into his hair, ascot, and shirt like blood. At least the red gave the man a little color, Hans observed.

Edvard methodically wiped the liquid from his face, hair, and clothing as best he could with a napkin. He stood, facing the rebellious lad for a moment in silence. Then, moving so quickly that Hans had no time to react, he drew his hand back and slapped him full across the face. The blow cracked on the air like the sound of a whip, and Hans nearly fell to the floor. He stumbled, gripping the chair to regain his balance. He was furious when he lifted his face, a hand instinctively clutching his burning cheek, but Edvard did not intend to give him time to retaliate. He took the lad by the front of his shirt and slammed him against the cabin wall.

For the first time, Hans felt a streak of real fear. He struggled, but he could not break Edvard's grasp on his shirt. The pale man's face was hard, the wine streaks like blood, framed by wisps of that whitish hair. Hans could see the shape of muscles through his shirt, thick planes as hard and smooth as ice. Everyone in Arendelle has ice in their veins, Hans thought. He was reminded of that giant ice monster that he had fought.

"You are a prince of the Isles, but you are also a prisoner of Arendelle," Edvard told him. "Despite your behavior, I have treated you with every courtesy requisite of your birth. Will you act the way a prince should, or do I have to throw you back into chains like some low beast?"

"The chains were better company than you!" Hans growled. "Go ahead! Put me back! Bring me to my father bound and beaten! Or all the better, why not kill me? Go on! You must want to! Do it! Kill me!"

"Why would I want to kill you, lad?" Edvard asked wearily. He released Hans, though he did not take his eyes off him. "Do you actually believe I would want to bring my friend home his son in a coffin? What sort of man do you think I am?"

Hans straightened his shirt, walking a few inches back from Edvard. He rubbed his cheek angrily. "The sort that hates me."

"I don't hate you, boy," Edvard said. "I hate the things that you did, but I do not hate you."

Hans looked at him uncertainly, his hand dropping from his smarting cheek.

"Why not?" he asked heatedly. "I would have had your family dead. I would have had you killed, had you challenged my claim to the throne."

"Do you think that I was never young and stupid with ambition?" Edvard asked. He was untying his ascot in front of a mirror. "I, too, am a younger brother: a secondary, superfluous heir."

Hans had been trying to edge his way back to the table, to fetch the large carving knife. This made him pause. Was the older man actually claiming to sympathize with him?

"I once plotted to usurp my older brother's throne," Edvard admitted. He found it easier to face his story since having told it to Elsa. He threw the ruined white ascot aside and began unbuttoning his shirt. "Agdar was poised to be king, and I did not like how much everyone loved him. The people loved him in a way they had never loved me, as did his friends, and I thought even our parents loved him most. I told myself that it was not fair that our fates were determined by birth. I told myself that I would make a better king, that I was smarter, stronger, more able. I told myself a thousand lies back then."

Hans had the knife in hand, and he hid it behind his back. He began to edge back across the cabin, towards Edvard. If he could keep Edvard distracted by conversation, he thought he would be able to take him by surprise.

"And were you?" he asked. "More able?"

"In some ways."

Edvard had seen what Hans was doing in the mirror. He finished removing his shirt, then turned around. Hans had the knife raised in his hand. Edvard threw out his hands and all the ferocity of winter poured from them. Ice encircled Hans's legs, from foot to knee. He jerked, but could not take another step. Fear lit his large green eyes, and the knife dropped from his hand.

"No! Please, no!"

"Oh, do relax," Edvard said. "I don't intend to harm you, lad."

Edvard waved a hand almost lazily, and the ice dissolved into a puddle. Hans stepped out of it, shivering. The temperature in the cabin had dropped so low that their breaths could be seen in the air, but it began to rise again now. Hans did not dare even look at the knife again. He circled around Edvard widely and sat on a chair hugging warmth back into his arms.

"You're a freak," he said accusingly. He looked Edvard up and down. Without his shirt on, the man looked more robust despite his pallor, and his body was indeed taut with muscle. "Just like your niece."

"I am nowhere near as strong as Her Grace, but I am similarly gifted," Edvard said. "Magic is somewhat rarer these days than it was, but it has always been woven into the fabric of Arendelle. I grew up isolated by my gift, always an outsider. I was jealous of my brother Agdar, and so I plotted to overthrow his claim to the throne. I never wished him harm, but I thought that if I showed the realm my power, they would follow me, and love me the way they loved him. So, I traveled the world, seeking out wizards and witches, sorcerers and shamans, in every land. I learned to control my powers, and strengthen them."

Hans was interested in the story, despite himself. Edvard was younger than his father, though still old enough to have been Hans's father, and his face was unlined and smooth. Hans could picture him at his own age, nearly invisible in the snow he could conjure up, those striking eyes of his blazing with the white heat of ambition.

"But what happened?" Hans asked, sounding disappointed. "You didn't take the kingdom, obviously. Why did you give it up?"

"Fate conspired against me, thankfully," Edvard said. "Your father had pledged me his support, did you know? I would have had all the strength of your kingdom's formidable navy at my command. But then your father was married, and Adrian was born. Seeing his newborn child made your father really consider the fallout of war. He begged me to return home and reconsider my plans, to think of my family.

"So, I returned to Arendelle. I spent the holidays with my family. I wanted Agdar to give me a reason to hate him, to justify my plans. I provoked him, and we argued. For the first time since we were small children, we came to blows. I used my powers against him, and I nearly killed him. After that, I could never bring myself to think on moving against him again. I was horrified of what I had spent a lifetime plotting, and so I left the capitol for the mountains. I wear those gloves as a reminder of the value of restraint."

Hans was quiet, thinking on all this. He watched the prince dress in a fresh shirt and ascot. He wanted to hate him. He touched his cheek, still red from the slap, and tried to hate him. All he felt was a grudging respect for the man slowly forming in his heart.

"You could have had everything that I'll never have," Hans said. "How could you throw it all away?"

"It was never mine to take," Edvard said. "Not all who are born to power have a right to it."

"Anyone that is strong enough to rule has a right to it!" Hans declared. "Everyone else will obey, or die."

"It's ironic that you still believe that when you're only alive at the Queen's mercy," Edvard said. "What kind of Queen would my niece have been if she had killed you? It would have been justified, surely. But she would have cost your father a son. She would have given your mother the grief of losing her youngest child. She would have brought war down on Arendelle and the Southern Isles. So tell me, Hans, would killing you have made Elsa a stronger queen, or simply a crueler one?"

Hans opened his mouth to argue, but there was nothing he could say to that. Edvard had finished dressing. He came over and sat on the chair beside Hans's.

"My father never told me any of this," Hans said.

"King Adam is not too proud of the memory, I imagine," Edvard said. "Perhaps it was not my place to tell you. I only wanted you to see that your misguided ambitions are less unique than you thought, and your sins are not yet past redemption."

His sympathy seemed to be completely genuine. Hans did not quite know what to do with this fact. No one had ever truly understood him before. People saw him the way he wanted them to see him: as a charming prince, a dutiful son, a loyal brother. No one had ever truly seen him before.

"How can you possibly say that?" Hans asked irritably. "I would have killed your unnatural freak of a niece in cold blood. I seduced her gullible sap of a sister. I would have taken your kingdom for my own. You're weak and sentimental and old enough to regret your plans, but I don't regret mine. I don't think that I have any sins to be redeemed, Edvard."

Hans had expected, perhaps even hoped for, another slap for this. Instead, he was shocked when Edvard put his hand on one of his own. The touch was casual, but oddly intimate. His family never reached out to him. He had spent his short adult life thus far romancing princesses around the world, but he had never felt one bit of affection for them. He stared at the man's pale hand dully, feeling inexplicably miserable.

"You will learn better," Edvard said, "and I hope for your sake that it is not too late for you when you do. It was never the same between my brother and I after that fight, and now he is dead. There is nothing worse than being left with more regrets than memories."

"All I regret is not killing those stupid girls when I had the chance," Hans said angrily.

Edvard sighed and stood.

"We will be landing shortly."

He squeezed the youth's shoulder briefly, but did not say anything more to him. Hans was grateful that the old fool had finally shut up. His hand was warm, he thought suddenly. I thought it would be cold, but it wasn't.

Hans clenched his fists, and did not allow himself to think on Prince Edvard any further.