(euuuugh how does time go so fast! I thought I was almost done, and then decided to change the plot "a bit", got stuck, horribly stuck with editing etc. It's not the complete chapter, there's still one more scene missing – but it's been so long I have to post something. Sorry and thank you for reading)

EDIT: chapter complete!

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VI

where a prince slips with secrets

Mornings were undoubtedly the worst parts of his current existence.

Hans reluctantly slid into awareness of his miserable, dank surroundings with a groan. The frustratingly familiar throbbing and aching in his body greeted him.
Every night was the same, full of passionate visions of the ice witch and her deep eyes, her sensual voice sighing his name through lips plump from kissing, her soft, pale flesh compliant and willing under his hands. And every morning was more agonising than the last, every time he emerged from the sweet dream to the desperate reality of his situation a little more devastating.

The damn witch has made my life a living hell, he thought, staring at the ceiling baulks. Never in his life had he been so affected by a woman, it was absolute madness. It must have been the magic. She'd put some spell on him to punish him, to bring him to his knees. And he had no way to escape – he couldn't remove himself from her ruinous influence, or even distract himself with other women. His life revolved entirely around Queen Elsa; he was either in her company or alone with his thoughts in his cell, thinking mainly of her.

Hans sat up on the creaking dungeon cot and buried his face in his hands, trying to chase the remains of the dream away and gather himself, to remember who and where he was. The stone floor was cool and solid under his bare feet. It helped. He absent-mindedly rubbed the stubble on his chin, feeling rough and worn. He got up and padded to the corner of his cell acting as a pitiful excuse for a bathroom to wash and shave. Well, crude as it was, it was an improvement. He'd gained enough trust to be allowed to do his toilette in private now.

Holding his breath with each focused stroke of the razor, Hans stared at his distorted reflection in the small, dinged copper mirror he'd been granted. He wished he could as neatly and easily slice away the unwanted desires burning inside him, too. But failing that, he could at least present a sleek, put-together exterior. Appearances were important. They shaped what you were in the minds of others. A dishevelled appearance would have shown weakness, loss of control, and Hans refused to lose, even in that small way.
Or at least he refused to go down without putting up a fight. He sighed.

He'd been completely, embarrassingly blind-sided. Hans shook his head at himself, remembering how he'd been looking forward to spending time around her, admiring her at his leisure. Idiot. The damned attraction had sneaked up on him, stealthily deepening his admiration for her with each display of political sense, each clumsily concealed indication of fragility, each subtle quip she made. Each little smile dancing upon her features, like a ray of light glimpsed behind the clouds.

I should have let her fall, the often-nagging thought floated up again when he was trimming his sideburns. She'd moved according to his machinations like a pretty little puppet and walked right into it. It had been a solid plan, having the Queen completely annihilate her subjects' trust and confidence in her, very neat - and then he'd sabotaged it himself, like some gallant dimwit. Pathetic. Hans closed his eyes, and the memory enveloped him. How vulnerable and distressed she'd been, how the staggering need to protect her had crashed upon him full force, completely overpowering his better judgement.

Perhaps the madness was a side-effect of all those intense hours they'd spent in the dungeons, struggling to tame her powers – or perhaps it was the spell. In any case, he'd stepped in and saved her. She'd emerged triumphant from the crisis, stronger and more loved than before. It was a ruinous setback. Hans realised he was gripping the razor handle much too hard. He finished shaving and carefully cleaned the gleaming blade, deep in thought.

He'd been sure she'd seen through his façade, and perhaps she had done - but instead of calling the arrangement off, she'd thanked him. His efforts had never been acknowledged so genuinely before, and Hans had almost been rendered speechless. What's more, she'd invited him to spend the afternoon with her, as if he was an esteemed guest, not a prisoner. To his surprise, it had been incredibly pleasant. They'd simply passed the time in a companionable silence, without any head-games or subtle needling, and he'd stolen glances at her as she focused on her embroidery. The summer breeze had played with her hair, and she'd smiled a small, endearing smile, happy and carefree and so very lovely Hans had actually imagined he'd done the right thing and had felt good about saving her. He snapped the razor shut and shoved it angrily into it's designated place, clearly visible from the door. Idiot, idiot, blind bloody idiot.

They'd appeared to grow steadily easier in each other's company. Colossal fool that he was, he'd allowed himself to grow comfortable and let his defences down, tricked by her affability. Such an amateurish mistake.

Hans removed his shirt, scooped water from the pail and poured it on his head over the washbasin. The sharp bite of the icy water banished the last of the drowsiness away, reminding him of that thrice-cursed gravestone detour. By then, he'd been aware of her influence growing on him, but had deluded himself that he was still on top of it, that it was still just a trifling little fancy he could easily extinguish when he needed to. Every now and then he'd even ventured to tease and flirt with her, delighting in the hesitant responses, the occasional covert looks he'd vainly interpreted as admiring.

And then she'd completely undone him in one splash.

Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw her clear as day. The wet dress clinging to her body, rosy lips open and gasping for breath, her chest heaving, her bright eyes locked with his as he held her tight in his arms. She had been flustered, exposed and vulnerable, undoubtedly the most sensual thing he had ever seen. He'd had half a mind to carry her off and do extremely indecent things to her, to care and caress and conquer.

Hans plunged his face into the tingling coldness. Had she planned it, he'd asked himself a thousand times since, going through the events in the black nights. Was it really an accident? But the danger had been real. Hadn't it? He remembered the icy grip of fear when he heard her scream, the panic when he'd seen her under the ice and the immense relief when she'd drawn breath and spluttered, decidedly not dead. He'd trembled from the adrenaline. Hans pulled back up and leaned over the basin, water dripping from his face. It was bad, this inability to leave her in harm's way.

On the way back, he'd still been trembling, but now with desire. Even now, he could feel it. The thrilling grip of her thighs around his abdomen, the feel of her body pressing and moving against his, her warmth and wetness seeping onto him, the sweet caress of her sighs and voice in his ears and neck. The particular warmth he felt at the small of his back, at the juncture of her legs. Her buttocks, resting on his hands. It was sheer torture. He'd tried to talk of other things to distract them both, but it had backfired and made her laugh, an adorably genuine laughter.

Back at his cell, Hans had felt surreal and short of breath, trying to make sense of what had happened, feeling like the ground was shifting under his feet. When he'd undressed, he'd realised her sweet scent lingered on his coat, and had stood in the darkness for a long while with his face buried in it before realising what he was doing. He'd sternly told himself to quit being ridiculous.
Two nights (full of passionate dreams) and two days (spent irrationally worrying that the servants would find and wash the stashed coat) later, he'd been forced to admit that he was being absolutely, perilously ridiculous and couldn't help it. Something had awakened in him. He'd become agonisingly sensitive to Queen Elsa, painfully aware of her body beneath the thin layers of her summer dresses, of her every movement. Hans groaned again, grinding his teeth.

Worse, it wasn't just physical. He'd grown infatuated with her, god help him. She'd hesitantly been opening herself more and more, and Hans was enchanted by everything he found out, admiring her character, enjoying her presence and conversation far too much for his own good.

He'd tried to retreat back behind full formality, but it was in vain. Queen Elsa had become easier than ever with him, asking personal questions and making small talk, and he had to reciprocate. The Agdair trip had simultaneously brought them closer and made things more tense. They refused to acknowledge it, but it was there, it crawled on his skin and made his heart race and breath hitch. It beckoned him in the depths of her gaze whenever their eyes met, sang at the brief bursts of laughter when they forgot their stations, sent sparks through him at the rare accidental touches.

She made him giddy like a boy.

It was dangerous.
It was folly, weakness and vulnerability that would lead to pointless pain and suffering. Had he learnt nothing from that one incident? It's not real, Hans told himself, splashing some more water on his face for good measure. She was playing him, feigning attraction in order to wrap him around her little finger. She'd slipped in the carriage and revealed her thoughts, remember. She didn't trust him and he shouldn't trust her.

"Keep your guard up", he ordered the deformed Hans in the reflection. It's not real. Control yourself, man. He would prevail with reason and determination.

He finished his morning routine by wiping himself thoroughly with a sponge and cleaning his teeth. Refreshed, he selected his clothes for the day. It was Her Majesty's day off from state affairs, and Hans got to spend it at the stables with Sitron. Since he'd essentially be working as a stablehand, he dressed in the scruffiest clothes he had. No point in soiling his better garments. Hans looked forward to the exercise, he'd missed riding. Hopefully it'd ease the constant tension and clear his head.

He pulled his worse boots on with a harumph. His brothers claimed that the best way to forget a woman was a different woman, but unfortunately he had no chance of that. Aside from the crowds at the official outings, he hadn't even seen a different woman, pretty or hideous. Well, physical activity was physical activity. In the very least, the day would give him a welcome break from the Queen's disorienting, beguiling presence. God knew he needed one.

When he was ready, he sat on the cot and waited for the guard in the cool dimness, very determinedly not thinking of what Queen Elsa might be doing, if she had already arisen or still languidly relaxing in her bed, in nothing but a thin nightgown.

•••

When the door flung open, he saw that his warden for the day was Lundh, a staunch, simple and cheerful man. Hans greeted him warmly, and Lundh grinned back. Hans put serious effort into remaining on good terms with the men. He'd led them once, they'd opposed the Queen together, and he wanted to cling to that mental position of authority as best he could under the circumstances.

It was important to be on good terms with the staff in general, Hans believed. During his invisibility years, he'd understood just how much they really saw and heard. His brothers had gotten so used to acting like he wasn't there they'd occasionally genuinely forgotten his presence and talked of their private affairs in front of him, unintentionally revealing things they'd never consciously allowed him to know.
After that, he'd realised that most people of rank were incredibly unguarded around their staff as well; casually discussing sensitive matters in plain hearing of maids and guards and servers as if they were deaf and mute furniture pieces. The servants could be a veritable well of useful information, if one knew how to tap into it.

Hans felt his mood lift as they approached the stables. He chatted lightly with Lundh, letting him prattle on, hoping he might let slip of some interesting servant gossip. The day looked like it would be fine and hot, a real scorcher, one of the summer's last glorious displays of power before the autumn would start creeping in. They'd been cradled by a heat wave for a few days now, and the air had gotten thick and sizzling with the pressure. It made everything restless. Lundh made a crack about the heat and its effect on women, and Hans laughed just a tad more heartily it deserved. There would be a thunderstorm soon, he could feel it in the air.

Sitron neighed happily when he saw him, and Hans was grateful he was stuck in Arendelle with him. He was a good horse, intelligent and kind. Lundh handed him over to the charge of Hestnes, the stable master, and left wishing him a good day as he went. Hans walked Sitron out and tied him up, to enjoy the outside air for a bit while he thoroughly mucked out his stall. Master Hestnes was a decent man who treated his animals well, so he didn't fear Sitron would have to suffer for his master's crimes, but the castle was lacking staff. Aside from the most basic upkeep, they couldn't devote time to caring for the foreign traitor's steed, so it fell on the traitor himself. Astoundingly, Hans had found that once he'd got over the initial burning humiliation, he didn't mind the work, not really. It gained him more time outside with Sitron, and actually, there was something oddly satisfying about the physicality of it all. Besides, manual labour probably improved the general attitude towards him among the staff.

What's happening to me, he thought, I'm really becoming a commoner. Hans thought of the abject horror Her Majesty his Lady Mother would feel should she ever hear her own son was shovelling horse dung at the stables. It cheered him up considerably.

After finishing the mucking, Hans cleaned Sitron's hooves and gave him a quick brush-down, talking to him in Southish all the while to keep him calm. He was mildly worried that all these Arendellian-speaking people surrounding him would confuse Sitron, starting to erode the connection they shared. He'd always had a peculiar habit of snorting and whinnying when Hans talked to him, like he was conversing with him. He didn't want to lose that.

Finally, Hans tacked Sitron up and mounted, his heart light with pleasant anticipation. Unfortunately he wasn't allowed outside the castle walls on horseback, so a real ride was out of the question but they could at least practise a bit on the courtyard, to maintain Sitron's responsiveness. He'd been impeccably trained and responded beautifully to his direction, and it would have been a damn shame to let that deteriorate. Luckily, Hestnes agreed and allowed Hans the use of the courtyard on his stable days, even moving some carts to create some space for them.

The day had gained strength and become so suffocatingly hot the air seemed to ripple. Hans' thoughts went briefly to Queen Elsa, wondering if the heat affected her in any way, if she was using her power to keep cool, If she was maybe spending the day with her sister somewhere out of the city. Then he caught himself. Annoyed, he spurred Sitron on to ride it off.

After a few warm-up rounds around the yard in a controlled trot, he began to practise some dressage movements. They were both slightly rusty, but soon started to perform fluently together again. Hans felt real joy at feeling Sitron starting to anticipate him, feeling them work together almost as seamlessly as they'd done back home in the Southern Isles, before all this. Before he'd stopped being a prince.

His thoughts drifted to Queen Elsa again, and he lost his focus, glancing quickly towards the palace in the middle of a difficult change in sequence. He glimpsed the Queen at one of the windows, observing him, her white braid bright against the dark interior, and startled so much Sitron lost the tempo of the gait. When he looked up again, the window was empty, no sorceresses in sight. He'd imagined it.

Hans cursed harshly under his breath. Infatuation was truly a frightening form of madness. He tried to regain his focus, directing Sitron to a cramped canter. It was difficult, there was too little space to build up enough momentum for a good performance. Hans slowed him down to a walk and noticed the horse was exhibiting mild signs of disobedience, probably the result of boredom and frustration. He really needed to be taken out of the castle. With a heavy heart, Hans acknowledged he should ask Hestnes to have someone take Sitron for a proper ride, out of the city with space to run. The idea of some other, unknown rider commanding him in a foreign language was a bitter pill to swallow, but it couldn't be helped. Hans sighed and directed Sitron into some half-hearted attempts at pirouette turns before shaking the wistfulness off and putting his best effort into perfecting the collected gaits.

Finally, Lundh appeared at the side of the yard to holler that his riding time was up. After one last slow round to wind down, Hans had to reluctantly bring Sitron to a halt, dismount and prepare him for finishing up. Sitron made his displeasure known, he'd have liked to continue.
"I know, boy", Hans patted his neck and loosened the saddle girth. "Me too."
He walked him slowly to have a drink and cool down. They'd both broken a good sweat. Enjoying the pleasantly exhausted feel in his limbs, Hans tied Sitron up and started to dismantle the tack. He carefully cleaned each piece as he put them away, contemplating the prestigious Southern Isles insignia gleaming gold on them, even embroidered on the saddle-blankets in luxurious gold thread. It's out of place, he thought. It's too fancy for who I am supposed to be now.

Or maybe he was the one who was out of place. Maybe he didn't even know what his place was any more.
In the simmering, still heat emanating from everything around him, Hans was suddenly overcome by an odd feeling of being someone unfamiliar, a stranger in his own life, not just in Arendelle. Blood whooshing in his ears, Hans imagined for a moment his senses were heightened and he was on the brink of some enormous revelation, but he stared hard at the familiar lozenge-and-leaves arms of his family until it passed. That is who you are, he thought. Remember it.

He let out a shuddering sigh and began cleaning Sitron. He quickly wiped him down with a wet towel and re-checked the hooves before starting with the best part, brushing his coat. It was methodical, repetitive work, going over the fur several times with different brushes, but Hans enjoyed it, always had. There was something deeply soothing about it, a sense of companionship and connection, thanking the horse for his efforts with the massaging movements, talking to him all the time in a low voice to keep him calm.

He especially loved the talking. Since his youth, Hans had talked to Sitron about himself, about his troubles and fears, more than anyone else. The horse listened and understood, he secretly believed. He had slowly worked his way through both the horse's coat and his own woes countless times, the scent of hay and horses in the air imbuing everything like a consoling balm. Sitron's stall at the Elsinborg Palace stables had been his favourite place in the world for a long time. Sitron accepted him, comforted him even, and never, ever mocked or belittled him or turned his secrets into weapons of hurt and humiliation. And so, over the years Hans had developed a habit of whispering his secrets to the horse's ears, sharing their weight with him.

Hans had covertly pocketed an apple on his last luncheon with the Queen - quite a feat considering the snug fit of his attire - and he semi-triumphantly presented the treat for Sitron before starting over again with the last brush. He applied some pressure on the long strokes, and the horse grunted with contentment. Hans kept murmuring to him in a soft stream, affectionate praise mixed with sighs telling of smothered confusion and bafflement. Occasionally, Hans would pet him, and the horse fondly nuzzled him back. Sitron was his only friend in this land, he knew, the one being who was genuinely happy to see him. He briefly pressed his forehead to the horse's neck and sighed, breathing in the familiar, safe scent, ready to admit a new secret.

"You love him well, I see," came a very familiar voice from somewhere close behind him, and Hans startled away from Sitron, his blood frozen in his veins. Oh no. Not her. Please, no. How much had she heard? His heart thundering, he set his face into a polite smile and turned stiffly to face her. With a nervous twitch of a bow, Hans racked his brain for a response while trying to remember if he'd muttered anything condemning.

She was studying him intensely, her hands elegantly clasped in front of her, a coy smile on her face and curiosity and amusement dancing in her eyes. For her leisure, Queen Elsa had dressed more informally than usual, in a simple dress glittering with ice, her hair airily swept back and loosely braided. She didn't quite look like the Queen of Arendelle, nor like the Snow Sorceress he had fought on the false winter in his previous life. She was neither and both of them. She looked like herself, he fancied. She looked absolutely enchanting.

Hans realised with a jolt that he, on the other hand, looked like a ragged, common labourer, with just a worn vest and shirt, sleeves rolled high and no cravat, dirty and sweaty from the work. He nearly flushed with the burning embarrassment; he'd have rather buried himself neck-deep in dung than let her see him like this.

"Uhm, yes, Your Majesty, he's, uh, he's a good horse." It was deeply humiliating to have been caught in such a private moment. "I believe any rider worth their salt cares for their mount, ma'am," he said, slightly too defensively. Guard your tone, you twit. He wiped his forehead with his arm. "Forgive me, Your Majesty, I, I wasn't expecting the honour," he mumbled, gesturing to himself.
"No, no, please, it's your free time," she twiddled with her hands, "I just, um, saw you riding and thought I'd - say hello. You ride very well," she said.
"Thank you, ma'am," Hans replied, dumbfounded. So it had been her in the window after all. Had she been watching him?
"Sitron, was it?" She nodded towards the horse.
"Yes, ma'am," he said, as Sitron perked up at the mention of his name. Queen Elsa smiled.
"Hello, Sitron," she cooed, giving him a small, adorable wave from where she stood. He snorted at her in return.
"Would you like to pet him, ma'am?" She clasped her hands again.
"Oh, I, I don't know if I should, I'm, well." Dangerous.
"He's very friendly, ma'am, he won't bite," Hans said, pretending he didn't catch her meaning. She shot him a look.
"Yes, but…"
"You've already touched him before, Your Majesty," he said quietly, studying her, "You rode back from the mountain on him." She drew a sharp breath, hesitated, and then gingerly approached Sitron, glancing at Hans for assurance. He nodded at her, taking hold of the reins, and she reached out with her hand, incredibly carefully, seemingly holding her breath. Hans prayed Sitron would play nice. And he did – sensing the situation, he held his head very still and and let her pet him. She let out a sigh when she touched his muzzle. Sitron nudged her hand gently, and Queen Elsa squealed with delight like a little girl.
"Hello, Sitron," she whispered again, gently stroking him, and Hans found himself intensely jealous of his horse, which was a first.

"Your Majesty is not used to horses?" It was exceptional for a royal.
"No, I'm not used to any animals at all," she said. "Because of, you know." He nodded. "Have you had him long?"
"A little over five years, ma'am. I got him when I turned eighteen," he said, "and trained him myself." She smiled.
"He's very well trained, I see. A healthy, obedient horse is a credit to its master. I understand a great deal of noblemen enjoy riding more than anything, and hunting, the sport of kings, is a favourite pastime for many," she said conversationally, and Hans was fairly certain that came verbatim from some book. "What breed is he? Is he a, uh, an Alyrabian?" Hans squared his shoulders.
"A Fjord Horse, ma'am," he said stiffly, "not the most prestigious, perhaps, but he's a purebreed, and has great character. Loyal, hardy and reliable," he said, too defensively again.
"I'm sure he's excellent," she hastily agreed. "Reliability and good-naturedness are much more important than an esteemed pedigree." Hans pursed his mouth, suspecting she was making fun of him. She sighed, licking her lips.

"You're very good with him," she smiled. "I assume you like animals, then? Do you have any other pets?" Hans felt a sharp tug in his chest, the nasty stinging bite of the memory.
"No, ma'am, I have no other pets," he said, turning to brush Sitron some more. "I enjoy the company of dogs and horses, Your Majesty, like most men of any quality, save for some brutish individuals. They're noble animals."
"Dogs and horses?" She sounded amused. "That's it? Is there some rule of the bluebloods limiting your affections?"
"Not really, ma'am, but the horse and the hound are man's trusted, traditional companions," he said, mechanically brushing the same spot without really seeing it, "more fitting for a gentleman than any other beasts." An unpleasant tight feeling was developing at his throat. Queen Elsa chuckled softly.
"More fitting? What, you've never thought for a moment about having some other animal as a pet, even as a child? I don't believe you, and I demand you admit the truth at once," she smiled. Hans tried to swallow, but the painful tightness persisted.
The memory resurfaced, burning at his eyes, the bright, beautiful day, the off-white gravel of the garden paths scraping his face, Hallvard's weight and iron grip holding him down, his own screams and sobs blending in with the terrified wailing of the animal, fighting for its life, and the loud laughter.

He's like a little girl, crying after her pussycat.

"Well? I order you to tell me, Prince Hans," her voice was playful. He was gripping the brush so hard his knuckles were white. He tried to clear his throat, but the chunk wouldn't budge.
"In my childhood, I did have a cat, briefly, Your Majesty. Or well, I fed a cat and imagined it was mine, as children do. But it wasn't a real pet, just some stable moggy, product of an accidental litter."
"Briefly?" The laughter was gone from her voice. "What happened to it?"
"It got drowned," he blurted, managing to keep his voice somewhat steady. "There were more than enough cats at the stables already. Ma'am." She gasped.
"You drowned it? Intentionally?"
"No, ma'am, my brothers did."

Please, let her go, please stop, don't hurt her.

Hans bit his tongue and fought to suppress the memory, his eyes tightly squeezed shut, still facing Sitron's flank. It was humiliating enough that Queen Elsa had seen him unkempt like a stable-boy, he'd be damned if he'd appear sentimental and blubbery as well. He drew a deep, focused breath and tried to sound as nonchalant as he could.
"A pity, I suppose, but that's the usual way of dealing with them, and of course a scrawny kitty wouldn't have been fit for a royal pet, in any case."

There was an odd sound, a high, sharp gasp. Hans whipped around just in time to catch Queen Elsa's contorted expression as she turned away, hurrying out of the stables, snowflakes trailing in the air after her before evaporating in the hot air. Hans realised with a shock that it had been a sob, that the Queen was crying. He ran after her, calling her name, but Lundh, having waited outside and alarmed by Her Majesty rushing out in tears, intercepted him at the stable doors, ready to tackle him down if need be.
"Queen Elsa!" Hans called after her once more while trying to get around Lundh, in vain. She disappeared into the castle without looking back.

•••

Hans was worried.
He sat in the study, trying to not fidget, waiting for Queen Elsa to arrive.
She was late. It was highly unusual.

He'd spent a good part of the night pacing in his cell, trying to figure out what on earth had upset her so. Hans had eventually persuaded Lundh to accept that the reason for the Queen's agitation was just a touching story about the tragic death of a beloved pet, and not attempted assault. Her Majesty's sensitive, womanly heart had simply been overcome by compassion for the poor creature. Hans' story was supported by the total lack of a royal order to seize him, so thankfully he hadn't been chained up.

However, since the Queen clearly wanted to avoid the company of Mr Vestergaard, Hans had been confined to his cell. He'd asked to see her and been firmly denied. He'd then written a polite note of apology and practically begged Lundh to deliver it. He'd said he would, but there had been no response, and all Hans could do is worry and wait, wait for Queen Elsa to end her silence and decide to grace him with her presence. He felt strangely guilty. He hadn't meant to upset her. He didn't want her to be sad.

Finally, the door creaked open, and the Queen entered, visibly tired and strained. Hans bounced on his feet and bowed. She dismissed the guard as usual, which was a good sign, and ignored his courtesies, which was a very bad sign. They sat down to work, but the air was heavy and thick with tension, and Hans couldn't take it.

"Your Majesty, I apologise if I upset you in any way-"
"It's nothing," she snapped. "I was just – surprised, that's all. I already forgot about it." She glared angrily at the documents on the desk and grabbed one. "Let us get to work. This for example is, ah, a proposal on... more staff?" She read it more closely. "It's a suggestion from you?"
"Yes, Your Majesty." Hans shifted in his seat, trying to regroup his thoughts. "I, if you'll forgive me, have noticed the Arendelle castle is rather sparsely staffed, ma'am. It's inconvenient, even unsafe. I understand the need for it in the past, but now that your secret is out there's no reason to not hire more people. It'd benefit the image of the Royal Family, too, make it seem more prestigious." He paused to gauge her reaction, but she was studying the document with knitted eyebrows, and he went on. "At the very least, Your Majesty ought to hire more guards to the militia and restore your High Council."

"Mm, maybe you're right," she muttered. "When I was a child, Pappa was always having meetings with some stuffy old beards, he didn't do it alone either… what's this?" She was suddenly alert. Hans could guess what part she'd reached.

"Secret Internal Intelligence and Security Section?" She finally looked up at him, astonished. "You want me to start spying on my own people?"
"I would prefer the phrase gather information, Your Majesty, but yes," Hans sighed. She raised her eyebrows at him, incredulous. It wasn't going well. "Covertly gathering information about the goings-on of the nation is a common, if unofficial, practise in many countries, ma'am," he explained. "The Galterreans have even established an official agency for it. It's a preventative defence measure against internal unrest, protecting the stability and peace."
"Preventative defence measure, my foot," she huffed indignantly. "It's snooping, listening to greasy gossip about people's private affairs. Maybe in your imagination, Prince Hans, people are all scheming, heartless and immoral, like yourself, plotting and scheming against one another, but me, I'm different, and I trust my people, and I want to be worthy of their trust," she fumed. "Arendelle is different," she declared, crumpling the paper in her hands. Hans stared silently at the desk, his ears red. Scheming, heartless and immoral, like me.

Queen Elsa breathed heavily and calmed herself down.
"I'm sorry," she said, smoothing out the document. "I don't know why I got so upset."
"If anything is bothering Your Majesty, it's better to address it directly than leave it festering, ma'am," he said quietly.
She rubbed her eyes.
"It's just," she sighed, "I can't understand how you can be so horribly cold. Even as a child, you –" she looked away, shaking her head. "How can you be so nonchalant about it? An innocent animal trusted you, and you had him drowned just because you didn't need him and he wasn't fancy enough for you!" Her voice trembled. Hans winced. "Have you no heart? It was a living being!"
"It was out of my hands, ma'am," Hans said, steadily enough. "And it was a she. It's true she wasn't fancy, but she was the softest thing I'd ever touched, and I'd have liked her to live, if I could have helped it."
Queen Elsa stared at him, her mouth slightly open.

"You- I thought," she started and stopped. "I thought you didn't care - I thought you didn't even bother naming her."
" I did. Hindbær," Hans replied. " Stupid name, but she had a pinkish birthmark on the nose that sort of looked like a raspberry, if you squinted," he muttered, mortified. She was silent, studying him.
"Why didn't you say anything when they drowned her," she asked, so quietly it was almost a whisper. Hans picked on the edge of some document on the table.
"I did, ma'am. I, uh," he cleared his throat. "I begged," he admitted, ashamed, "but they held me down." He could hear his voice bordered on cracking, and drew a shaky breath. Sentimental, girlie twit. "There were four of them, and one of me, and I was but ten, you see." He kept staring at the desk, determinedly studying the ornamental woodcuts of the edges.
"But… your parents, didn't they do anything about it?" He glanced at her, confused.
"I wouldn't have dreamed of bothering them with a childish squabble like that, Your Majesty. Besides, whining and snitching was seen as rather dishonourable and highly undesirable behaviour, I'd have been punished. And in fact," he sighed, "it was my fault. It's absolutely not fitting for a prince of the realm to cuddle and cosset a filthy alley cat. So it was mainly a lesson for me, to not shame the family." He closed his eyes for a heartbeat before continuing. "If I'd behaved right, she wouldn't have needed to die. Or at least she'd have gotten a clean death. But I learned." She stared at him, her eyes wide and dark.
"Shame the family, you say?"
"It's important to maintain a certain image," he said, straightening his posture, and tried to smile. "A man of quality has to uphold a certain standard in everything he does," he quoted.
"Horses and hounds are the traditionally suitable companions," Queen Elsa whispered hoarsely. He nodded.
"I never showed preference for any animal after that. But then I got Sitron. He's safe, since he's expensive and prestigious enough, a suitable animal for royalty," he said matter-of-factly.
Queen Elsa sat still, blinking, deep in thought.

"One day when I was nine and had been in isolation for a year and a half, I found a large beetle in my room," the Queen finally started, hesitantly. "It was shimmering green and very beautiful, I'd never seen anything like it. I trapped it under a glass with a postcard and looked it up. It was called Cetonia Aurata, the Goldsmith beetle, so I named it 'Herre Guldsmed'. I fed him bits of pea and apple and was very happy of my new pet. He kept me company." Hans glanced at her and found her gazing at her hands. "After two days, I wanted to touch his shiny, green shell, just to feel it against my fingertips, and have Herre Guldsmed scamper on my hand a bit. Just a bit," she repeated. "I was very careful." She squeezed her clasped hands into fists. "But I froze him to death the instant I touched him. I buried him in the plant pot of the rubber fig, killing it as well in the process, and cried over him for days," she sniffed. "It's not shameful for a child to grieve for their pet, regardless of their species," she said, emphatically.
"It's different for you, ma'am," Hans muttered, abashed.
"How so?"
"Well, you're, ah, a woman, ma'am. It's different," he said, wondering why it sounded so stupid out loud. The Queen gave him a sharp look.
"I was the crown heir," she said.
"I know, ma'am. I didn't mean," Hans said, searching for words, "I meant no offense, it's just that it's easier for women, the expectations are more lenient -" She raised her eyebrows at him. "Uh, I mean to say, the emotional expectations, ma'am, the requirements of conduct, are, well, different for men and women." He was fumbling disastrously. "I'm sure that in some other aspects, the demands on women can be hard, but when it comes to displays of sentiment, women have a lot more leeway, ah, in what's considered socially acceptable. Shut up, shut up, you dolt. The Queen regarded him silently. Hans bit his lip.

"Nevertheless, I was the crown princess, thoroughly royal and prestigious, raised to rule, and I cried for days over an insect," she stated. "Over a beetle! And I was convinced, absolutely convinced that everything I'd ever touch would die," she said, twisting her hands. She looked small and lost, and Hans wanted to comfort her, somehow.
"Sitron didn't die," he said gruffly.
"No," Elsa let out a half-chuckle, "you were right, he's hardy. I'm glad I could touch him."
"You should ride him sometime, ma'am," he said, because he felt like he should say something and couldn't think of anything else.
"I don't know how to ride," she muttered. "I know I should, being a Queen, but it scares me."
"I'll teach you, Your Majesty," he offered. "Sitron doesn't scare you, does he?" She looked at him, unsure.
"No, he doesn't. Are you sure? What if I'll get startled?"
"Then you'll regain control," he stated, and finally managed the smile he'd been trying for. "Things have changed now, ma'am."
Queen Elsa was silent for a while, and then shyly returned the smile.
"They have, haven't they," she said softly.

•••

The next morning the cell door was opened by a grim-faced Captain Arnesen himself. He impatiently motioned Hans to follow him, and for a brief, dreadful moment, Hans was gripped by an irrational fear; that the captain's presence meant Queen Elsa had changed her mind about their agreement and he was to be shipped back.
But there was no larger escort, no-one to take his things, and as the Captain strode through the hallways ahead of him, tense and silent, Hans realised he was nervous. Something was amiss.

Once they'd reached the study, The Captain checked the corridor both ways before closing the door after them. The gesture of conspiratorial secrecy stirred the pleasant, anticipatory tingle of schemes and plotting in Hans. If the Captain of the Royal Guard was about to let the traitor in on something confidential, things were going to get interesting in Arendelle. Hans felt a shiver run down his spine despite the suffocating, pressuring humidity of the heat wave that still sweltered unbroken over the kingdom.

Arnesen approached him warily, still deliberating on whether to trust him or not. Hans tried to look reliable and answered his stare as if he was still the commanding officer. The Captain stood conspiratorially close to him, chewing his lower lip, his eyes darting across his face for a good while before he finally reached a decision.
"Pri- Mr. Vestergaard. You have been acting as Queen Elsa's personal steward these past weeks, working closely with her," he blurted.
"I have," Hans said, wondering what this was about.
"Her Majesty trusts you, and you are informed of state affairs," he continued, eyeing him, "all of them."
"Yes."
"And you are –" he chewed his lip again, "accustomed to Her Majesty's, ah, moods and reactions, and their effects?"
"I am," Hans replied, guessing what he was after. "You could say I've gotten quite good at working with Queen Elsa." Arnesen nodded.
"And you have sworn to do everything in your power to help Arendelle," he growled, "and Her Majesty."
"On my honour," Hans said, unflinching under his searing stare. "We both know what I've done. You were there most of the way. We both know what the situation was. I was desperate, and did desperate things," he said quietly, "but I've never wanted any harm to come to this kingdom, Arnesen. You know it." The Captain nodded to himself and took a deep breath, leaning closer.

"This morning, baker Oskarsen's boy came to alert the night watch that – that someone had spread treasonous pamphlets across town during the early hours," he said in a low voice. "Their morning shift had seen them on the walls, and thought it was best to alert us. It's slanderous, wicked stuff, with disgusting lies about the Queen, sir." He reached into his breast pocket and took out a folded paper, turning it in his hands. "Pedersen, who was the city night patrol last night, swore he hadn't seen any pamphlets on his rounds. They've been put up quite late, just before the folk gets up for the day, sir. But Oskarsen sent all of his boys and apprentices out to tear them down, and with the help of the guard – I believe we got them all down in time."
He was visibly uncomfortable, and Hans had an unpleasant hunch about just what sort of 'wicked slander' was on the pamphlets. "I'm not sure how to proceed, sir. The Queen must be notified, but it's very nasty, really vile, and I'm not sure how Her Majesty will, uh, react to it, sir." He bit his lip again. Hans understood. Arnesen feared Queen Elsa would get so upset she'd freeze something again, quite possibly the unfortunate soul delivering the news.
"I'll break it to her," he said. "I know how to handle Her Majesty. Let me see what we're dealing with." Relieved, Arnesen handed the pamphlet to him.

Hans folded it open, anticipating vulgar lewdness, but when he saw the picture on the leaflet a cold rush went through him. It was worse than he'd thought, much worse.

The engraving was very well done, actually. Queen Elsa was instantly recognisable, the look of ecstasy on her face incredibly vividly captured, every luscious curve of her body drawn out in loving detail, the ungodly beast copulating with her incredibly imaginative. Nasty didn't come close to describing it, it was obscene.

The whore of Satan will lead us all to Hell, the caption read. Banish the ice witch and save your souls. Poignant and simple. The demon was apparently some nightmarish, twisted version of a snowman, covered partly in icicles, too. Quite smart.

Hans contemplated the disturbing, carnal image. Lost in the lines depicting her soft flesh, he was distractedly wondering if she would really have an expression like that when Arnesen coughed politely, startling him.
"It's, yes. Very shocking. Disgusting slander. You did well to tear them down. Do you have any idea who could be behind this?"
"None, sir." Arnesen shifted uncomfortably. Outside, the light was dimming as clouds covered the sky. "It's not signed and I don't know of any persons or factions opposing the Queen."
"It has a religious undertone."
"Yes, sir, but Bishop Falkheim is a sensible man, not a fervent fanatic. Doesn't seem like him, sir."
"How many people know of this?"
"Baker Oskarsen, his boys - that's six in total, and the members of the guard who participated, that's five more, me, and now you, sir. Thirteen persons."
"We have to keep this under wraps. Is this Oskarsen reliable?" Could it have been him?
"He's a loyal supporter of the royal family, sir. I've known him all my life."
"Make sure he keeps his and his boys' mouths shut. Absolutely shut. The same goes for your men. This must not spread among the servants. No gossiping with friends – not even family." Hans looked sharply at Arnesen. "That includes yourself. Do you understand?" He nodded. "What did you do with the pamphlets? How many were there?"
"Around sixty, I think, sir. They're in a drawer at my desk."
"Burn them," Hans said, looking at the illustration again, "save for thre- no, four copies. We may need them later on. Keep them under lock and key, well hidden."

He studied the graphically detailed image, obscene enough to land people distributing it publicly in jail even if the content wouldn't be treasonous. Hans wondered how in all hell he was going to introduce it to Queen Elsa. A delicate woman of rank like her should never even be aware of the existence of stuff like this, let alone witness it with her own eyes. He knew that many men had little private collections of carefully selected and furtively acquired pictures, hidden away in locked drawers in their personal libraries, but in his understanding decent women were never let anywhere near the clandestine illustrations.
Especially when they were depicting their own selves.
With striking detail.
Hans sighed and closed his eyes, carefully pushing back the images his mind was conjuring up. He felt sweat run down his back. He cleared his throat.

"Make sure everyone involved keeps mum, destroy the pamphlets and start looking into possible culprits. Who might have something against Her Majesty? Anyone whose interests might have suffered since she came to power? You know Arendelle better than I do. We also need to find out where this depravity has been printed. Gather up a list of booksellers and printers in the area, but be very discreet about it. No-one must find out about this." Arnesen straightened his back and nodded sternly.
"Yes, sir."

"Find out about what, gentlemen?" The two men jumped, like children caught red-handed pilfering cookies from the pantry. Queen Elsa had slipped into the room without them noticing, quiet as a ghost. She stood calmly by the door, keenly observing them with a slight smile on her lips and a cutting look of displeasure in her eyes. They bowed in unison, flustered.

"Your Majesty! We, uh, were just discussing with Captain Arnesen how to deal with a, uh," Hans glanced at Arnesen, who somehow managed to be blushing and blanching at the same time, "an unpleasant disturbance, ma'am. A somewhat worrying turn of events has transpired this past night, Your Majesty, requiring urgent attention."
The Captain had started edging ever so slightly towards the door.
"Well then, with your permission, Your Majesty, Mr. Vestergaard, sir, if that's all, I must get on with my duties, sir, as agreed?"
"Yes, Arnesen, that's all. Please get on it at once," Hans said.
Queen Elsa shifted her gaze back and forth between them before giving Arnesen a curt nod. He made himself scarce with remarkable efficiency.

"Well, Prince Hans," she said as soon as the door clicked shut, "I trust you'll fill me in regarding this 'worrying turn of events' that apparently requires you to whisper secretively with the captain of my guard?" Her tone was so frosty he could almost see the words in the air. Hans swallowed.
"Naturally, ma'am. Uhm." The leaflet seemed to grow hot in his hands. Clutching it, Hans took a deep breath and plunged straight in. "During the night, someone has spread treasonous pamphlets around Arendelle, Your Majesty. Unfortunately they directly attack you, ma'am, in a very disgusting and personal manner." Queen Elsa started. "They've been torn down, but the perpetrator is still at large."
"Attack me?" The ire in her voice was completely gone, replaced by surprise and hurt.
"Yes, ma'am. They contain, ah, accusations of witchcraft and urge the people to rise against you, ma'am. And a very graphic illustration." Hans desperately hoped she'd decide she didn't want to see it. The Queen seemed to shrink, and clasped her hands to her heart, deflated.
"W-witchcraft? But I've never – is that what people think?"
"Some people might, ma'am," he said. "People aren't used to magic. It frightens some." Queen Elsa hugged herself, turning away.
"Frightens," she muttered. "Am I still so frightening, that they want to attack me? After everything?"
"Not all of them, Your majesty," Hans said, a frustrating feeling of helplessness raising in him. He wanted to relieve her distress, wanted to comfort her. "Rude caricatures are unavoidable, ma'am. It's impossible to rule in a way that never displeases anyone, and the heads of state are the easiest targets of ridicule. There will always be some who complain. It doesn't mean you cause any exceptional fear or disquiet, Your Majesty," he tried, knowing he was lying. Of course an exceptional sorceress queen would cause an exceptional reaction. The evident truth hung in the air.

"Let me see it," she said, turning suddenly to face him. "Let me see what's being said of me."
"Your Majesty," Hans demurred, "it's extremely repulsive. Too inappropriate for the eyes of a woman, in fact. Allow me to suggest –"
"Let me see it, I said."
"I'm not sure if it's wise, ma'am," he tried once more, the pamphlet in his hands feeling like hot iron. Queen Elsa looked at him, her astonishment at his refusal to obey giving way to a slow, sad realisation. She pursed her lips.
"I must be able to face the reality, however harsh, if I am to rule, Prince Hans," she said, pulling herself up. "I'm not made of sugar. You don't need to coddle me." She held her hand out, and Hans had no option but to give the folded leaflet to her. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled lazily.

Her hands shook as she folded it open, and Hans wondered how much she knew about what happened between husbands and wives when she let out a weird, squawky gasp and a burst of cold air. The pamphlet froze hard in her hands and ice burst forth from her feet, spreading across the parquet and rising into spikes close to her shoes. Hans recoiled slightly before catching himself and returning to attention, folding his hands behind his back. She kept staring at the now-frosted pamphlet, completely still, as a deep blush spread on her cheeks. Finally she tore her eyes from it and looked at him, shocked and humiliated. She tried to speak, but couldn't find her voice at first.
"How many," she croaked, " how many people saw…"
"Thirteen, including me. Baker Oskarsen, his apprentices, some guards. I've ordered them to tell no one, ma'am. Most of the people didn't see them." She crushed the frozen paper in her hands and turned away from him again, tears brimming in her eyes, and walked slowly to the window. The floor froze where she tread, but she didn't cry. Queen Elsa drew deep, shuddering breaths that seemed to echo in the pressuring silence, and for a long while, neither of them moved. Hans felt a prickling, burning desire flame up in her, a desire to comfort her, to tell her that everything was all right, and to hunt down whoever had dared hurt her and make them pay.

She kept her back turned to him, shoulders squared, the coldness surrounding her tightening to frost, the pressuring humidity in the air around her condensing into snowflakes swirling around her. Outside the windows, the darkened sky finally gave up and released a low, deep rumble that signalled the end of the long heat, the end of summer. Raindrops started to dot the glass, falling lazily at first but soon pouring down in a heavy, hard shower, rinsing the dust and the sweat and the dirt from the city.

Around Queen Elsa, the raindrops on the glass froze. She slowly pressed her palm against the window, and ice erupted in angry spikes and jagged frost-flowers at her touch, careening across the surface until the view was completely obscured and the room became dim, the light rippling as if they were underwater. Outside, lighting flashed within the clouds and the hum of rainfall covered all other sounds.
"Your Secret Security Section," she finally said.
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Launch it," she almost snarled. "You have my full authorisation for any measures you need to take. Find out who did this."
"Yes, ma'am."

–

* Herre Guldsmed translates to Mister Goldsmith. Hindbær means raspberry; Hans seems to have a habit of naming animals after fruit or berries, heh.

** The French Sûreté ('security'), founded in 1812 (and preceded by Napoleon's impressive and widely feared secret police force) was in my understanding the first permanent national intelligence agency, a pioneer of crime fighting organisations the world over, and an inspiration for such establishments as Scotland Yard or the FBI. Most countries only followed their lead well after the Crimean War, so in my ficverse Hans is a few decades ahead of the curve, like the crafty ginger fox that he is.

*** The Arendelle Guard uniforms suddenly have easily reachable breast pockets now, for my story demands it.

**** I understand that sexual morality was in flux during the 1840's. During the 1700's, sexual attitudes regarding the media were quite liberal, and the erotic novel had triumphantly become very popular with the new, effective and cheap printing methods. However, attitudes changed over the decades, leading to the fanatic, hypocritical propriety and censorship of the Victorian era in the latter half of the century. So in my fic, I've decided that Arendelle is somewhat proper in this sense, not quite victorianish but heading that way, so much that certain obscene materials should not be distributed publicly – and definitely not plastered on the walls, where anyone can see.