Michael drops his hand and whips around, his dagger ready. Anna stands on the last stair with the sternest expression she can manage aimed straight at him.
Elsa steps back and bends to pick up her weapon. Michael doesn't divert his gaze from Anna, even adds to the humor by adding a sly smile. Anna raises her brows.
"Well, nice to see you two are getting along well." Michael just smiles and doesn't say anything. "Are you just going to stand there pretending I didn't just see –"
"We were sparring, Anna." Elsa hefts the staff to prove it.
"That's not what we call it, Elsa." Anna says, and motions for us to come inside the castle with her. "You guys must be starving, dinner is ready."
"I shall take to my quarters, then." Michael says as he gathers his things.
"Michael," Elsa chimes, and for a moment he's taken aback. Was that the first time she said his name? "You're welcome to join us, if you'd like."
"I appreciate it, Elsa, but I'm in dire need of a bath. As well as a nap. Perhaps I shall stop by tomorrow afternoon."
The disappointment in the queen's face almost makes his chest ache. But after training for so long, Michal is almost tempted just to skip the shower and throw himself straight into bed. With a bow of his head, he leaves the two women and walks back to his rooms.
He's surprises himself when his legs nearly collapse once he steps after he draws himself a bath. After a long while, he emerges ruffling his hair with a towel. He only remembers changing into some night clothes before slipping between the sheets.
The next morning, he wakes and rolls over to face the window next to his bed. A clock in the entryway sings, and he counts the chimes. Noon. It's the latest he's slept in. The roofs of Arendelle gleam like emeralds in the sun. As he stretches, he nearly moans from the way his muscles ache. He doesn't mind, though; it only means progress. Besides, he did train with Elsa for hours. He stays in bed for another hour before finally managing to make himself snake out of bed and walk into the dining room for breakfast.
The smell of the banquet hits him before the chair did, it bumps into his hip and he bites back the curse. He plops down and pulls forward a bowl of porridge. After taking a spoonful, he cringes and dumps a mound of sugar in it.
While he's in the middle of munching an apple, there's a knock on his doors. When they open, he looks up to find Elsa walking in, this time wearing an emerald green dress with the bodice patterned to resemble leaves, and light green translucent short sleeves both decorated with pink flowers. Her floral patterned cape drapes behind her as she approaches the table, her pale leg flashing every step due to the high slit. Her eyes flick to the sugar still dissolving in his porridge. Michael only offers a smug smile before taking another bite of his apple.
"Good morning to you too." He chuckles.
"I hope I'm not interrupting anything." Elsa smiles.
"Not at all. To what do I owe the honor of having the Queen of Arendelle visiting me in my abode?"
Color flushes into Elsa's cheeks as she takes a seat next to him. "Well, considering there isn't much to go on with this new threat to the kingdom, I thought I'd do you the honor of visiting our library."
Michael nearly chokes on his apple bite. "Your lib –" His eyes widen. "Are you serious?"
Elsa nods, and Michael's sudden jubilance is quelled by the slight purple under her eyes. She must not have gotten much sleep since yesterday. "I was hoping to take you after your breakfast."
Michael couldn't eat fast enough.
This might be the very first time he's walked the halls of the castle without his mask and cloak on.
The library doesn't call for an attire of black. This is a time for him to feel like Michael, not Night Arrow.
Books were and still are his only escape from his blood-coated reality. It was also one of the few silver linings of being a rebel. When he traveled to many kingdoms here and there, he would always visit the kingdom's library. Some were as small as an avenue's shop, others were as grand as a king's ballroom. But they were never a disappointment.
No library is ever a disappointment to him.
Elsa walks beside him, keeping her poise and grace while he fidgets with his cuff of his sleeve, the anticipation nearly sending him bolting down the hall like a schoolchild. He wears a deep blue tunic embroidered with gold along the cuffs and the neckline. The color really brings out his eyes, and he didn't really care about the pants. But his boots click as they shift from carpet to wooden floors.
"You like to read?" The queen asks.
Michael raises an eyebrow. "Don't you?"
"I've never seen you so eager." Elsa chuckles beside him.
"You've never really seen me any other way."
"Except angry." She nudges him with her elbow. Michael chuckles, but his chest slightly hurts. "Over there, third door to the left."
He looks at the twenty-foot oak doors, eyes widening at the thick white and gold columns that flank either side of the wall. "There?"
"That's the library." Elsa says. The two words are like a shot of lightning.
Forgetting about his composure, Michael jogs ahead to approach the doors. He looks left and right for any guards, though he finds none. Still, reluctantly he pushes hard against the worn oak, feeling his muscles flex from the weight.
No room in this castle, it would seem, will be left to the shadows, as the sunlight fills this enormous chamber as he steps inside. Candelabras come into view, along with wooden floors with a mosaic of the crest at its epicenter, large mahogany tables with red velvet chairs, a slumbering fire, mezzanines, bridges, ladders, railings, and then books – books and books and books.
Michael has entered a city made entirely of leather and paper. He puts a hand against his heart. Assassins be damned. "I've never seen – how many volumes are there?"
Elsa shrugs with an impish smile on her rosy lips. "Last anyone bothered to count, it was a million. But that was two hundred years ago. I'd say maybe more than that."
"Over a million? A million books?" Michael heart leaps and dances, and he cracks a smile. "I'd die before I even got through half of that!"
He moves farther into the library, his boots clicking loudly across the floor. He nears a shelf and looks at the titles. He recognizes none of them.
Grinning, he whirls and moves through the main floor, running a hand across the dusty books. "I didn't know assassins like to read." Elsa calls.
If Michael was to die now it would be in complete bliss. "I'm not an assassin, Your Majesty. I'm a justified mercenary."
"Garther gave us some reports on you and your, past." Elsa says as she follows behind Michael, her heels sounding softly against the floor. "It said you were from some kingdom close to the ocean. It was said to be similar to Arendelle."
Michael pauses his browsing and glances over his shoulder at the queen. Elsa stops short and she swallows, her fingers fiddling with the plaits of her braid. "I don't remember. Or perhaps maybe I don't want to remember. I don't care."
Elsa's eyes widen.
"It was – is – a kingdom settled at the foothills of some mountains, and then a forest after that." Michael sadly smiles.
That is a severe understatement.
The kingdom's name has been reformed so many times that is he really doesn't remember its true name. All he can remember is a land of pine and snow, of sun-bleached cliffs and white-capped seas, a land of rolling green hills, and where light was swallowed by a blanket of stars overhead.
Michael used to think that it was impenetrable with the forest and the mountains bordering its territories, but the forest was the very thing that became their downfall. Along its coast is the sea, which gave it a taste of all terranes; water and land.
Not much is known or even remembered about the kingdom after the king ordered a heavy slaughtering of its people due to the rebellion. An entire population of millions, gone.
His heart sinks at the thought of the slaughter of nearly an entire culture. All for what?
Elsa fiddles with the tip of her braid as she approaches. "Whispers drifted about a mysterious soldier who had burned brighter than the sun in the times of darkness. He had led his men to the front gates of the castle and emerged with king's head in hand . . . so the stories say. The documents stated you were a rebel as well, did you ever get the chance to meet this soldier?"
Michael stiffens, suddenly feeling the world shift beneath his feet. He curls and uncurls his hands, swallowing against his tight throat. "No. He was merely like a candle in the wind. He was there one day, gone the next."
Elsa is quiet for a moment, then her footsteps pick up as she says, "Did you ever visit that kingdom's library? They say it's twice the size of this – and that it used to hold all the knowledge of the world. It used to be a land of knowledge."
He turns from the stack he was currently studying. "Yes." He admits. "When I was very young. Though they wouldn't let me explore – the Master Scholars were too afraid I'd ruin some valuable manuscript." Michael hasn't returned to the library since – and wonders how many of those invaluable works have been put away from the expansion of the shelves. Though part of him shriveled at the realization that the Master Scholars had smuggled many of the priceless book to their homes for safekeeping – that when the royal family had been slaughtered and the rebels invaded, those stuffy old men had had stashed into hiding two thousand years' worth of ideas and learning.
A dead, empty space opens inside Michael. Needing to change the subject, he asks. "Why are none of your folk here?"
"Guards are of no use in a library." Oh, how wrong she was! Libraries are full of ideas – perhaps the most dangerous and powerful of all weapons.
Michael says, "I was referring to your noble companions."
The queen leans against a table, a hand still on her thigh. At least one of them remembers they are alone together in the library. "Reading is a bit out of fashion, I'm afraid."
"Yes, well – more for me, then."
"Read? These belong the royal family." Elsa chuckles.
"It's a library, isn't it?"
"It's our property, and you aren't of noble blood. You need permission from either one of us." Elsa reminds.
"I highly doubt any of you would notice the loss of a few books."
Elsa quirks a brow at him, a long smile on her lips. "Well, I did bring you here to do some research, so I don't see why you shouldn't be allowed to indulge in some of our reads." She giggles.
Michael feels like seizing the queen and dancing.
"I have to get to a meeting in a few minutes, but I think we should be able pull a few history tomes before we go."
"Maybe something more." Michael grins.
With the help of the head librarian, they managed to pull some tomes as Elsa requested, as well as a few genealogy books. But as he tries to convince Elsa to let him take a couple of novels back to his rooms, she only laughs before having to drag him out of the library.
Elsa leaves him at his rooms, sparing him a happy farewell. As she walked away, he couldn't help but stare at the way her hips move . . . especially in that fitting gown.
After a solitary lunch, over which Michael contemplates his research plans and how he might make some makeshift weapons just in case of surprise visitors, he paces through his rooms.
He smiles as he steps in front of the window to study the garden. Its far border ended in the trees of a game park. He knows enough about the castle to know that if he goes through the game park, he'd reach a stone wall and canals beyond.
Michael opens and closes the doors of his armoire, dresser, and vanity. Of course, there are plenty of items that can be used as weapons, even the fire poker.
Michael reenters the bedroom, yawning, and stands on the edge of the mattress to tuck some daggers into one of the folds of the partial canopy over the bed. When he conceals it, he glances around the room again. The canopy provides plenty of hiding places. What else can he take without them noticing? He manages to pry up a couple of floorboards and slide a couple of short swords beneath – swords that he is certain the Weapon's Master won't notice is missing.
He listens at the bedroom door for any signs of activity. When he is certain no one is in his chambers, he enters the foyer and strode through the gaming room. He beholds the billiards cues along the far wall, and the heavy colored balls stacked on the green felt table, and grins.
It will be easy enough to get a stick if he needs to escape, or to use the dense balls to knock a man unconscious.
The only thought that keeps him from the pinnacle of boredom is the thought of the library and if any of the other members of the castle were allowed to have access to the books, if they wanted?
Michael slumps into his chair. He is tired, but the sun has barely set. Instead of reading, he could perhaps use the pianoforte, but . . . well, until has been a while, and he isn't sure he could endure the sound of his own stumbling, clumsy playing. He traces a finger over a splotch of fuchsia silk on his uniform. All those books, with no one to read them.
He's about to gather some daggers and practice some more until there's a knock at his doors.
He opens it to find a servant woman carrying a stack of books piled in her arms. Baffled at first, Michael laughs as he swipes the note that crowns the column of leather. He opens it and finds smooth and feminine handwriting on the page.
My Dearest Michael,
Enclosed are seven books from my personal library that I have recently read and enjoyed immensely. You are, of course, free to read as many of the books in the castle library as you wish, but I command you to read these first so that we might discuss them. I promise they are not dull, for I am not one inclined to sit through pages of nonsense and bloated speech, though perhaps you enjoy works and authors who think very highly of themselves.
Most affectionately,
Queen Elsa
Michael thanks the woman for her trouble and thankfully she closes the door for him. He walks into his bedroom, shutting the door with a backward kick, and drops onto the bed, scattering the books across the green surface.
He hurries over to his desk and scrambles to gather a paper and a pen. He dips the pen into the inkwell. With his neatest hand writing and gathering the most advanced vocabulary he can muster, Michael begins to write.
Your Highness,
It is with uncontained jubilant heart that I thank you for your kind contribution to me. Since I am deprived of company and entertainment, this act of kindness is much appreciated. I promise that I will give each novel an equal amount of attention and value they deserve. I am honored that someone of your importance could deign to bestow upon a lowly, miserable wretch such as I.
Yours most truly,
Michael
Beaming at his note, he hands it to the nicest-looking servant he can find, with specific instructions to give it to the queen immediately.
Choosing the book that seems to most interesting, Michael flips onto his back and begins to read.
After about two hours, and already through two novels, it's the numbness of his joints that make Michael close the third book and set it aside on his bedside table.
Rubbing his dry eyes, Michael cleans up the books and sets the rest of them on the low table in the living area. He then plops back onto the bed, the mattress is so soft that he sinks down a few inches, and it is wide enough for three people to sleep without noticing each other. Curling on his side, Michael's eyes grow heavier and heavier.
He sleeps for an hour, until a servant announces the arrival of the tailor, to outfit him with proper court attire. For what occasion, no one will say. The clock reads four in the evening.
He simply cannot be seen walking around with such commoner clothes, according to the tailor. Though he'd love to see the fat woman say that to the queen and princess who let the villagers into their courtyards on a regular basis.
Another hour is spent being measured and pinned, and sitting though a presentation of different fabrics and colors. He hates most of them. A few catch his attention, but when he tries to recommend specific styles that suit him, he receives only the wave of a hand and a curl of the lip. He considers jabbing one of the tailor's pearl-headed pins through her eye.
Michael sighs, but is contempt as he strips off his shirt. He's aware of female servants' eyes leering all over his torso. One folds her lips in, biting the bottom one as she takes in the image of his muscled back.
The striking sapphire blue of his eyes are a heavy contrast to his charcoal hair catches the attention of most, hair that maintains a thin glimmer of its glory. His skin maintained its rich tan from all those summers spent training in the sun, his chest having a tattoo weaving over his chest and delicately curling over his shoulder blades. In short, Michael is blessed with a handful of attractive features that compensate for the majority of average ones.
Michael is bathed, feeling almost as dirty as he had in Corona, and is grateful for the gentle servants who attend him. Many of his wounds have scabbed or remained as thin as white lines, though his back retains most of its damage. After nearly two hours of pampering – trimming his hair, shaping his nails, and scraping away the callousness on his feet and hands – Michael actually grins at the mirror in the dressing room.
Only in the capital could servants have done such fine work. He looks spectacular. Utterly and completely spectacular. Wearing a doublet of emerald green, an embroidery of the Arendelle crest sits right over his heart, a mud-brown cloak falls around him.
"Handsome." says an older, female voice, and Michael pivots, the yards of cumbersome fabric twisting with him. "Or well, even more handsome."
Elsa, beautiful and lean in a gown of cobalt and peach, stands in the doorway with her hands elegantly folded in front of her.
"This, is why I prefer tunics and pants." Michael says, spreading his arms wide, only to be stopped by the tightness of the fitted sleeves.
"You are wearing pants." Elsa giggles.
"I mean pants that fit." Michael says flatly.
Elsa smiles as she steps towards him, the servants easing away from Michael as she approaches.
"What do other people think about all my guards?" Michael asks.
Elsa approaches, and smiles as she adjusts the folds of the rebel's cape, fluffing them in the right places. "Oh, no one is that suspicious of your stay. Or people just think you're a court friend of ours."
"Joyous." Michael rolls his eyes.
"Don't look so tortured."
"I can't make any other face with this attire on. Why such drastic changes anyway? Am I to attend a court meeting?"
"Not today." Elsa sighs a she stands next to Michael, looking at themselves in the mirror. "I have something else in mind."
The rebel's eyes widen and eyebrow raise. He deviously grins, "If that's the case then why go to all the trouble dressing me?" He winks.
Elsa's cheeks flush red and she smacks his shoulder. "Not that." She then sighs, stands straight, and squares her shoulders. "If you'll just follow me."
He chuckles gives a smile as she gestures out of the bedroom. Michael walks down the hall, his cape flowing behind in a russet wave. "Where are we going?"
"To the stables." Elsa answers, keeping in credit strive with Michael's pace.
"Is this anther part of the divided tour? What else is there to see?" Michael asks. "I've already seen all three gardens, the ballrooms, the historical rooms, and the nicest views offered from the castle. There's nothing else to see."
"Just follow me." Elsa snorts.
Michael obeys and follows instep with the Queen as she leads them outside into the courtyard and towards the royal stables. Young women flock to them, waving. He can't help but notice the sharp stares from the same women when they behold the Queen in his retinue. He knows how he appears, strolling aside the Queen like some prize gentleman being brought to the castle. The young women look up from their fans to bat their eyelashes at him.
Work has already begun for the day, stables boys already brushing gorgeous stallions of ebony, auburn and pearl white. Their tails swish back and forth and their noses huff with flaring nostrils.
Yapping fills the air, and three black dogs sprint from the center of the caravan to greet them. They are each sleek as arrows – undoubtedly from the Queen's kennels. Michael kneels on one knee, and he cups their heads and strokes their smooth hair. They lick his fingers and face, their tails slashing the ground like whips.
A pair of rose pink slippers stop before him, and the dogs immediately clam and sit. Michael lifts his gaze to find the turquoise eyes of the Snow Queen studying his face. She smiles slightly. "How unusual for them to notice you." She says, scratching one of the dogs behind the ears. "Did you give them food?"
Michael shakes his head as a guard steps behind him, so close that his knees graze the holds of Michael's cape. It will take all of two movements to disarm him. He made sure to note how there are triple the amount of guards here than there are needed for the stables.
"Are you fond of dogs?" Asks the Queen. Michael nods. Why is it already so hot? "What about horses? Do you often ride?"
"Sometimes. It was one of the necessities while in training." He admits.
"Good." She smiles. She is achingly beautiful, and can't have been older than twenty.
Queens are not supposed to be this beautiful. They're sniveling, stupid, repulsive creatures! This one . . . this . . . How unfair for her to be royal and beautiful.
They bring him a piebald mare to ride with a coat like thunderclouds. Michael runs his hand along the horse's soft neck and pats its shoulder.
Elsa approaches and smiles as she joins in the petting. "He will be yours for the ride." Michael looks to her with surprised eyes, but his brows narrowed. "You'd rather stay cooped up in the castle?" she asks, sounding faintly amused.
"Perhaps if I were told what this is all about, I wouldn't feel so inclined to resist."
"I just want to go for a ride, and Anna is asleep."
"Already?"
"She sleeps whenever she finds the time."
Michael shrugs. "Okay, I can understand that."
He mounts, admittedly excited to try a horse of this size. The sky comes closer, and it stretches forever above him, away and away to distant lands he's never heard of. Michael grips the saddle horn and breathes in deeply.
As the evening wears on, the sky becomes a crisp blue with hardly a cloud. Michael and Elsa seem to make descent conversation, Elsa kind enough not to try and ask questions relating to Michael's past, though he knows this trip was her way of trying to uncover the mystery of his blood-covered past.
She'd probably have him in chains before he even finished. Taking the forest road, they swiftly pass from the foothills and into the fairer, wider countryside. The guards form a protective circle around them, watching all sides, and watching him.
Michael tears his focus from the queen to study the trees. The forest has gone silent. The ebony hounds' ears are erect, though they don't seem to be bothered by the stillness. Even the guards quieted. Michael's heart skips a beat. The forest is different here.
The leaves dangle like jewels – tiny droplets of ruby, pearl, topaz, amethyst, emerald, and garnet; and a carpet of such riches coat the forest floor around them. Despite the ravages of conquest, this part of forest remains untouched. It still echoes with the remnants of the power that it had once given these trees such unnatural beauty.
"Was there magic in your kingdom?" Elsa suddenly asks, keeping her stare ahead. Michael looks to her and raises a brow, but she doesn't turn her head, nor does she repeat the question. Yet within her hand he can see her twining a thin thread of blue between her fingers.
Michael shrugs. "Yes, there was. It was a welcome art."
Elsa finally looks to him, something like sadness etched on her delicate features. "What kind of magic was there?"
He ponders for a moment. "All kinds, I suppose. We had the standard healers, successful farmers, those who could control water or fire, shape-shifters – though those were the rarest – and those who delved in darker acts like necromancy."
Elsa's eyes leave his and look back towards the forest. "Did you have any abilities?"
Michael grows rigid. "I was too young and, focused, on the rebellion to know, or care. My parents never showed any signs, but I do know that some talented healers had married into our family, though a majority of their children didn't have the power."
During the years that the rebels were growing in numbers, the king decided to go on a genocidal campaign to hunt down and slaughter all magic wielders, to keep the rebels from growing stronger; to keep them from becoming an actual threat.
Michael can still smell the fires that had raged throughout his twelfth and thirteenth years – the smoke of burning books chock-full of ancient, irreplaceable knowledge, the screams of gifted seers and healers as they'd been consumed by the flames, the tents and sacred places shattered and desecrated and erased from history. Many of the magic-users who hadn't been burned wound up prisoners in death camps – and most didn't survive long there.
It has been a while since Michael had contemplated the gifts he'd lost, though the memory of his abilities haunts his dreams. Despite the carnage, perhaps it was good that magic had vanished. It is far too dangerous for any sane person to wield; his gifts might have destroyed him by this point.
"Do you know where it comes from?"
Michael shrugs. "I'm not the most educated on the subject, but I do know that it has to come from someone. It takes a wielder to pass on their gift. It has to come from the mother or father." Elsa gives a tight nod of her head "Do you know where your abilities come from?" Michael asks.
He sees Elsa's hands grip the reins of the horse tighter. "No, I don't. Like you, my parents didn't seem to have any powers, but once they had come about, they didn't ask questions. And we accepted it for a while, though Anna and I would get into some trouble with it. They didn't really know how to handle it."
"So they taught you to be afraid."
Elsa whirls her head to face him, her braid flying. "No!" She first exclaims. "Well, yes, but only because they wanted to protect me. They thought I would be safer. They – they weren't bad people, Michael."
"I never said they were. They just didn't know how to understand." He says softly.
The queen's silence feels palpable. Garther had mentioned how Elsa's parents had feared her power, deep down, which was why they had closed the gates of the castle. Just from reading Elsa and Anna's personalities, their parents did love them very much, they just didn't know how to handle her power. Even so, they did their best.
Elsa loses a breath. "What about you, then?"
Michael wraps the leather reins around his hands. "I didn't think you cared to know anything about me."
"Well what do you think all of this was?" She says with a slight chuckle, gesturing to the beautiful horses and the wide-open space. Michael shrugs. "You are here to protect my sister and I, not mention you are also a guest in our castle. It's out of good hospitality that I act as a good hostess."
This manages to make Michael chuckle, his lips twitching into a smile as he watches the sky melt into a smear of tangerine.
"But what do your parents think about their son being a part of a rebellion?" Elsa asks.
Just that fast, the world slips, swallowed up by the abyss that now lives within him. He can hear the anguished wailing of the grief-stricken boy. He clamps down on it and lets the silence suffocate it.
"My parents are dead." He says. "They died when I was, fairly young."
Silence falls, and he looks to find the queen's eyes gleaming. He's about to snap at her should she dare offer any pity, but she surprises him when she says, "You too?"
Michael swallows as he contemplates that he could be seeing such a vulnerable part of the queen. He's more baffled she's willing to expose herself like this. But her pain is so recognizable that his own chest starts to ache. He looks away and clears his throat. He blinks back the sting in his eyes.
"I was eighteen when they passed. How old were you?" Elsa asks, her voice quaking.
"Thirteen."
More silence, and then –
"I'm sorry."
They travel for the remainder of the day, and the rebel sits in silence as he watches the forest pass, the tightness in his chest not easing until they have left that shimmering glen far behind. His body aches by the time they make it back to the castle.
The Snow Queen bids him a stiff farewell, and he hands both of their horses to the stable works. He doesn't bother to speak at the guards posted outside his bedroom, sparring them a nod of acknowledgement, before he retreats into his bedroom, locking the door behind him.
Sighing, Michael calls to his servants to draw his bath. A couple hours of reading by the fire is in order.
By nighttime, he simply remembers lying his head back onto the pillow and a pressure of a book on his chest.
He doesn't dream that night.