Turns out the ball is more of a hosting for some suitors that are coming to impress the queen. The thought almost makes Michael want to laugh. He doubts that the ball was Elsa's idea – the queen appearing more than callous about picking a suitor. No doubt it was more Garther's idea; Michael is surprised the queen actually agreed to it. Maybe it's just so the steward will cease his pestering for a few months.
Elsa said Michael was to be on guard, but never fully explained what uniform he would wear. No – the queen only held his arm, resting her head against his shoulder during their walk from the healer's room. She kept it there as they went up three flights of stairs, turning two lefts and a right through the hallways until they reached his spacious suite – Elsa having reassigned what room he'll be staying in during his time in Arendelle. Michael couldn't help but notice the ornate detailing that covers ever near inch of the castle, the colorful stain-glass windows bathing the halls in a kaleidoscope of muted rainbows.
Once they reached his rooms, the queen even guided him into his bedroom where Michael sat down on the edge of the bed, placing the tonic the healer gave him on his nightstand.
After the queen did her own final inspection, Michael unable to suppress his chuckling, she spared a gentle kiss on his head. It took him by surprise, the queen even more so that she did it – her cheeks turned deep pink and quickly spared a polite farewell before leaving the room on quick feet.
It took Michael by such surprise, but he was so exhausted that after she left, he immediately fell asleep when his head hit the pillow.
Even now, sprawled naked along the couch, a book on his hand, his head still buzzes from the kiss. He's tried chalking it up to something she does out of habit with her sister, perhaps – but what bothers him is how much he deeply enjoyed it.
He hasn't had such affection – from anyone – since his parents' passing. Ever since then, it's always been training and training and training.
And he never dared to open up his heart to anyone since.
There were some healers in the rebellion of course; but their gentleness isn't personal – it had been taught to them. Any affection they gave was to help calm the patient. None of his mentors could replace his father – none of them were ever able to fill that mold.
He quells the thoughts with a sigh, turning a page in his book. Lounging in the solarium attached to his suite, Michael gives a ghost of a smile as the afternoon sun warms his skin. His only decency being the berry colored throw blanket that drapes across his loin.
It's been a couple of days since he's killed the Third in Command of those Inferno Assassins, and his jaw still aches from the bruises. Most of the cuts have already healed and the healer did a wonderful job of working out any knots in his back. Still, it didn't stop Elsa from using it as an excuse to reschedule the ball for another week. Likely just to piss off the suitors enough that they'll leave.
A door closes in the front, Michael lifting his head from the posh pillow to attempt to peer at who it was. Delicate heels click along the wood floor and he recognizes it as one of the servants. This room is luxurious – the best he's stayed in yet – but its size is unnecessary.
The first noticeable thing is the dark wood flooring that spreads into his open bedroom, and into the four thick columns that surround his bed. Flanked by two nightstands, an elegant chandelier hands overhead from decorative circle designs in the ceiling. A small canopy drapes over the embellished headboard, the thick cotton sheets inflating the already fluffy mattress.
Ornately carved, velvet furniture is accented with gold whorls forming the shape of snowflakes; a small gathering poised in front of a grand – now vacant – fireplace. Opaque teal draperies are pulled back to flood the room with sunlight, sending the wall sconces glittering. The turquoise walls extend throughout the spacious suite; into the dining room – occupied by a useless table for six – and into a solarium where two doors open to a balcony.
The room is more than what he expected. Being so unaccustomed to such open space, he nearly jumped at every door that opened across the suite. Now having lived three days in this room – nearly a week and a half of being in Arendelle – Michael's marked the routines of all the servants; now knowing when to expect them.
The solarium is his favorite – with its wall-to-wall windows and a rounded atrium separated by double doors he leaves open. It has one couch and three armchairs with ottomans surrounding a low-lying wood coffee table; all with plush, steel blue cushions and pillows for upmost comfort. The couch practically cradles him, the tassels of the throw blanket tickling his knee.
The glass top of the coffee table shines a vertical rainbow along one window, the legs carved to mimic delicate leaves. On it sits his half-finished cup of lemon tea, and the small three-tiered platter which sits empty after Michael wolfed down the variety of desserts it had. The only remanence being the multitude of crumbs sprinkled along its surface.
Today he's debating whether or not to scope out the slums again for more of the assassins, but he wonders if they'll even be there due to the numbers they've already lost. Perhaps it would be best to just leave them be – if they know about the suitor's ball, they'll likely plan something. He can't risk killing every single one he runs into, otherwise he may drive them deeper within the city, and he'll be back at square one of trying to find them.
Michael sighs, resting the book on his chest and closes his eyes.
So far they seem to be staying in the slums, the Pits their main meeting ground, for now. Every criminal decides to stay in the underbelly of the city – due to it being a place of common fear for the decent people. No one dares to go to the slums unless their crazy or overconfident.
On the other hand, assassins are trained creatures of manipulation and deception. They could be hiding in a prestige house in one of the wealthier districts of Arendelle. Both of his contacts left him with little choice, and little information. It would for now, his best option would be to prowl the streets all together and see if there's anything unusual he can follow. The thought alone makes him grown in annoyance.
Suddenly there's a sharp gasp and a female voice cries, "Oh, my goodness!"
Michael's eyes open and he lifts his head to peer at its source . . . and he can't help but grin.
Queen Elsa stands in the doorway to the solarium, shielding her eyes with her arm. Her cheeks are a red and she's stuttering as Michael rises to sit on the couch. He chuckles with a smug grin, but it's quickly wiped away as that little snowman suddenly skips into the room. Above his head sits a little cloud, sprinkling an even littler flurry of snow.
"Oh, I do love this room – it's so nice and calming. Did you know that blue is a known color to entice the calmness of the mind?" he babbles to Elsa, painfully unaware of her embarrassment, or Michael's nudity.
When the snowman turns to him, Michael resists the urge to flinch, stopping his hand from instinctively going to the dagger he tucked in between the couch cushions.
The snowman stops, his eyes scanning Michael's body from neck to toe. His mouth drops open, blinking for a few seconds before saying, "Wow . . . I wish I could have such incredible aesthetics, but I still need to lose some snowflakes from the last Christmas snowfall." He leans closer to Michael covering his mouth with one hand, as if it could quiet his voice as he says. "It all just goes straight to my thighs, you know?"
Though the animated snowman still unnerves Michael, he attempts to amuse him, only because he enjoys relishing in the queen's embarrassment so much more. She's still covering her eyes, immobilized by shock.
Michael sets his book aside, adjusting the blanket as he says, "Do forgive me, sir, but I don't believe we've had the pleasure of meeting each other."
He extends out his hand as the little snowman gasps and bursts into laughter. He grabs Michael's hand and jumps with jubilance while shaking it. "Hi, I'm Olaf, and I like warm hugs!"
"Very nice to meet you, Olaf." Michael says, careful to keep his grip light so he doesn't break the snowman's arm.
"Michael, please," Elsa sharply interrupts. "can't you make yourself more decent?"
Michael rises from the couch, holding the blanket so that it covers his front . . . but just barely. All the while, he keeps his smile that he knew is making the queen irate. "Well forgive me, You Majesty, but given these are my rooms, I assumed I was allowed to enjoy them in my upmost comfort."
He decides to finally spare her and wraps the blanket around his waist.
"And it's not like I expected you to grace me with your presence so unannounced."
"Oh, don't simper at me! Just put on some clothes!"
Still Michael chuckles as he takes his time sauntering over towards his closet. He pulls out a tunic and pants, then goes over to his dresser where he pulls out a fresh pair of undergarments. Elsa has since resorted to shielding her eyes with her hand, carefully meandering her way through the room. Once Michael is behind the dressing screen, he hears the queen sigh in aggravated relief.
"So, might I ask what brought upon this visit?" Michael asks, tossing the blanket over the top of the screen. He truly didn't expect to see the queen after the kiss she left, but he's been trying to simplify it himself. Perhaps it's her way of indicating it was a small slip of maternal instinct.
Through the screen Elsa says, "I was hoping we could attempt to train again, today."
Michael pauses, his shirt hallway up his elbows. "I suppose; it would be nice to enjoy the weather before we're all forced inside."
Throwing the shirt over his head, he steps into his pants, securing a belt to his waist. When he emerges from behind the screen, Elsa has seated herself on the divan at the end of his bed. Still she sits with a steeled spine, hands folded in her lap. Her cheeks have calmed, but her lips stay pressed in a tight line.
Michael fetches a pair of socks from his dresser. He digs under the bed for a moment until he finds his boots, admittedly cringing at their state. With paled spots and loose stitching, he is aware of the queen's gaze as he ties the laces. The boots pinch his toes and rub his ankles raw, even through his socks, but he hasn't bothered to find another pair.
Somewhere across the suite, Olaf giggles to himself. Michael looks up to find the snowman skipping around the solarium with the blanket he didn't see Olaf snatch.
"Might I ask why you wanted to train? Are you bored out of your mind, or are you trying to avoid someone?" Michael asks as he ties his other boot.
Elsa huffs, but he can see her picking at nonexistent dirt under her nails. "While my sister is spending time with Kristoff today –" Michael can only assume that was the blonde-haired man accompanied by the reindeer "– I just wanted to make sure you didn't forget the deal we made."
"I didn't forget, it's just I do have a second job that can be quite demanding." Michael retorts.
Elsa remains seated as Michael stands and retrieves a pair of duel swords at the back of his armoire. He's adjusting the straps when the queen suddenly asks, "Do you know about magical training . . .?"
It surprises Michael enough that he turns towards the queen with furrowed brows. She folds her lips in, afraid she might've asked the wrong question. Michael blinks, softening his gaze as he sighs. "No, I do not. Though there were some magic wielders in the rebellion, I never paid much attention to it."
"You haven't kept in contact with any of your former tutors?"
"No," Michael straps another sword to his hip. "Never had much of a reason to once we overthrew the king. And before you ask – no, I never bothered to talk to any of the magic tutors as well."
Mostly because though magic was accepted in the kingdom, Michael never really favored it. There was something otherworldly about it that always sent shivers running down his spine. He does remember watching some of the magic-wielders training: a crest of fire whipping through the air from swift kick, watching the skin stitch itself back together under a healer's glowing hand, giant waves of water summoned at the flick of a wrist, lava spewing from the earth at the stomp of a foot.
"I see." Michael catches the defeat in her voice.
"Are you looking for someone?"
Queen Elsa sighs, opening her palms. "I have been; with so little results. Considering where you came from, I was hoping you knew some people."
"I kept to myself, most of the time." Michael says with an apologetic shrug.
"You never bonded with anyone?" Elsa asks, turning towards him.
As Michael slips a dagger in each boot, he pauses as he reaches for third to attach to his belt. He remains still for a moment before sighing. "The murder of my parents was still fresh. I didn't really allow myself to bond with anyone, in fear it would distract me from my goal. Even after when a new leader was selected, with nothing else to do, I couldn't stop."
He turns to the queen, finally noticing her dressed in a pale blue tunic and white pants. Her periwinkle boots stop just below her knee.
"I still had plenty of anger left that I felt like I needed to keep going. I hunted down any remaining criminals in my kingdom, and after that . . . I just felt, hollow. So, I ended up wandering from kingdom to kingdom, helping the crime however I could."
Elsa rises from her seat, carefully approaching Michael. She places a hand on his shoulder – surprisingly warm despite her abilities. "Do you ever wonder when it's enough?" she asks quietly.
"It never feels like enough."
"Well, maybe the answers lie somewhere else. Maybe it's not in crime-fighting, but something else. Like settling down, starting a family."
Michael spares her a smile. "Relationship advice, coming from the queen who rescheduled an entire ball?"
Elsa smiles back, slapping his shoulder. "You know, I was trying to be nice, and helpful."
"Appreciated, even if unasked."
She walks over towards his front doors, Olaf falling behind her, the blanket now wrapped around his waist. "I'm sorry, I was just wondering."
"Course. I'll just make you pay for it in training."
The Queen gives a nervous giggle before leaving his rooms, Michael following after.
Elsa could still feel the warmth of her cheeks as she walks through the halls with Michael and Olaf flanking her.
It took almost all of her courage to force herself to go to his rooms this afternoon.
And as if the kiss wasn't embarrassing enough, she walks in on him nude!
Elsa resists the urge to rub her hands over her face.
She knew Michael was fit, but she didn't imagine how much . . .! The way he looked sprawled along the couch, that putrid blanket draped low across his waist – of which Olaf has now adorned for some reason – it was like he was posing for an artist.
Why she wanted to see him again, she didn't really know – training having been her perfect excuse. He had been resting for a couple of days since he killed that Third in Command, and Elsa had been occupied with meetings upon meetings and paperwork piling up to her hips. She had welcomed it initially, letting keep her from seeing Michael after her accidental kiss.
But when she was alone, and allowed to think, she found herself pondering over the kiss: why she did it, why it bothered her . . . and why she wished she had done more.
She knows the answer to each but refuses to explore.
After she and Michael had their argument, after she had opened up to him, and he in return, it had felt like progress had been made. A progress of trying to get to know him – to understand him.
It started with basics: mannerisms, personality, likes and dislikes – but then when she saw the similarities they shared, when she saw a small crevice of the person behind the cloak and shadows, her heart ached.
Because it near matched her own.
Deep within was someone who had their childhood ripped away from them; who inside, deep within, lie broken and withered.
Once they had finally reached his chambers, when the light of the fire and scones bathed the elegant panes of his face . . . she just couldn't deny how beautifully handsome he was. The sharpness of his jaw, the way his hair looked like liquid midnight, the casting of the light and shadow along his broad shoulders . . .
His hair rippled through her fingers until she came to caress his jaw. Though she had been half-paying attention, she could've sworn she felt him lean into her touch – as if he too missed a gentle touch, a caring caress.
It had been a brief kiss, a gentle press of her lips against his temple. His hair smelt of jasmine, his skin a bit clammy, but she didn't care at the time. Her thumb tentatively stroking the skin of cheek, feeling the scratch of his trimmed facial hair.
It was when he looked up to her, his sapphire eyes slightly widened with surprise, she'd never felt more embarrassed and quickly removed her hand. As she spared the most decent farewell she could muster, she thought she saw a bit of sadness – as if he already missed her soft touch.
But still she forced herself to walk out. Mainly due to a sensation growing in the pit just below her stomach; her powers starting to churn from the emotion. The rest of her evening wasn't much easier, seeing his face whenever she closed her eyes, her thoughts wandering
She had woken up today hoping and praying that Anna would be home, and that they could do something together, but as she ran into her sister in the halls, she was already dressed and ready to leave to spend the day with Kristoff. To do what, she truly didn't know, but who is she to deny them time together.
Taking one look at the stack of papers on her desk, that never seems to grow smaller, she changed into some comfortable clothes and forced herself to his rooms.
With his hands in his pockets, he's been entertaining Olaf, much to her relief. But she doesn't doubt he noted her drifting off.
"So, I assume we're going to be practicing with swords, or something?" Michael looks to her, lifting a brow. "Because last time, I practiced with that weird, club or something."
Michael snickers at the mention, as if the very weapon itself was a joke to him. It was unusual for Elsa as well, but hopefully it's a weapon for few use – it's an advantage, if only slightly.
She's been meaning to practice what Michael has taught her, but her queenly duties have prevented her otherwise.
"It would be best if you learned sword fighting. Are you right-handed or left-handed?"
"Right." Elsa says, holding her chin up. "You?"
"I'm ambidextrous." He answers, his attention directed out the windows.
Elsa's eyes drift towards his hands, the skin looking scarred and callus. She notices how the fingers of his right hand look slightly crooked. Unnoticed at first because of the scar that trails from his middle finger to his wrist, but once seen, demands a closer inspection to see if it's real. When her eyes flick back up to him, he's caught her staring. Elsa takes a small but sharp inhale of surprise, folding her lips in.
His brows lift ever so slightly, as if daring her to ask. She lifts her own brows in question. Michael coldly chuckles. He pauses by one of the triangular windows, holding up his hand to the sunlight. She and Olaf stop with him, Olaf now wearing the blanket like a babushka.
"When I was about, fifteen, one of my instructor's thought my swordplay with my left hand was abhorrent compared to my right." Elsa tries not to shiver at how dark his eyes seem to grow upon the memory. "So, he gave me the choice of either letting him break my hand, or I do it myself."
Elsa eyebrows narrow in disgust, swallowing past her tight throat. "Why?"
Next to her, she can see Olaf's eyes widen as well.
"So that I could practice with my left hand. That night, I went to our blacksmith's shop, took one of his heaviest hammers, and smashed my hand on the anvil. Shattered all of my fingers, nearly tearing a few tendons." Michael flexes his hand, the imprint of the bones moving beneath. "Took months to heal; during with I trained with my left hand."
Without thinking, Elsa says, "That's so barbaric."
Her resentment must've been obvious, because when he turns to her, his face softens with a sigh. He spares her a smile. "Don't worry – I wouldn't dream of making you do anything like that. As before, we'll start with the basics."
He continues to walk, but Elsa and Olaf stay behind for a moment. Olaf looks to her, and she feels his twig hand grip two of her fingers. She runs her thumb over them as she watches Michael walk down the hall, the muscles of his back rippling beneath his shirt, the shadows of the hall washing over him.
Elsa looks back down at Olaf, the little snowman giving her a small nod and a warm smile. She returns it, letting go of his hand as the two of them catch up to Michael.
Much like Kristoff, he seems rugged and harsh on the outside, but she knew that he still had a heart, however thickly it was protected by his stone-cold personality. Olaf sees it too; the little snowman's conformational nod making her . . . excited.
As if she was waiting for someone else to confirm what she sees. Now that it's done, she's eager to chisel her way down and see what lies beneath.
And it doesn't frighten her.
Michael had a distinct feeling that the queen didn't initially come to train, but it provided a believable scapegoat. Running his fingers through his hair, he lets Elsa guide him through the halls and out to the courtyard.
With his week in Arendelle, he's only memorized the west wing of the castle, unsure of what crosses the line of intrusion here. Queen Elsa has shown him some of the smaller libraries and parlors, Michael assuming no harm when he explored the servants' passageways. Walking between the two fountains flanking the entrance, Michael pauses, observing where they could practice without bothering the servants.
"Where to, Michael?" Elsa asks, a smirk on her face.
Deviously perplexed, Michael grins as he notions his head to the left. "Over here, I guess. This way you won't accidentally poke someone."
Elsa sticks her tongue out at him, drawing a chuckle from him. Olaf takes a seat on the lip of one of the fountains. Michael unsheathes one of the swords from his back, spinning it in hand before handing it hilt-first to Elsa. The queen stares at the blade in surprise, almost intimidated. Her eyes flick to Michael, the question obvious. "Already? I don't get like, a practice sword or something?"
"Practice?" Michael asks, grinning like a fiend. When the queen pouts, it only makes his smile broaden.
"I've seen the children around the kingdom practicing with wooden swords."
"Because they're children. You're a woman." He purposely rakes his eyes up and down the queen's body – crediting the curves of her hips and the shape of her breasts. The queen's cheeks turn read and she bares her teeth as she takes the sword from him. "See? Not so scary anymore."
Looking at the blade in her hand, as if realizing what she's holding, the queen's expression changes instantly. Michael draws his second sword, spinning it between his hands. While it may appear pretentious, it's more to awaken his muscle memory – to awaken what had been trained in him since he was thirteen.
He walks up to the queen, still holding the sword with two hands. She seems to have some understanding of how swordplay works, her feet already shoulder width apart, the blade pointed forward.
"We'll start with your stance." He says as he walks around the queen. She can see her shoulders tensing, but she doesn't argue. He sheathes the second sword at his back, coming up next to the queen. "You want your wrist straight, as if you were going for a handshake. You're not playing for the sport of touch where it's quick and light. You want to end with a fight-ending attack."
He overlaps his hands to hers, adjusting her wrist, giving her fingers a reassuring press. While this may seem like the oldest trick in the book for flirtatious nobles, he needs to make sure she has everything in line.
"Keep your feet shoulder width apart, knee slightly bent."
Elsa obeys. He walks around to her front and observes. "A wrist without structure means you'll lose your sword."
He demonstrates by drawing and swiping his sword in one smooth motion. He whacks Elsa's sword out of her hand, sending it clanking loudly against the cobblestone courtyard. The queen is left in shock, her eyes darting between her empty hand and the sword lying on the ground Michael retrieves it and places it back in her right hand.
"If you're not the one attacking, you need your hands to remain loose, and mobile." He brings his sword up into a blocking position. "In this instance, I can leave my hand open, and still maintain structure."
He nods to the queen, who lifts her sword and delivers a strike, the sword clanking and bouncing off, Michael sidestepping out of the way as the queen's blade comes down. she stares with wide, intrigued eyes.
"By having the hand relaxed, you allow for smooth guard transitions. Regrip it firmly when you're ready to strike." He nods to her again.
This time when Elsa swings, Michael follows the momentum of her blade, sliding it aside and spinning his own sword so the tip is inches from Elsa's nose. Michael relaxes, and so does she, exhaling as she counts off on her fingers. "Rotating the sword in your hand, switching grips, transmitting power from the core to the sword, targeting your opponent's openings. Piece of cake."
"Well, at least you seem to be a fast learner." Michael says as he walks up to her right side. Elsa smirks, pride beaming from her as she takes her stance.
Over the next hour Michael walks her through different positions and moves, having her practice side by side, then the next hour facing one another, walking through the same moves just as his own mentors taught him.
Within the third hour, he and Elsa are rotating in a circle, their blades clinking and scraping as he walks her through footwork.
"Swordplay is like dancing—certain steps must be followed or else it will fall apart." He says to the queen.
"Thankfully I'm light on my feet." Elsa grins through her red cheeks and beaded forehead. It seems like she's having fun – a little worrisome for Michael, but so long as she's actually learning something.
By hour four, Queen Elsa finally complains about her wrist being sore, to which Michael allows a break.
The sun is starting to shift to a tangerine orange as it starts to set beyond the peaks of the mountains. While the queen asks some of the servants to bring water, Michael takes the time to maneuver his sword in swords in smooth circles, each a steel extension of his arms. He closes his eyes and attempts to listen to the beat, to the rhythm of sword playing. He cracks his eyes open occasionally to make sure no servants are in his way.
Once he hears the beat, it all comes rushing back. The courtyard and servants fading away into shadows and sunlight. His mind wanders, his muscles now controlling themselves from the instinctual memory. The sunlight warms his skin, and he almost smiles with serenity.
Training was his best outlet when he was young, his anger getting the better of him in his adolescence. The amount of hay guts he sent spewing – at least the horses had plenty of food.
The queen clears her throat, and the sounds of the courtyard come swarming back. Michael flutters his eyes open, readjusting to the twilight. He turns to find the queen holding a tray of cold water, Olaf having fallen asleep on the blanket.
She extends one glass to Michael. "Here," she says with a smile.
Michael sets the swords aside, trying not to feel embarrassed as he takes the glass, Elsa taking the second and handing the tray off to a servant. They sip in silence for about a minute before Elsa says, "Thank you, for doing this for me."
Not expecting this, Michael lifts his brows in surprise. "Of course."
As they lean against the opposite side of the fountain where Olaf is sleeping, Elsa says, "I'll try to get my sister to learn this as well."
"Only if she wants too."
"As you said, she should learn it."
"It won't mean anything if she's not willing. But if you think you can convince her . . ." Michael chugs the glass of water, surprised by how thirsty he apparently is.
"I don't need to convince her. I'm her older sister, and her queen. She has to listen to me." Elsa smirks, swirling her water around her glass like it is fine wine.
Michael chuckles. "And here I thought you were a benevolent ruler."
Elsa chirps as she finishes another sip, "Before I forget, Anna's birthday is coming up soon." She chuckles as Michael sighs in irritation, his shoulders slouching and head hanging down. "Before you say anything, it isn't for another month; her birthday is in June."
"May I ask why you're telling me this."
Elsa lifts her chin, ever the regal queen addressing a subject. "So that you know when to attend."
"If Anna even wants me there." Michael mumbles.
The queen's eyebrows furrow. "Why wouldn't she?"
"I don't know if you've noticed, but despite your warm welcome, your sister doesn't seem to like me much."
Elsa's shoulders slouch, her lips pouting. "My sister has made poor judgements in the past, forgive her if she's a little, cautious. But I can promise you, you're invited."
"I just don't there to be a scene; especially if it ruins her birthday."
"It won't. I'll talk to her." The queen sounds sure of herself as she finishes her glass. "Now, I assume you're going to be dressed up for the upcoming ball."
Michael gives her a look that suggests he'd much rather prefer to hide in the shadows. Elsa pouts again as he sets his glass down on the lip of the fountain.
"Wouldn't being among the dignitaries be more useful than you prancing around the ballroom in leather?"
"When I'm dressed in 'my leather' no one is even going to see me. And gods forbid you need to be rescued again, I don't want them seeing my face. Could make for more trouble."
"How about we duel for it?" Elsa wagers, smiling . . . and serious. "You win, you were your uniform; I win, and you where what I pick for you."
Were it not for the playful mischief in the queen's eyes, Michael would've outright declined. But she seems to be in a good mood, why spoil it? "Very well, Your Majesty."
Elsa giggles as they pick their swords back up, facing each other. Michael feels a small bit of pride bloom as he watches the queen take position. However, he cringes when she says, "On your guard."
"No one says that, anymore."
But Michael readies himself as soon as he hears her boots scraped against the ground. With a turn of his arm he brings the sword into blocking position, his legs bracing for the impact as steel strikes steel. She charges again and he met her weapon, parrying with ease. Her arms quiver as they are shaken from their slumber, Michael continuing to deflect and parry.
"Good," he says, blocking her thrust as she forces him to take a defensive stance. "Very good," he breathes.
With a clang, the two swords meet, and they press each other's blades. He's stronger, and she grunts at the force required to hold her sword against his. But, strong as he might be, the queen is quick
She withdraws and feints, her feet jabbing and flexing on the floor with birdlike grace. Caught off-guard, he only has time to deflect, his parry lost in his size.
She surges forward, her arm coming down again and again, twisting and turning, loving the smooth ache within her shoulder as the blade slammed against his. She was moving fast — fast like a dancer in a temple ritual, fast like a snake in the desert, fast like water down the side of a mountain.
He keeps up, and he allows her to advance before reclaiming the position. She tries to catch him unawares with a blow to the face, but his reflexes awaken as his elbow snaps up and deflects, slamming into her fist and forcing it down.
"Something to remember when fighting me, Your Majesty," he pants. The sun catches in his sapphire eyes.
"Hmm?" she grunts, lunging to deflect his newest attack.
"I don't lose." He grins at her, and before she can comprehend the words, he snaps his foot out as fast as an asp.
The queen's eyes widen as she spins and falls, gasping as her spine collides with cobblestone, the sword flying from her hand. Michael points his blade at her heart.
"I win," he breathes.
She pushes herself onto her elbows. "You had to resort to tripping me. That's hardly winning at all."
"I'm not the one with the sword at my heart."
The queen hisses, thumping her fist against the ground. She's clearly unhappy with her defeat, but Michael had taught her enough of the footwork that he assumed she would remember.
"You have the skills," Michael says, "but some of your moves are still undisciplined."
She glares up at him. "I've never picked up a weapon before; I only flick my fingers and people turn to ice." she spits.
Michael chuckles at her agitation and pointed his sword at the rack, allowing her to get to her feet. "The victory is mine, nonetheless. So, I will be happily wearing my leathers, keeping to myself in the shadows while you enjoy caviar and riveting conversation with your potential suitors."
"You'll be regretting that when you wake up and your rooms are frozen," she mutters, picking up the sword. "Best two out of three."
Michael smiles – truly, genuinely smiles. "That's the spirit."