Michael closes his book and sighs. What a terrible ending. Which makes him now more than half of the way through the stack that Elsa had personally sent to him.
Laying on his cloud of a bed, cradled by pillows – and this time wearing a set of comfortable night clothes – Michael stares up at the chandelier, admiring the beauty of the glittering crystals. Trying to also ignore the idea of how it could potentially crush his legs should it somehow fall when he's sleeping.
The clock on the mantel of his fireplace reads eleven o'clock at night. After his lessons with Elsa was cut short due to the palpable tension, Michael retreated into his rooms. He ordered dinner to be delivered, still debating whether or not it was the right decision.
His intensions were to let the sisters have a private dinner together, hopefully to reconcile; but now he's worried he only made things worse. Elsa could take it as a sign that Michael was offended from the sisters' argument. It's a losing situation no matter what he chooses, and the last thing Michael wants to do is get in the middle of a sisterly quarrel.
He slips his feet beneath the sheets, welcoming the cold. Even with most of his windows open, his rooms still hold a humidity that makes it quite uncomfortable. Even the silk night clothes have little breathing room. He decides to throw the shirt at the foot of the bed, settling for the trousers.
He'd been willing to teach Anna some basics of self-defense when she found him sparring with Elsa, but after her behavior . . . He fiddles with the tassel of a pillow.
She had more important things to do than to criticize him every hour, didn't she? He hated to see Elsa being quite cruel to her sister, but . . . hadn't she deserved it?
She'd really struck a haunting nerve within the princess at the mention of what happened five years ago. What that is, he doesn't know – and it's none of his business.
Michael sighs, rolling over and grabbing another book from Elsa's stack, but when he's lying on his back again, lets the book rest on his stomach. He sighs, blowing some loose strands of his bangs.
Did Anna trust him or hate him?
Due to the sisters' argument, Elsa had ended their lesson early. Meanwhile it was, pleasant. rather, to finally meet the man Anna's been courting. Kristoff.
A nice man, his reindeer an impressive and surprisingly inquisitive bull. Originally started as an ice harvester, having met Anna during that deadly winter the queen unleashed. Comes and goes to the castle as he pleases, though admittedly spending more time here the closer he gets to the princess.
Once the two women headed inside, Kristoff followed not long after the princess, having seen the expression on her face. Michael had been meaning to visit Elsa to see if she was alright, as well. The fight seeming to have some effect on her as well. Though he appreciates her standing up for him, he doesn't want to be the reason the sisters are driven apart again.
He slides out of the bed, unsure of where to go, he walks out of his bedroom. He pauses at the threshold of the solarium. The windows' glass turns the moonlight into silver fractals, the particles of dust casting the smallest of shadows along the wood floor.
Sighing to himself, Michael strides over to his doors, opening on silent hinges as he steps into the hall. He closes them behind him, feeling relaxed in the pockets of shadows. Though still only in his trousers, he tucks his hands in his pocket, aimlessly roaming the halls of the castle.
He debates going down to the library, but having read for the past four hours, he'd rather find something that involves less mental work – something he can drift off with.
Though he's already charted both Anna's and Elsa's rooms, he hasn't been able to navigate the full expanse of the castle. The thought of having something lenient to do makes a small smile spread his lips. He'll have the whole castle memorized in a matter of three days if he were to walk the halls at night.
Passing by one of the triangular windows, he can see the blurred glow of Arendelle's homes, looking like little fairy lights sprinkling along the fjord and along the foothills of the mountains. His parents would've loved this kingdom. Friendly community, no impending threat of the queen's guards knocking on the doors to drag you off.
The memory makes his heart flinch, so much that he clutches his chest, leaning against the cold glass. His mother – what would she make of all this? Make of him . . .?
He can still remember her gentle touch whenever he scraped himself; her soft kisses against his skin, her stern tone offset by her laughter as he pulled a carrot from her garden too aggressively.
And his father . . . His father was just as kind of a man, stoic when needed. He would take Michael hunting during the fall season, sword fighting in the evening, wood chopping at dawn. It used to baffle Michael as a child to think that despite his father's scarred and callus hands – almost as big as dinner plates – apart from needed discipline, they were as gentle as his mother's.
Michael presses his forehead against the glass, the pounding in his heart becoming tighter. He remembers how little his own hand was, barely filling the palm of his father's when they would be snuggled in front of the fireplace.
What would they think of him? Of this whole situation.
His eyes flick to his fingers, to the scar on his right hand; which have never been the same after he broke it. His mother would have his trainers' heads for what they did to him. And then his father would probably grind their bones into dust. The thought almost makes Michael want to chuckle.
A delicate warmth slides down his cheek, a tear having escaped. Michael grips the windowsill, digging his nails in as darker memories flood forth, his foolish musings now having cracked open an old door in his mind.
He tries to steady his breathing, calm his raging heart as he starts to hear the agonized wailing of that grief-stricken boy
The boy he hasn't since dared touch – no, hasn't even acknowledged since that day he fled his home.
Since his mother gave him that chance to run.
He's been keeping that boy in the dark for the longest time. Holding him in his heart as a fire, a fuel, a reason to keep moving.
He just knew if he dared to touch that young boy – the boy who got cheated out of his childhood – everything would change. Everything will fall apart.
He will fall apart.
Sighing heavily as the sounds of the castle start to come back to him, Michael blinks his eyes open. A pinching in his fingers has him looking down to realize he's dug his nails hard enough into the wood to leave crescent shaped marks.
Shaking his hands out and popping his knuckles, Michael continues down the hall. He decides to check on the queen and princess as means of distraction – and yes, for the sake of making sure they're actually safe.
He makes his way up the stairs, running a hand along the banister. As he reaches the top, he pauses at a sudden chill lacing through the hall. Enough that it makes him shudder, rubbing his arms as the hairs stand on end.
Looking around, his eyes widen as he exhales, his breath a white plume of smoke. As he rubs his arms, with quick feet he jogs down the hall, knowing the queen's room is around the corner, first door on the left.
His suspicions are confirmed; as the closer he gets to the queen's rooms, the colder the hall is starting to get. His soles of his feet are already starting to pinch, his breath getting thicker and thicker.
Turning the corner, he gasps when he finds the hallway entirely frosted.
All around him the ice crackles and pops, clawing its way up the walls with jagged periwinkle fingers. Spreading like a virus, the ice is making its way towards him. Michael curses himself for not wearing slippers. It overpowers the spring warmth, swallowing it whole as it creeps towards him.
Taking a deep breath, Michael bites back his grunts as he crosses the cold line; the frost quickly aching the soles of his feet. He skids to a stop in front of the queen's doors. The ice feels like glass.
His blood runs as cold as the hall when he hears her whimper.
He bangs on the door, not bothering to be pleasant. "Elsa!" he calls.
The queen only continues her soft crying.
Michael tries banging again, the ice scraping against the side of his hand. "Elsa! Elsa, open up!"
He continues to push against the door, the knob refusing to turn. The layer of ice growing thicker and thicker. It layers itself like a frigid armor, determined to keep him out.
His commotion attracts attention, footsteps rushing from the end of the hall.
"What's going on?!" he hears Anna ask in a panic. Behind her, are Kristoff and Olaf. The man and princess both in their night clothes.
Keeping his voice level, Michael says, "Something's wrong with Elsa."
Michael steps to the side as Anna joins him in banging on the door. "Elsa! Elsa!" she shouts.
"The door's frozen shut." Michael says. He looks over his shoulder to Kristoff and jerks his chin. "Kristoff, help me."
In an instant, the couple switches places, Olaf hiding behind the skirt of Anna nightdress.
"On three." Michael says. Together they ram their shoulders into the door, the wood splintering from the impact, the ice cracking. Bits of snow fall around them.
They hit the doors two more times; slamming into it, exploding through the locks.
The cold hits him like a slap to the face.
Michael beholds the room, steadying his feet as the ice bites deeper into his feet, into his arms.
There is ice and snow everywhere.
Before the bed, the ice lies heavily frosted – shallow gilt details of a snowflake beneath its surface. Snow gathers on the folds of the blankets, the corners of the room, the canopy above the bed . . . on everything it can cling to.
And on the bed, there lies Elsa.
Surrounded by a flurry, her fists clench the sheets until they're white knuckled. She wriggles and writhes as if trying to fight off whatever phantom hands threatens to grab her. Her eyes are squeezed shut, her cheeks flush; but not from cold.
A stream of tears winks in the wavering moonlight as the curtains billow from the frigid winds.
She's having a nightmare. Her head constantly turning left and right, trying to shake whatever images are worming their way into her mind.
A part of him is relived that she is not in danger.
But this growing storm . . .
Michael pushes his way through the flurry, each flake feeling like the sting of a bee as he gets closer and closer. Behind him, he can hear Anna call for her sister. She likely would've tried to join Michael, but Kristoff holds her back. Michael shields his eyes, doing his best to keep straight as the snowflakes stick to his lashes. His ears positively ache, his hands already growing stiff.
When he reaches the eye of the queen's storm, the wind calms, but the narrow funnel only amplifies the queen's petrified sobs. He blinks away the flakes, wiping his arms and taking deep, even breaths as he approaches the queen's bedside.
She hasn't faltered her grip on the sheets, the fabrics now frozen in place. Her sobbing makes his heart ache. He leans on the edge, grabbing the queen's shoulders. He pats her cheeks as he attempts to shout over the howling wind.
"Elsa! Elsa!"
Her writhing only worsens, as if she had just been burned. Her legs start to kick, only restrained by the stiff sheets.
"Elsa, wake up!"
He shakes her shoulders now, the wind whippings his hair about in a black halo. It sears against his skin, making him squint now. The wind is starting to amplify his heartbeat beneath his skin. Each pulse sends pain rippling through his limbs.
Still he continues to be gentle, patting the queen's cheek in an attempt to wake her. Anna's cries for her sister are lost within the howl of the flurry.
He feels some spark of hope as he watches the queen's eyes begin to flutter open, eyes rolled up in her head. But the grip of deep slumber still pulls her down as they shut once more.
Michael grits his teeth as he hears the wood of the bedframe start to pop. It'll shatter soon . . . and then who knows what next.
The floor becomes so cold that he has to lift his other leg up, forced to adjust on the bed. He sighs, forcing himself to straddle the queen, still gripping her shoulders.
He shakes her shoulders once more. "Elsa, wake up! It's me, Michael!"
His heart nearly breaks at the tortuous scream that erupts from the queen's mouth.
She begins to flail, and when it registers that her hips are pinned, her eyes open wide, but she doesn't see him.
No, her eyes are far-seeing – still trapped in whatever hell conjured in her mind. Her pupils have shrunk in the widespread of her cerulean eyes. He attempts to grab her wrists, but it only frightens her more. She wrenches herself free, her hand flailing through the air to scratch across his cheek. Michael barely feels the pain, only the pins prickling beneath his skin from her touch, his face having grown numb.
He screams her name again as he grabs her shoulders, and for a moment, pride goes through him as she immediately tries to drive her fists up into his elbows – a maneuver he taught her during their self-defense lessons.
He manages to snap his arms back before she could, but when he tries again, she's ready and grips his forearms.
Michael can't stop his scream that erupts from his throat as Elsa's magic rips its way into his skin. Into every muscle and every vain. Agony cleaves its way into his hands, into his forearms, into his mind as the pain splinters his vision into flashing light.
It's enough to make him lightheaded, loosening his grip on her shoulders. Thankfully she releases him as quickly as he does.
Left with no other choice, Michael whispers an apology as he raises his hand.
The sound of his hand cracking across her cheek deafens the storm around him.
"ELSA!"
The queen gasps, inhaling deeply as her eyes shoot open once more.
This time they look more alert than before. She clutches her chest, her hands shaking.
"Elsa, wake up." Michael croaks as he reaches out to touch her. His voice is like sandpaper.
She yelps, the sound no difference than a frightened lamb. This time he moves off her as her legs start to thrash again.
"Elsa, it's me. It's me." He tries again, but Elsa shrieks and fumbles within the tangle of sheets, frantically scooching herself back further until she collides with the headboard.
As if by the snap of some phantom hand, the storm stops. The snowflakes freeze in the air, the ice and frost settling over the room.
He doesn't look to the horrified face of the princess. Kristoff still holding her back. Whatever he sees on Michael's arms, Anna sees it too after following his gaze when he refuses to let her go.
Even with the biting cold gone, his arm is still left numb with a strange sensation of pruning without actually being wet.
He doesn't give it a thought, yet.
Michael carefully approaches Elsa as the queen's breathing becomes shallow. Other than a few strands out of place, her hair is left almost untouched. Her braid falls over her shoulder, all the while he tries to keep his voice calm and motion gentle gestures towards her.
"You were dreaming, Elsa." Michael softly speaks. "You're okay. You're in Arendelle. You're in the castle, with me, Olaf, Anna and Kristoff."
Elsa adjusts her breathing, but her face is growing paler as she continues to shake. Thirsty for air to fill her lungs, despite her long sporadic inhales, she doesn't seem to be making any headway. Michael speaks her name again, but she curves her spine inward.
In a voice barely audible, she groans, "Michael, I – I can't -"
The queen stutters, her lip quivering as she coils her arms around her knees. With her chin almost touching her chest, she starts to cough, and Michael fears she is going to be sick.
Michael carefully crawls towards the queen. Tentatively he manages to get the queen to lift her chin, cradling her face in both his hands as if it were a robin's egg. Elsa uncurls slightly and Michael is greeted with the queen's fear-stricken eyes. The shortness to her breath unnerves him.
"You were dreaming." He soothes, willing his eyes to not shed the tears that the pain tries to draw from him.
She doesn't jerk from him, which is a good sign. Michael carefully removes one hand and tries and place it her shoulder once more. He bites back the pain in his left hand as he can feel the frozen skin stretch.
Elsa's breathing is starting to slow, her hands slowly reaching up to touch Michael's. She unfurls from herself, sitting up slightly and leaning forward, body seeking another like a flower to the sun.
Her lips begin to quiver again, and underneath the shuddering sobs, Michael can see she's trying to find words. Michael makes the attempt to position himself closer, but even the slightest pressure on his hands has him fighting a yelp of pain. He bites his lip hard enough to draw blood.
The queen spares him – crawling to him near frantically to get into his arms, to lay her head against his chest.
And to unleash the sobs of fear and relief as she holds him like a life raft in a stormy sea. If he were wearing a shirt, she probably would've fisted it until she was white-knuckled. The thin straps of her long, sunset nightgown fall off her shoulders, her back soaked in sweat despite the still-bitter room.
He doesn't hesitate to wrap his arms around the trembling queen as she burrows her head into his chest. He can feel the warmth of her tears against his skin. She moves herself even closer, as if she can burrow into his heart and disappear. He wraps one arm around her shoulder, holding her closer, while the other gently strokes her hair.
"You're safe." Michael speaks with calming reassurance. "You're safe. Try and breathe with me."
He purposely exaggerates the movement of his chest so Elsa can feel the motion beneath her.
But she isn't listening.
Her body shakes as Michael rests his chin atop her head. Her sobs are deprived of emotion because instinct has commandeered, hammering out any other thoughts other than those of human survival and the pursuit of oxygen.
"Shhhh," Michael coos. As he strokes her hair, he can feel her forehead is moist with sweat.
Michael tries to dry her forehead by patting it with the back of his hand. He jolts in surprise as an overly hot palm clutches at his forearm. He stops petting her head to offer her a hand to hold. She brings it to her chest where he can feel the rapid beat of her heart. The bond they create lies over her chest in a tangle of sweaty palms and bruising impressions of fingertips.
"I've got you." Michael whispers into her ear. By now the pain has disappeared.
And it unnerves him greatly.
But just like she did for him, he places a soft kiss just above her ear.
He feels the pressure of her shoulder as she presses further into his chest, but she's still shaking.
The longest four minutes of his life span out at the astounding display of Elsa's chest and lungs gradually slowing to someone partaking in a brisk walk. Michael feels like he's run a marathon with a pack of wolves on his tail in the blistering heat of summer. His exhaustion is evident, so he can't imagine what Elsa is experiencing.
He gently rocks her as her pulse slows beneath his critical observation. Elsa is treated to kind whispered promises of her ensured safety and how Michael will hold her for as long as she needs him to.
He is convinced he's ushered her to sleep, until he hears her drag a ragged breath and mumble something on the exhale. "I'm sorry." she weeps.
Michael softly shushes her. "It's fine. You're fine." he assures, stroking her hair again with his right arm that's about her shoulders. She still keeps his left hand pressed against his chest, entangled in her fingers.
He angles his head down to peek at her and finds the queen with her head turned in his direction. Michael watches as Elsa's pupils dilate back and forth with every odd breath. She blinks rapidly before turning her head away and leaning back into his chest. Her head nestles in the crook of his neck.
She blinks quick and suddenly gasps as she finally notices her sister and Kristoff standing by the shattered doors. Michael looks to them, too.
Both of their eyes are gleaming with filled tears, Kristoff having loosened his hold on Anna.
Elsa lifts her arm and extends a trembling hand towards the princess.
With a choked whimper that pinches Michael's chest, she says her sister's name.
Like a bat out of hell, Anna rushes over to the bed, taking her sister's hand. Michael is released as the sisters embrace one another, exchanging sobs as Anna crawls onto the bed. She attempts to console her anxious sister; who is now mumbling apologies between breathes.
Anna assures her everything is fine through her own choked sobs. Slinking his way off the bed, Michael breathes as his hands begin to faintly pulse. He spares a nod to Kristoff as they pass one another.
Elsa is still sobbing as he steps over the threshold and into the hallway beyond. Once he turns the corner, certain he is out of hearing range, Michael exhales, unable to stop the grunt of pain as he tries to flex his fingers.
Bringing them forward, he attempts to suppress his growing panic as he confirms he's lost feeling in both of his forearms. In the warm, buttery glow of the scones and candles, Michael can see the skin has turned bluish-grey, a thin white layer starting to crawl its way over.
Michael doesn't dare look at his feet. If they're in worse condition than his hands, he'll lose all sense of focus.
He tries to keep his attention on getting to the servants' quarters. He knows where the healer will be. He just needs to make it to her.
Though he heavily debates going to his rooms and fetching his slippers, it'll only waste more time and cause more possible damage. It's a horrible idea to walk on frostbitten feet. It's not worth the risk.
He does, however, slip a table runner out from underneath a vase of buttercups to wrap around his hands. Trying to rewarm the area is the best he can muster.
Even so, after turning another corner, Michael breaks into a full sprint towards the stairs, hopping and sliding down the railing. He manages to keep his balance until he has to try and hop without the aid of his hands.
His landing is a bit rough, not that he can feel it – but he does stumble to one knee. Pushing himself up, Michael forces himself to keep running, flexing his fingers and fisting his hands beneath the silk runner.
Still no feeling.
Windows slip by in his peripheral vision, briefly revealing the oxford blue night sky. The blanket of stars seems to shine brighter against the velvet backdrop, leaving pale silver streams as they rush by his vision. He passes by a grandfather clock in the hall, its hands perfectly aligned against the midnight hour. The servants won't be up for another six hours, so he has to be loud.
He spots a door tucked in an alcove and forces himself to pick up speed. He takes a deep breath as he rams his shoulder into the door, breaking through the tumbler.
Hopefully this far down – now having reached the sublevels of the castle – the sisters won't hear him from the third floor. And that his commotion has awoken someone down here.
Michael counts the steps, his heart near racing – but not from the cardio. A torch creeps up every fifth step, and when he reaches the end, he skids to a stop to prevent himself from crashing into a servant woman. She gives a pitched yelp that rings his ears in the enclosed tunnel. She's still wearing her nightgown, two fingers looped around the handle of a brass candle holder. The flame trembles with her hand as she holds it aloft towards Michael, illuminating her chocolate brown eyes.
"Help me . . ." Michael begs. His voice sounds as coarse as Elsa's frost.
She looks down at his rummaging ball of fabric, loosening to reveal his hands.
Her gasp mirrors his horrified exhale as they gaze at his blackening fingertips. The color lightening to a pale grey as it drips down to his knuckles.
In an instant her drowsiness is gone, replaced by an unwavering professionalism as she extends a dainty hand. "Come with me, quickly."
She takes the silk runner, rewrapping it with quick and deft hands before she and Michael are jogging further down the hall. At the first door that comes up on their right, the servant shoves open the door, shouting at whoever's inside to Get Up! He thinks he hears the name: Mai.
There's a small fire brewing in the hearth along the right wall. Being down here, Michael can understand having its use. He attempts to focus on the cracking of the logs while sheets snap and rustle to his left. The servant woman he met in the hall brings over a wooden chair for him to sit on. As Michael leans back, more than relieved to have his weight off his feet, she then brings over a small stool to prop his feet atop.
The second servant woman, Mai, slips on a tunic over her nightgown before tying an olive-green apron over it. She ties her hair back into a simple braid, as does the first woman as she walks over towards a line of cabinets. Both women make their way over to a wash basin where they both clean their hands with trained thoroughness.
In the light of the fireplace and two sconces they ignite on the walls, Michael can see Mai's hair is mouse-brown, the other whom he met in the hall is more honey-gold. He almost feels the need to look away, as he usually sees the female servants with cotton caps covering their hair. In fact, most of the female servants were covered from neck to toe. They usually wear layered cotton clothing and caps and gloves even in the summer.
However, they don't seem too bothered by their exposure – especially Mai. They've interrupted her sleep, and yet she moves with keen eyes and quick feet, uncaring of her bare feet slapping the stone floor.
The servant with honey-gold hair brings over a small wooden box with holes in the top. She strides towards the fireplace, filling a small ceramic brazier with hot coals. Mai goes over to the hearth as well, placing a large teapot along a spit and setting it over the fire.
As the first servant woman comes over with the box and brazier, Michael attempts to clear his throat before asking, "Your name?"
Those chocolate brown eyes look up to him through a fan of dark lashes. "Ida." she gives a dip of her chin. She kneels in front of him and sets the brazier inside the wooden box before motioning Michael to lift his feet.
He does, and she guides him to rest his feet atop the box. She sends the stool skidding to the side with a punt of her foot. His own heart drops at the sight of his feet already having puss-filled blisters, his toes beginning to turn black. But Ida's face doesn't waver; a professionally trained mask that learned to endure the most severe and truly disgusting.
"A footwarmer." Ida says as she stands and wipes her on her apron he didn't see her adorn.
"Innovative." Michael adds, but there is no humor to his tone. Ida moves to remove the scarf from his hands.
"They didn't have these in your kingdom?" she asks, attempting to make conversation as means of distraction.
"If they did it was more than likely for the nobles. I used to just sit in front of our fireplace."
She gives a delicate hum in response, walking out of his sight. Behind him, he hears bottles clinking and liquids being poured.
He can't stop staring at his feet, his own nerves beginning to falter. He could probably stick his feet directly into the fire and not feel the burn. With a tight swallow, he says, "I've never seen frostbite progress this quickly."
"Did something happen with Her Majesty?" Mai asks without looking back. There is no judgment, no caution – merely a diagnosis.
Michael leans back in the chair, the wood creaking. "She was dreaming, and when I tried to wake her, I ended up starling her. She inadvertently used her powers on me."
Ida comes back around his right, holding a small cup in her hand. With the minimal lighting, he can't see the color, but the smell is bitter – like stale ginger. "Drink it," she orders.
Though there is no reason to question healers, Michael still asks, "Why?"
"We're going to be putting your hands and feet in some warm water. And once they start to thaw, the pain will be intense. This will help with that."
On cue, the kettle over the fire begins to whistle. Michael nods, and Ida readies one hand behind his head, the other smoothly tipping the cup to his lips. He nearly spits it out from the bitter taste – like stale ginger with too much lemon and lime. But he manages to keep his composure, chugging the whole cup as Mai begins to pour the hot water into the tub.
As Michael smacks his lips, he holds in a belch that would lead to a retch, which would lead to him vomiting back up the drink. He can't stop the shudder that rattles his shoulders.
Ida and Mai slowly push the tub over to him, Ida removing the footwarmer. As Mai helps set up his feet, Ida uses the still hot brazier to warm a bowl of water.
Michael looks to the steaming tub, hesitant, but Mai's gestures and expertise have him placing his feet into the tub.
Where the water would burn and singe some people, it barely registers in his feet. Michael swallows, his stomach rolling over itself. Mai runs over to her bed tucked in the left corner, fetching one of her own blankets. Michael wants to protest, but she's already wrapping it around him, folding it around his neck to make a collar and tucking it in the crooks of his elbows. The smell of cinnamon and peppermint fill his nose.
Ida walks over with the bowl of water, steam curling off its surface. Mai drapes a towel over his lap before Ida gently sets it down, ushering his hands into the water.
"We'll get you some food and water. To help keep the restore heat and body energy." Ida states, her honey-gold braid slipping over her shoulder. "Where is Her Majesty?"
"She was in her rooms with Princess Anna, and Kristoff. Her sister was consoling her when I left." Michael tries not to feel unnerved as his words begin to slur. He can't tell if it's from the frostbite, or from the tonic Ida made him drink.
Both women nod, and Ida jerks her chin towards Mai. The woman leaves without another word. Meanwhile Ida soaks a towel in second bowl of hot water, wringing it out and placing it over Michael's forearms. With skilled fingers, she knots both ends under his wrists.
With a blanket and both his hands and feet in hot water, the drowsiness continues to pull Michael down into its depth. Taking a deep breath and tunneling his focus, Michael asks Ida, "Where is she going?"
Without missing a step in her work, Ira answers. "She's going to inform Her Majesty of your condition. Then we're going to work on you before sending you to your rooms."
"What can I do to help?" To his own ears he sounds like a drunk. He wants to feel uneasy; he wants to stay awake, but the heaviness of sleep is pressing more on his shoulders. Were it not for that tonic, the pain would've definitely snapped him awake – and he'd be a bigger hassle to the women.
"You can relax." Ida says. He can hear the smile on her lips as her hands gently drift across his shoulders.
Michael has enough sense to recognize when he's been drugged. He also has enough sense to remind himself that he's in Arendelle's castle; with servants undoubtably don't have any ill will or intention.
Ida continues to talk. "Mai went to get you a wheelchair. Once we're finished, we're going to bring you back to your rooms. While it would be beneficial to have you stay by us to monitor you" – she gives a delicate giggle – "we don't exactly have the space."
Losing all sense to the drug, Michael could barely nod as Ida begins to lift his right foot out of the water.
He only registers the door behind him opening and the sound of squeaking wheels before finally succumbing to the drugs.