It had started with a horrific nightmare brought upon by her dispute with Anna. She dreamt she was running through the snowstorm five years ago, when she threw Arendelle into an eternal winter. She was running through the winds and the mist, her usual ice dress having bene replaced by her coronation dress. The collar of the cape felt suffocating, near choking her as the wind tugged on it.
She was running across the fjords; to where, she didn't know. But she felt this dark presence coming after her, hiding in the vicious flurry of her own conjuring.
Within the winds she could hear her name being called. It had no being – it was never human.
It wounded young and old, laced with a deadly, predatory calm.
It was ancient . . . and it was coming for her.
Thunder rolled above her. She spun in a circle, and despite the cascade of noise, she could not sense so much as the slightest movement in any direction.
Elsa felt her throat constrict and her chest tighten. Her heartbeat sped to triple time. Her palms, cold and sweaty, tightened into fists.
Out of the corner of one eye, she thought she saw the edge of a dark something. Then there was another to her left. Figures, tall and long, rushed through the howling veils of snow on either side of her. Their movements too fast. Impossibly fast.
As she sped up, so did the dappled forms.
They seemed to multiply as, out of her periphery, she spotted yet another. The one glided away from the others to rush along beside her. It moved with the flurry of snow, a shadow in the white veil it was conjured from – a rippling form.
Elsa risked a quick glance, head-on, but saw nothing, only white and swirling snow and chaos. But that was impossible!
Then she felt one of the forms grab her shoulders.
"Go away!" she screamed.
She couldn't outrun them, whatever or whoever they were. She couldn't gain even the slightest bit of distance, and already a stitch the size of a small ball had begun to knot itself in her side. She blocked out the pain, pushing through the it.
Run.
Run.
Run!
The snowstorm bellowed her name again, a hollow scream that echoed around her. Elsa tried to cry for help, but couldn't find the breath, able only to choke out a low sob.
Something grips her shoulders again, and this time she could feel the hands as she whirled to imbed her ice into the bastards.
She could hear a scream – and for a moment, a sense of accomplishment eased her. But it was brief.
Something compels her to look down, and beneath her feet the ice was clear to peer into the dark water below.
Elsa screams when a hand presses up against the ice, following it was the petrified face of her sister.
Elsa bellowed for Anna, the scream tearing at her throat until it was raw. She raked at the ice until her nails cracked, lines of blood smearing in the snow.
She didn't care.
She kept yelling, clawing for her sister. But the ice refused to give.
Elsa sobbed as she watched her sister began to convulse.
Her eyes rolled up into her head, her lips started to turn blue.
Elsa screams as Anna's hand falls away from the ice, sinking into the darkened depth below.
Pain crackles across her cheek and suddenly –
"ELSA!"
Her eyes shot open, and panic seized her as the flurry of her nightmare had made its way into her bedroom. Until –
"Elsa, wake up."
His voice . . .
As if he had pulled a string in her heart, the storm stopped.
"You were dreaming. You're in Arendelle."
She doesn't remember much after that; just the feeling of having his arms around her, resting her head in the crook of his neck.
And she was shaking.
Even when he had managed to calm her down, she nearly panicked again when he left.
She's never felt so cold until his warmth was gone.
Though she was more than relieved to see Anna safe, though she wanted nothing more than to hold her sister for a number of hours, she wanted Michael.
She needed Michael.
Which is why now, after nearly thirty minutes of consoling from Anna, and another twenty ensuring her sister that she will be fine, Elsa is near jogging down the halls to find him. Olaf is at side her, or at least attempting to be, the poor snowman. With Elsa's jog slowly turning into a run, his little snow feet can barely match the stride.
With the skirts of her nightdress fisted in one hand, Elsa's feet are carrying her through the halls.
Kristoff had explained what happened, to the best of his abilities: Elsa had been dreaming, her powers running rampant in her rooms. Michael had been the first to find her, his banging alerting him and Anna. After they had broken into Elsa's room, Michael went in first to try and wake her up. The thick snowy winds kept them from seeing anything, Kristoff holding Anna back despite her protests.
Then they heard Michael scream.
It was something they had never expected to hear from the rogue, Kristoff said. Then the storm just, stopped. The snow and ice had stayed, the snowflakes simply suspending in the air. After Anna had soothed her, Elsa had managed to thaw her room; rather uncaring that the sheets and carpet were left soaked due to her distraction of wanting to find Michael.
Kristoff said he didn't know where Michael went after letting Anna hold Elsa, so the queen can only go with the most obvious guess being the servants. She knew both Anna and Kristoff were hiding something – Kristoff had an easy tell when he was lying.
They knew something bad had happened to him.
And that she did it.
She chokes on a sob that clutches her throat, Olaf spouting off some nonsense between breaths. Elsa turns the corner, ready to fly down the stairs on an ice ramp.
Until she almost crashes into one of the servant women.
Both women yelp, Elsa near careening into the poor woman as she was about to turn the corner as well. Olaf had resorted to sliding along the wood to keep up with Elsa; as a result, with Elsa's dead stop, he ends up sliding past the two women – and into the hall table.
Elsa lets out a sigh of relief, clutching a hand to her chest. "Oh Ida, I'm so sorry." Elsa attempts to catch her breath. "What are you doing here?"
Ida wipes her hands on her apron before curtsying. "I actually came looking for you, Your Majesty."
Elsa is about to ask why, until her eyes flick to Ida's attire. She's dressed in her homespun nightgown, her apron thrown atop it as if she had been summoned while sleeping. Then Elsa notices her red cheeks and gleaming forehead. Olaf walks up behind her, a little more than jumbled by his collision.
Elsa can feel her heart start to race, her head still rather light from gathering her nerves. "Where is he?"
"We just brought him back to his rooms." Ida says with a level tone. Elsa is about to step around the woman, until she holds out her arms to stop her, matching her step. "And I was coming to inform you that, it's probably best if you just let him sleep."
Because you hurt him, she tells herself.
Even if it was unintentional, even if she knows he'll say it's alright, she needs to see him. Elsa knew Ida wasn't trying to stop her out of fear of her, but because she doesn't want Elsa to see him like that.
To see what she had done to him. And have her suffer through another breakdown through guilt.
"Please, Ida. I need to see him."
"Your Majesty, I must advise against this." Ida still holds out her hands to the queen, as if it can hold her in place.
Elsa pauses, about ready to scream. She steps back, raking her fingers through her hair with a heavy sigh. She looks to Ida, stepping up to her. "What happened?"
Ida folds her lips in, lacing her fingers together at her front.
"Ida." Elsa demands, forcing herself into her queen persona. She never liked to use her authority like this, but she's close to just shoving the handmaiden out of her way.
With a deep breath, Ida says, "He came to us looking exhausted. His feet and hands and forearms were all frostbitten. Particularly his forearms."
The thought makes Elsa's body grow numb, her heart beginning to race again despite the feeling of it dropping down into her stomach.
"We did what we could; his feet weren't even that bad. They'll recover fine, but . . . we don't know what to do for, everything else."
The dread nearly makes the queen collapse to the floor. She manages to catch herself, pressing her back to the wall and bracing her feet. Her shaking must've been apparent because Ida places a gentle hand on her shoulder. Elsa resists the urge to shy away from it.
She'd given him deep frostbite.
Elsa places a hand over her mouth.
Deep frost bite was the most severe case – where amputation is more than likely.
He could lose his hands . . . because of her.
Gods, he will never forgive her for this. There must be some other way.
There has to be something that can save him.
Elsa looks to Ida. "Let me see him, please."
"Your Majesty –"
"Ida, I need to see him. Maybe I can help him."
None of the servants of the castle had any magic, let alone the knowledge of how to heal someone from it. they could only work with what they knew – and apparently Michael's condition is one that they know will require amputation.
No. she can't let that happen. She has to try and think of something. Anything.
"Your Majesty, I highly recommend –"
Elsa fists her hands. "I am your Queen!" she suddenly spits. "You obey my requests. And I request to see Michael this instant!" The outburst surprises Ida, her eyes widening and placing a hand on her chest. She probably would've complied anyway, but Elsa's urgency has her orders faltering as she whimpers, "Please."
Ida's shoulders slouch and she turns and motions Elsa to follow. The queen knew the way to Michael's rooms, so once Ida was willing to let her in, she speeds past the woman and runs.
By memory her feet carry her to his rooms. To him.
His doors come up quicker than normal, Elsa having enough sense to grip and twist the knob before swinging the doors open. Another servant woman sitting at Michael's beside jumps at the sudden intrusion, quick to jump to her feet and bow upon realization.
She steps out of Elsa's way as the queen heads straight for the bed.
And to the seeping body atop it.
They've tucked him under the sheets, folding back the comforter. The blanket stops in the middle of his abdomen, his head propped on a pillow. They've only lit a few candelabras that are on his nightstands as dawn is little more than a couple hours away.
Elsa can't stop a heavy sigh, or the stinging in her eyes as she notices his hands.
His fingertips have turned black and bits of skin are already starting to peel, revealing coagulated blood and puss-filled blisters. Black dots sprinkle across the back of his hand, varying from knuckles to wrist; his skin a canvas for them. It almost looks as though they are in a state of decay.
Elsa notices a wheelchair parked at the foot of the bed. She suddenly finds herself quietly applauding the women for hauling Michael up here. It couldn't have been an easy feat considering his size and build. She'll have to make sure these two women receive an admirable reward for not only helping him, but also getting him up to his rooms.
"We were able to save his feet," the servant woman says with a bow. "but we still recommend he stay in bed."
Not even looking at her, Elsa asks, "For how long?"
The woman shrugs in her periphery. "At least a week."
Elsa bites her lip. The ball is scheduled within that time. She would love for Michael to be there, but she won't force him to. Her eyes flick to the scar along the back of his right hand. Elsa sits herself on the edge of the bed, tucking one leg underneath.
Ida finally comes in, her cheeks more distinct in color from chasing after the queen. Her honey-gold braid looks a little disheveled. It looks like she also might've attempted to smooth it down before entering. The second servant woman bows again, stepping aside to let her near.
"We gave him some sedatives to help with the pain, as well as some tonics and tea to help fight infection." Her voice lowers with her head. "I'm not sure what else we can do."
Because once Michael had told them that Elsa had attacked him – even if she was dreaming – they already knew that there was no saving him. It's a miracle, Elsa suppose, that they were even able to save his feet.
Olaf walks up next to Ida as Elsa, grabbing a section of her skirt. The little snowman seems to have recovered, having rearranged himself back to normal. Elsa reaches out a shaking hand to move some of his hair off of Michael's forehead. The moonlight casts lovely shadows on the elegant panes of his face, softened into handsomeness by sleep. He takes long and even breaths, the muscles of his chest expanding and contrasting.
"Thank you, for your hard work. It's greatly appreciated." Elsa says, but her voice sounds hollow; distant even to her own ears. She forces herself to look at the servants. "I'd like to take care of him from here. Or watch over him, if everything it finished."
"We did what we could. Now all we can do is let the tonics and the body do what they can." Ida instructs. "He may be thirsty when he wakes up. And we encourage that he eats when he's awake too."
Elsa nods despite the nervousness tightening in her stomach. Gods, what is she to do when he's hungry? She doubts he will allow her to spoon-feed him like an invalid.
"Will he have any mobility of his hands?" Elsa asks. She scoots herself closer to trace her fingers along his jaw. Michael doesn't so much as twitch.
Ida's shrugs her shoulders. "As I said, My Queen, we did what we could. We'll have to see how he is tomorrow."
"Will any of this" – Elsa gestures to Michael's black fingertips and peeling skin – "go away?"
Another shrug of Ida's shoulders. Elsa sighs in aggravation. Then she feels a tug on her skirt. The queen looks down to Olaf. "Elsa, maybe you can reverse it." Elsa ponders for a moment before her eyes flick back to the snowman. "It was your powers that froze his arms, maybe they can unfreeze it."
"I don't think it's that simple, Olaf."
"Indeed." Ida chimes. "We've already rewarmed his hands and feet to the best of our abilities. If there's anything left in there it would be dangerously close to the nerves and tissue."
Disheartened, Elsa looks to the snowman again. "I'm sorry, Olaf."
"Isn't it worth a try, though?" Olaf asks. "You thawed out Arendelle, a couple of limbs shouldn't be that bad."
"It's a lot more complicated then that, Olaf. I could end up hurting him more." Elsa denies, looking down at her open palms. So smooth and pale and with perfectly manicured nails compared to Michael's.
Olaf's stick hand gently grasps Elsa's pinky, guiding it down to him. "But, he did so much for you. He really helped you." He cradles her hand as though it were a robin's egg. "Wouldn't it be fair, if you did the same for him?"
Elsa blinks, Olaf's words sinking in. Yes, she did thaw Arendelle. And while this is more intricate than just lifting snow off of inanimate buildings, it is still her magic.
And she controls it.
Elsa looks to Olaf and smiles tenderly at the snowman. Ida must see her face, because she sharply says, "Your Majesty, I must advise against this."
"I'll take it into consideration." Elsa states she stands, tuning to take Michael's hands.
"You don't what you're –!"
"I have to try!" Elsa turns to Ida snarling. The servant woman takes a step back, balking with her hand on her chest, mouth slightly agape. "I'm going to try."
Ida complies; but not before asking Elsa a question that the queen tunes out. she looks down at hers and Michael's hands. Indeed, her hands looked immensely different compared to his. Yet, even as her fingers bump over the open scabs, his blood smearing her fingertips, Elsa does not tremble.
Gods, even with frostbite, his hands still feel warmer than hers.
She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes.
Within the blackness of her eyes, she tries to picture Michael's hands. A bright turquoise tether glides through the darkness. As it goes out further, she can suddenly see snowflakes gathered in small huddles, spreading sparsely here and there. Then they begin to take shape in the form of Michael's hands and forearms. It unnerves her at how clear the outline appears, more of the color filling and varying in opacity. She really dug deep when she was fighting Michael from the nightmare.
A well beneath her stomach starts to grow warm, spreading throughout her body until she feels the tether connect to her heart. The attachment causes her to gasp.
An anchor. Someplace she can spool it back in at the snap of a thought.
Elsa takes a deep breath, the glow of the thread matching her slow inhale. As she exhales, more snowflakes begin to glow, forming the shape of his hands. Elsa delicately traces her hand over Michael's fingers. Casting the line out like a fisherman, the snowflakes are immediately drawn to it. They drift to the tether like a swelling tide; Elsa being careful of her breathing.
She tries to remain calm as she cleans the sparkling bits of turquoise from Michael's hands and forearms. The outline slowly starts to fade, like a broom sweeping away dust.
Elsa allows a small smile to stretch her lips as the last few of the flakes are pulled into the tether. She can only hope his hands look as clean on the outside as the inside. She makes sure to pick up every last flake from his tissue, from his veins and skin and muscle.
When the outline of his hands and arms are gone, and all she can see is blackness, Elsa is about to retreat the thread of her power, when something begins to glow.
It's not bright – the luminosity as soft as twilight sky. It flickers deeper within the darkness.
Not smothered, just, further in. Puzzled, Elsa gasps as the thread begins to slide towards it. Her own hand slides up Michael's arm, her eyes still closed.
Elsa is surprised when they open for her, encouraging her to step forward. She wonders where the thread could be guiding her, but she doesn't hesitate as she moves deeper into the darkness.
It is not cold, or entrapping; it is not the kind of darkness that holds nothingness.
As her magic approaches, Elsa sees the light is . . . flickering. Not like the wick of a dying candle flame, but . . .
A heartbeat.
Her magic has found its way to his heart.
Elsa suddenly stiffens with panic, ready to yank the thread back as to not hurt him, but that light flickers again. This time it grows brighter before settling back down.
Tentatively, Elsa inches her magic closer, the light starting to look eager. It begins to dance – dilating dim and bright, ribbons of orange floating about.
To welcome her.
And when the ribbon touches her icy thread, Elsa huffs at the shiver that runs down her spine.
Magic.
Michael had magic. He had mentioned how some skilled healers had married into the family, and how he claimed he retained little of their traits.
And yet here it is – pure and untouched. Hidden.
No, not hidden but . . . slumbering.
Michael wouldn't have lied to her about. He probably doesn't even know he has it. But something about this magic feels, odd. Not dangerous, just – it has no shape. She doesn't recognize it like her ice.
It is ancient. Something far older and far more powerful.
Elsa's excitement has her taking shallow breaths. The ancient power reaches out a hand and touches her magic – her ice. She shudders as she feels it ripple through her again. A gentle caress.
And she feels it.
That great sleeping, ancient beast opens an eye. It seems to sense her watching. Sense her there.
She feels it stir — like it will lunge for her.
Suddenly the light shifts from sunset orange, to a wholly gold. Its radiance grows to a blinding light. Dread coils in Elsa's stomach. Though it's not menacing, it is overly excited by her discovery. By its awakening.
Elsa takes a sharp breath and runs. She tries to keep her spool of magic straight as she sprints out.
That monstrous force swells behind her, a golden wave rising up. It is eager to fill the void, to cast out the darkness. She can still feel its warmth behind her as she yanks her magic back.
With a gasp, Elsa opens her eyes, releasing Michael's hand. She stumbles back a couple of steps, Ida and Olaf quick to gather her.
"Are you alright, Your Majesty?" Ida asks.
Elsa nods, sparing a quick nod of thanks to Olaf. She approaches Michael's bed again; the candles having been blown out. She takes his hand once more, and chokes on a sob of relief as tears fill her eyes.
Gone were the black spots and fingertips; peeling skin had healed over and though his scars were still there, she had healed all of the coagulated scabs and puss blusters. Ida comes up behind her right shoulder, mouth falling open and eyes widening in shock. Olaf tugs at Elsa's skirt and she carefully brings his hand down to show the little snowman.
Olaf bounces from foot to foot, the snowflakes of his little cloud winking in the moonlight. "You did it!" he exclaims with jubilance.
Neither she nor Ida have the heart to quiet him; also because the drugs have Michael so deeply asleep that a herd of bulls couldn't wake him. So, Elsa allows herself to revel in the accomplishment. Choked between sobbing and laughing, she can't stop running her fingers along his hands, along his forearms.
A tap on her shoulder has Elsa stepping aside to let Ida inspect Michael. Her eyes remain wide as she looks over his newly healed hands. She doesn't hesitate to yank back the sheets and inspect his feet. Elsa flinches, shielding her eyes – for only a few seconds. She carefully peers around her fingers to find Ida leaning over Michael's ankles. As she lowers her hand, Elsa is relieved to see Michael wearing some night trousers this time.
"Incredible." Ida murmurs. She pulls the sheets back over Michael's waist, tucking a bit under his ankles.
"I'll still watch over him, tonight." Elsa offers.
"Are you certain, Your Majesty?"
"Yes." Elsa hopes her answer didn't sound too eager. "Yes, of course. And thank you, for all your help."
Ida curtseys. "Of course, Your Majesty. We'll be back to check on him in the morning." Elsa nods, fidgeting with her hands as she looks around the room. "Would you like me to bring you some pillows and a blanket, My Lady?"
Elsa gives a bashful smile. "Yes, please."
"Are we having a sleepover?!" Olaf asks with excited clapping.
Elsa smiles, kneeling down next to him. "Why yes, Olaf. If you'd like to join me."
In truth, she didn't really want him here, but it's better not to raise rumors around the castle.
Still, she gives herself some time by asking Olaf to fetch some books from her rooms. When he leaves, she closes the doors and walks over to the left side of the bed where she crawls atop to his side. Michael doesn't even stir.
She runs her fingers through his hair, soft as silk, sliding through her hands like liquid ebony. Gods, he was so beautiful. And yet, seeing him here lying so peacefully, it hurts her heart.
Michael has magic; and she has to tell him.
But it would require her to confess that she invaded – what could be considered – his privacy. She'd read books in the library about how there are some certain magic wielders who could invade a person's mind, making them their puppet and not even realize it.
She had crossed a line with him – but maybe if she insisted it wasn't intentional, he might understand . . .
Elsa sighs, collapsing into the pillows. Tucking a hand under her cheek, she simply stares at Michael as he breathes. Her eyes drift to his full lips.
She remembered feeling their touch just above her ear; how it sent a spool of warmth throughout her body . . . and even deeper. Elsa leans forward, placing her lips on Michael's forehead as soft as a moth's wings.
Michael stirs, and Elsa freezes like a deer in the road as he groans and turns on his side, facing her. The sedatives must be wearing off. Or they could've worn off already, and he's just been faking it. Her cheeks grow warm as Elsa attempts to ease off the bed.
But not before she reaches out a hand to caress the side of his face, tracing along his cheek, across his jaw, and down to his chin.
Elsa shakes her head, remaining focused on monitoring him for the night, and how things will go in the morning.
She has to tell him. She just has too, and maybe once she's figured out how to say it.
Olaf and Ida soon return with books and blankets, Elsa rearranging some of the couches and chairs to face the foot of the bed.
Olaf makes a small little fort out of the chairs and seat cushions, leaving Elsa the couch.
As she and Olaf settle down, she still can't keep her eyes off Michael, waiting for him to move. To see if he'll wake up, and what he'll remember.
It's one of the longest nights of Elsa's life.