Michael awakens.
His mouth is bone dry and his head pounds, but he can move. He can wiggle his toes and his fingers, and he recognizes the smell of the sheets well enough to know that he is in his bed, in his room, and that he is safe.
His eyelids are heavy as he opens them, blinking away the blurriness that still lingers. His stomach aches, but the sedatives have worn off. He looks to his left, as if he somehow knew, even in sleep, where she is.
Elsa dozes on the couch, her arms and legs folded in, her head tilted to the side, cradled by a pillow, squishing her braid and exaggerating her long elegant neck. The skirt of her magenta nightgown spills over the edge of the couch. From the angle of the sunlight, it is probably around dawn.
"Elsa," he rasps.
She is instantly awake and alert, leaning towards him as if she, too, always knew where he is. When she sees him, she quickly rubs her eyes and practically leaps from her seat to rush to his bedside. "Michael. You're awake," she says, her voice a raspy hum, laced with deep relief. "How are you feeling?"
"Sore." He looks at himself; he is shirtless, but underneath the sheets he can feel he's wearing undershorts and his night trousers. His hands are bandaged but he can feel the gauze sliding a bit; either from sweat or salve they put on.
Leaning to peer around the queen, he finds a little fort of pillows has been made from cushions. Elsa seems to notice and gives a huff of a laugh. "Olaf wanted to stay with me. He must've left already."
Michael shrugs his shoulders, returning his gaze to his hands. He's so preoccupied that he startles when Elsa suddenly throws her arms around his neck. She takes deep breaths as she nuzzles close to him.
"Thank goodness you're okay." She mumbles. Her arms grip tighter; Michael feeling her hand cupping the back of his head from beneath the pillow. "I'm so sorry."
He uses his left hand to rub her back, his right arm being trapped beneath her chest. He pets her head, stroking the back like his mother used to do with him. "Hey, it's okay." He croaks. "You didn't mean to."
Elsa still shudders from a couple of sobs before she pulls back and wipes her nose on the back of her hand. Michael can't help but smile at how un-queen-like the gesture appears. Unaware of his movements, Michael gently takes the queen's wrist and pulls it away from her face. With his other hand, he wipes away the remaining streaks, her cheeks already so red.
"Hey, it's okay." He whispers, near wincing at how stark his hands seem compared to her skin. He's never seen someone so pale; as if she's never seen sunlight.
"It's not . . . it's not." She mumbles in response. "I thought I had it under control – at least enough that things like this wouldn't happen again."
She pulls back until she's sitting on the edge of the bed, her hand coming to rest on his own. Her gaze is downcast, facing away from him. He can see her other hand fiddling with the end of her braid. Her profile looks so elegant, and his chest pinches as she shuts her eyes in shame.
Michael encloses his fingers around hers. "Mistakes happen, Elsa. It's fine."
"Now it is, at least."
"Indeed." Michael sighs, lifting his left hand, turning it over to look at the bandages. "The servants do great work."
Elsa sniffs, wiping her nose on her sleeve. She seems to perk up a little as she lifts Michael's right hand. "Well, they did have some help."
A rogue smile tugs up one corner of his mouth. "Oh, really?"
"Yes," Elsa affirms. She sits up straighter and folds her hands in her lap, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin. "Since it was my fault you had such injuries, I took it upon myself to help fix it."
Her face still falters a little as she takes blame, but it lightens just as quickly. Michael looks to her, folding his fingers together on his stomach. Without a word – or need – Elsa near hops off the bed to adjust Michael's pillows. She simply motions him forward, to which after giving her a snort that he knew would make her red in the cheeks, he obliges. She builds them so that Michael sits up while making sure he's still in the upmost comfort.
"And how, may I ask, did you do this?" Michael asks hiding the caution from his voice. Elsa begins to rub her fingers.
"I was able to use my magic to, locate it. And when I did, I was able to reverse its effects on you."
Michael's brows furrow as he looks back to his hands, turning them over again. "You can do that?" The queen nods. "How?"
"I wish I knew. Not many of the servants know how to handle my magic still, and thankfully after what happened three years ago, I've only had small accidents."
"Well, if they don't know how to really handle it, then how did they . . ." Michael trails off as he looks to the queen.
"I mean, they did what they could but . . ." More fidgeting. When she looks to him, infamy seems to darken her cerulean eyes. "It was a lot worse, in the beginning. They had feared you would have needed amputation."
His blink is the only sign of shock. Elsa folds her lips in as she continues.
"I was scared. I didn't want that to happen; I didn't want to be the cause of a horrid life change for you – and I know that sounds selfish, and believe me it's not because I didn't want you blood on my hands, I just . . . I didn't want to be the reason for someone suffering again. I didn't want you to hate me."
Michael reaches out one bandaged hand to Elsa's; the movement so natural. They feel so cold, but he doesn't shiver. "I could never hate you, Elsa." She looks to him, her eyes lined with tears. She quickly wipes them away with her free hand. "You made a mistake, but you fixed it. And I will always be grateful for that."
When there's still doubt in her eyes, when she still refuses to look to him, Michael leans forward as he pulls her towards him. With his other hand, he grabs her chin as she gasps.
"Elsa, you're going to be fine. I'm going to be fine, because of you."
Those beautiful cerulean eyes blink, her lashes like a wide black fan. "If it weren't for me you wouldn't even be in this situation."
Michael nods with a slight pout on his lips. "Perhaps. But if not you, I likely would've hurt my hands again some other way."
"Stop," Elsa says. She probably meant to sound serious, but Michael managed to draw a small giggle from her. Still, he can see her eyes flick to shielded scar on his right hand.
As a smile starts to stretch her lips, Michael brushes his fingers along her cheek. Her hands immediately cradle his, leaning into his touch. The fingers of her right-hand wrap around his wrist, while the left fits into the space between his own, like a puzzle piece finding its place. She stays that way for a moment; eyes closed, relaxed into his touch.
Michael blinks slowly with disbelief. He's never really had anyone confide to him; let alone having to comfort someone. Hell, most of the other rebels didn't really want his company unless necessary. And it's not like he cared – he didn't really want their company either. At the time, his heart was – and still is – so full of rage and darkness . . . and that cold, numbing silence that he felt little of anything.
He wanted nothing.
And yet, with the queen he says more in five minutes than he has in weeks. With her, things are starting to become, familiar again. Become . . . warm.
As her eyes flutter open, he can't help but look to her rosy lips.
He sighs, shaking his head.
There is a line with Elsa. One that he shouldn't toy with – and one that defiantly should not be crossed. Even if nearly every part of him wants nothing more than to have her lay on top of him; place those lips on his cheeks, his forehead . . . his own lips.
Michael withdraws his hand, Elsa not noticing it as she wipes her eyes. He fiddles with the knot of the bandage. But then she says, "I wish you were there."
He looks to her confused, finding her staring down at her hands again. Her lips are folded in, showing the instant regret in her outburst.
"For what?" Michael asks, not letting her get off that easy.
"For . . . everything. I wonder how much better I would've been if you were there; especially after losing my parents."
So she did remember him comforting her. He wonders if she remembers the kiss. Michael tries not to; chalking it up to being caught up in a moment just as she was. The queen was scared, and vulnerable. He was taught little by the medics on the topic of anxiety, but he knew enough to recognize an attack. He surprised even himself when he was able to remember the steps.
"Everyone makes mistakes, no matter how big or small; regardless, they help us grow, and learn. No one ever learned anything by being good and knowing everything."
Elsa chuckles. "Was that some advice from you trainers?"
"Well it was more along the lines of: You make that mistake again, and you'll find yourself without a head. But yes, credit could go to my trainers, I suppose."
The queen giggles again, wiping nonexistent dirt off her skirt. Her eyes flick between him and her hands for a moment before she asks, "May I?"
She motions a flawless hand towards him, and Michael can only assume she means to give him a hug. The corner of his mouth turns up and he nods through a sigh. Despite not having a shirt on, Michael decides to indulge the queen, especially after having such an attack, it's a miracle she wants to be touched at all. When he outstretches his right arm, Elsa adjusts herself until she's seated fully on the bed before scooting closer.
When she leans down, she relaxes on top of him, her arms once again wrapping around his neck. Her head rests on his chest this time, her hair brushing just beneath his nose. She smells of snow-covered lilacs.
"Thank you, for everything, Michael."
"Of course, Elsa." He rubs her back in comforting circles.
Thankfully – or maybe not – a near minute after the queen settles into him, his stomach growls.
And it growls loud; like a ravenous dog.
Elsa lifts her head with wide eyes, Michael trying to hide his embarrassment. She laughs are she tosses her braid over her shoulder. "Ida said you'd be pretty hungry."
"Ida?"
"The woman with the honey-gold hair. She's the one who took primary care of you."
That's right, he remembers near careening into her, barely remembering about asking for her name, even before they drugged him. But it did ring a bell, at least. "How are they?"
"Fine. They went back to bed after I insisted to watch over you. They did look exhausted." Elsa turns her head and Michael follows her gaze to a wheelchair parked in the corner of his rooms, just behind the door. "I could only assume they carried you up the steps in the wheelchair.
Michael bites his lip. Whether they asked for assistance – which he doubts they did in order to avoid suspicion – he can't hide his blushing cheeks at the idea of those two women lugging him up the steps in that wheelchair. "I hope they were given the day off."
"Oh, absolutely. And a raise, of course. But Ida did insist I fetch her when you woke up, see how you were feeling. They were worried they gave you too much sedatives."
"I feel fine." Michael says, wiggling his fingers and fisting his hands.
Elsa slips off the bed and heads for the door. "Be that as it may, I'm not going to risk anything. You wait here and I'll get some food. Then I'll have someone fetch Ida."
Michael begins removing the sheets, ready to put his feet into his slippers. But despite the humor lighting his eyes, each movement is heavy and slow — fighting exhaustion with every breath. It's obvious enough for the queen as she stomps over, pressing her hands to his shoulders. "No, no, no. You need to stay in bed and rest. You can't risk putting pressure on your hands and feet yet."
"You said you healed everything." Michael smirks.
Elsa pouts, pointing her finger in his face while keeping one hand on his shoulders. "I also said to wait until Ida comes and gives her final decision."
Knowing she can't match him in strength, she starts to pull the sheets back up over his legs, as if it'll help trap him. "Even so, I could just call and order some food here."
"No. Since I almost froze your hands and feet off, I do owe you a favor." Elsa smiles.
Michael gives her a teasing smirk. "Or twenty; for each finger and toe."
"Don't push it."
"Honestly, Elsa you really don't have to –"
"I want to, and I'm going to." With that, she's out the door and padding down the raspberry-red hallway.
Ten minutes later, a servant woman holds the door open for Elsa as she walks in, a fully covered silver tray in her hands.
"Considering that you brought the entire damn kitchen," he muses as she heads for the desk, still not bothering to put a shirt on, "I should have just gone downstairs."
Elsa sticks out her tongue, but scowls as she scans the cluttered desk for any spare space. None. Even the small table by the window is covered with things. All important, vital things. Elsa makes do with the bed.
Michael adjusts himself with the servant woman's help, and Elsa places the tray across his lap. He sighs at the mix of smells infatuating his nose: from the bowl of porridge sprinkled with brown sugar, to the neatly folded omelet with mushrooms, to the pieces of sausage lay next to a short stack of buttered pancakes. In a small bowl are chopped pieces of strawberry, cantaloupe, raspberries, and blueberries. As if it all weren't enough, Elsa walks into the dining room where Michael can hear her poring a glass of water.
Only when he's digging into the food does he realize how hungry he is. After the first strawberry hit his tongue, he nearly wolfed down the entire tray. A little more than embarrassed as Elsa returns, Michael tries not to look too desperate for the water as hiccups start to jump in his throat.
Elsa sits on the edge of the bed, folding in her lips to keep from laughing. Michael gulps down the water, silently grateful she goes to refill the glass. He finishes the omelet and sausage, starting on the bowl of porridge as she takes her seat again. He notes how her eyes keep going to his hands, monitoring the movement of his fingers.
"How do you feel?" she repeats after a time.
Looking to her, he sets down the silverware to wipe his mouth. "Fine, Elsa." Michael says, rolling his eyes.
Elsa smacks his shoulder, "I'm just asking how your hands actually feel?"
Michael looks down at his hands, fisting them and wriggling his fingers. "It feels, tight. I can feel the healing skin stretching, but there's no pain, or loss of feeling. I can still move."
"Well then you may be on the home stretch, already." A voice chimes from the doorway.
Instinctively, Michael's hand twitches to reach for the butter knife, but he relaxes when he sees Ida standing in her castle uniform, a wicker basket holding some fresh gauze and a small variety of other medical supplies. Elsa remains where she's seated as the woman approaches, sparing a nod at the queen.
"I must admit I'm surprised to see you in such spirits." She sets the basket down on the nightstand, Michael holding out his hand to her. With trained skill she cuts the gauze and removes them. The chilled air tickles his moistened skin.
"Her Majesty says she was able to heal me, to some degree." Michael says, eyeing the queen as she gives a sweet but coy smile.
Ida doesn't even take her eyes off of her work as she says, "Indeed, it was something I've never seen before."
Michael narrows his brows, looking to Elsa. He's about to ask, until there's another knock at his door. Both he and Elsa look to find Kai standing there, back stiff and shoulders squared. He folds his hands behind his back. "Sorry to interrupt, Your Majesty. I simply wanted to remind you about the meetings regarding your ball, as well as the princess' birthday party."
Elsa's eyes widen, her brows lifting. Michael stifles a chuckle . . . as well as hide a bit of male pride at the queen being so caught up in taking care of him, she forgot about her sister's birthday party. It wouldn't take much for the queen to conveniently forget about the suitor's ball. He wonders if the queen will use the recent events as another excuse to delay the ball even further.
Elsa clears her throat as she folds her hands in front of her. "Why, yes . . . of course. I'll be there in a minute, Kai."
With that, the steward nods and takes his leave. Elsa turns to him and Ida, who is holding his hand aloft, examining everything down to his fingernails. The queen comes up and folds her arms as she leans against the bedpost at the foot of the bed.
"How does it look?" she asks the servant woman.
"Looks like nothing ever happened, Your Majesty." Says by breath of astonishment. "It's incredible."
"How soon will I be able to walk?" Michael asks. His bites his lip at his obvious impatience. Elsa gives him a small sneer, to which he answers with a charming arch of his brow. The queen folds her lips in, adverting her gaze as her cheeks turn red.
Ida is quiet as she finalizes her assessment, feelings along his forearms and knuckles, patting dry his hands with a rag, poking the tips of his fingers with a needle. Not enough to draw blood, but enough to ensure that the nerves are alive and receptive. Once she's pricked all of his fingers and toes, and he's about ready to smack her upside her head, she finally nods. "You should be ready. I can't find anything wrong. Everything is responding well, muscles are tight, tendons intact."
"Really?" Elsa breathes, seemingly surprised by her own work.
"It would appear so." Ida confirms as she packs up the rest of her things. Michael can't help but smirk at the equipment she brought in her basket – feeling rather penitent but grateful she didn't get to use it. As she leaves with a slight curtsey to the queen, she says, "Well done, Your Majesty."
She starts to show herself out, Elsa approaching Michael's bedside as he pulls on a loose tunic, when Ida suddenly yelps. Drawing their attention to the door, Ida stands with her hand against her chest in surprise at an exasperated Kai bracing himself in the doorway. His face is red and beading with sweat; wherever he came from, he ran all the way here. Michael's chest tightens as Elsa exclaims, "Kai! What's wrong?"
"Your Majesty," he gasps between breaths. He pulls out a handkerchief from his pocket, patting his forehead. "I have some . . . disturbing news."
Michael is already throwing off the sheets, grateful he's already wearing some night trousers. Underneath Kai's flushed cheeks, Michael could tell he's deathly pale perhaps even a little green.
Elsa's voice quivers as she asks, "What's wrong, Kai?"
The steward's breath quakes upon an inhale, and he says, "I'm afraid that there . . . there has been a murder, Your Majesty."
The tension in the room immediately becomes palpable.
"A murder?" Elsa's voice quakes. Michael walks up to her side, bracing a hand on the small of her back. To his surprise, she allows such a touch.
In a steady tone, Michael asks, "Did they tell you what happened?"
The steward pads more sweat off his forehead as she explains, "The guards on patrol this morning were flagged down by a citizen who claimed to have found the body. It was at a popular intersection, and it looks . . . fresh."
The green of the steward's face begins to show more, placing the damp handkerchief to his lips as he coughs.
"Have the guards secure the area. I don't want anyone interfering with the crime scene, and make sure no one touches the body until after I've seen it." Michael orders, the queen still in shock behind him.
Kai nods and begins his walk back downstairs, Ida following behind him. Her face has hardened into the trained professionalism, but Michael can see the tone of her skin has grown paler. Her throat bobs as she swallows, the only sign of disturbance as she closes the door soundlessly behind her.
Michael turns to find Elsa with her hand against her chest, her eyes distant in shock. He places a hand on her shoulder as he walks past her towards his armoire. He would console her, but he needs to get to the scene as quickly as he can.
Elsa seems to snap out of her trance as he passes her and asks, "Why are you going?"
"You hired me to investigate, so I need to see what happened." Michael states.
"Maybe you should leave this to the guards." Elsa suggests as she follows him, stopping a few feet behind.
"What do they know? They probably won't be able to stomach it." Michael throws on his black tunic and pants and begins adding the padded leather layers of his armor.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Elsa pouts.
"From the look on Kai's face this doesn't happen often; do they even know how to handle this kind of situation?" Elsa folds her lips in, her eyebrows still narrowing. "It's clear that being in this picture-perfect kingdom hasn't prepared them for brutality."
Elsa fists her hands. "My guards are trained well, I'll have you know. They're not worthless."
"I never insulted their ability in combat. I just don't think they can handle bloodshed." He secures his vambraces to his forearms, tightening all of the straps of his armor before sheathing some daggers at his waist. When Elsa doesn't respond, he looks to find her fiddling with the end of her braid. "You look like you're going to be ill."
Elsa's eyes dart all around the room before settling onto him. "Do you think this has anything to do with those assassins."
Michael shrugs as he secures two short swords across his back. "I wouldn't put it past them. And the timing is awfully coincidental. But it also doesn't make sense."
"How?"
"You and your sister are the targets. Why go to the trouble, and waste of time, killing an innocent civilian?"
"To lure us out?"
Michael shakes his head as he stuffs his feet into his boots. "I don't know if a single citizen would warrant it. It just seems like a waste."
In his periphery, he sees the queen fold her arms. "It's rather unsettling how casually you speak of such events."
"Really sheds light on how great my childhood was. And what I've been exposed to."
"Are you sure you're ready to start walking again? To start fighting, again?" Elsa asks. She steps closer as Michael finishes securing his weapons. To tease her a little bit, he looks at the bottom of his right foot, stomping it against the wooden floor.
"Seems durable enough." He's met with a smack across his shoulder, the queen allowing a small chuckle. As she runs her fingers along the plait of her braid, Michael asks, "Do you want to come along?"
The queen's eyes widen slightly, her eyebrows furrowing in worry. She folds her arms over one another before sighing. "Maybe this is something you should investigate on your own."
"I'll let you know what I find."
As he goes to pass by the queen, she extends out her hand. He doesn't give it a second thought as he grabs it, feeling the squeeze of her fingers and how they trace along his own as he walks by. As they reach the end, he notes the slightest bit of resistance, of her fingers hooking ever so slightly to hold him for a few seconds longer. He takes steadying breaths as he leaves his rooms.
He doesn't look back to see if she follows.
The guards were able to create some kind of semblance or order as he arrives. Still, his escorts had to push their way through the crowd of gathered citizens, Michael following behind.
He made sure to pull both his hood and mask up before leaving the castle. He never forgets to make his presence known to the citizens of Arendelle. Word of a shady man dressed in all black, armed to teeth working for the Queen of Arendelle is soon to travel quick. He hopes it reaches the assassins, whoever they are, and know to stay the hell away.
But he's always eager for a challenge. He plans to do so again at the Suiter's Ball; perhaps he'll even polish some of his swords.
Though Michael doesn't care much about his own reputation or image, the idea amuses him.
Immediately he could hear the murmur of the townsfolk as word bounced here and there, like a plague quickly spreading. Soon Michael is ahead of his guards, his eyes immediately finding a flash of familiar armor weaving through as well. He trails the crowd, weaving around curious revelers and vendors and common market guards until they all flowed around a corner into the town's square.
A crowd has gathered at the pale stone wall of the square's flag marker, murmuring and milling about. Guards are sternly trying to push the crowd back, ordering them to move on and things are under control.
"What does it mean?" "Are we going to die?" "Are they among us?" "Sounds like bad news, especially for the festival." "What will we do?!"
Michael pushes through the crowd, letting Kai use formal talk of 'excuse me' and 'pardon me.' His eyes didn't know what to stare at longer the moment he broke through to reveal the scene at the steps of the flag marker.
A smell assaults his senses – the tang of blood and the stinging reek of decomposing flesh.
His heart nearly sank when he finds one guard kneeling down over something, a single forearm poking out past his leg. At the sound of Michael's footsteps, the guard turns and wisely rises, stepping back. No words.
"Holy Gods," Kai mutters behind him.
A young man, only a couple years younger than him, is dead, lying in a puddle of his own blood, bits of his clothing sprinkled around like someone picked them off like petals of a flower. The man's chest cavity has been split open and his vital organs removed. His face, stripped of its flesh, is still contorted in a silent scream. His throat sliced ear to ear, his head smashed into a long oval, the top cracked open like an egg with remaining bits of brain spilling out.
What unnerves Michael the most is how much the young man looked like him: black hair, albeit a little longer than his, and eyes that would've been a soft baby blue.
Kai coughs, looking away. Michael just stares, until a quaking voice calls his attention.
"There are more," says a tan-skinned guard. Michael turn to him, his roughened face hardened with a deep thought. "All saying the same thing, right near every major intersection in the kingdom."
Michael looks to where the guard is standing and walks over with slow steps. He looks to the wall. The smears of blood on the wall look like someone had been writing, and then rubbed it away. But still, some of the writings remain, and he tries not to gape at it.
He may not be as educated in the realm of magic, but he can recognize a rune when he sees one.
And they are inscribed all along the steps, on the cobblestone, along the base of the flag's monument.
It is not something he can read
A drop hits his cheek, and Michael lifts two fingers up to wipe, and they come away red. He looks up, and his eyes widen.
"Oh shit." Michael hears himself mumble.
The message has been written in giant red letters, the reek coming off them giving a cooper taste in his mouth, as if someone with very, very sharp nails had ripped open the guard and used him as a paint bucket. Kai follows his gaze, clicks his tongue, and swears under his breath.
A few screams erupt from the crowd, hurrying footsteps fleeing the scene.
THE HUNT BEGINS