Two days, eight hours, and thirty-five minutes later, Elsa stands on the dais, her mask of poise and grace beginning to falter.
And wanting nothing more than to just retire to her rooms.
Looking out towards the expanse of the crowded throne room, the musicians are playing a lovely jig, the tuba blaring a rhythmic beat that should have some of the revelers dancing.
But the majority don't – only accompanying friends of the suitors, making easy for Elsa to see who's here to see her, and who was simply dragged along for the trip.
Standing in front of her throne, Elsa folds her lips in as she rubs her thumb along the back of her hand.
This is just like how things were at her coronation – the memory still upsetting Elsa's stomach – all eyes focused on her, only this time there are far fewer women at the party.
In fact, her coronation party was easier, because most of the dignitaries who were visiting at least had wives. Some familiar faces have returned with their heirs, while some of the suitors came without their parental supervision. Elsa doesn't know how to feel about that.
She's been standing here smiling and nodding to all who approached the throne, sparing a polite bow.
And biting back her annoyance at some sly winks and eyebrow waggles, with smiles that are nothing short of vulpine.
Anna has since disappeared within the throng, no doubt helping herself to some of the tables lined with endless food tucked into the alcoves. She always did better at these kinds of events, she at least doesn't mind talking to people with a half-mouthful of chocolates. And at least she had Kristoff by her side.
Elsa smooths the skirt of her gown as a pitched laugh draws her attention to the back corner of the throne room, towards the left set of alcoves. She smiles as she finds Olaf dancing with two remarkably pretty young courtiers.
"Your Majesty," says some noble she didn't see approach.
She quickly clears her throat and acknowledges the visiting prince, her greeting now no more than a terse dip of her chin. Once the line is finished, Elsa still waits another two minutes before motioning Kai over. The steward, ever the poised and humble servant, leans in with a nod of his own. "Is he here yet?" Elsa asks.
The steward shakes his head. "I didn't see him come in. Though I suppose that doesn't mean much." he says through a soft chuckle.
It is Elsa's turn to shake her head. "He said he would let me know when he would arrive."
He had better!
She visited Michael yesterday afternoon to inform him about the ball's details and schedule. He didn't invite her into his rooms, and she didn't budge, too occupied with her own strict schedule for the event. After talking to him for nearly ten minutes, he simply nodded and thanked her for her visit.
He then said he would let her know when he would be arriving. When she pressed him on how, his answer simply was: "You'll know."
And shut the door in her face.
She was so flabbergasted she nearly burst the door down with her ice, but Kai was quick to find her and smother her with more duties and notes and meetings before she could get the chance.
Now, Elsa is looking all around the room, expecting some flash of light from the shadowed corners of the room.
Nothing, yet.
Sighing, Elsa begins to fiddle with the end of her braid, still standing at the front of the dais despite the line having been finished, and the guest properly settled into the atmosphere. While it may simply look like her waiting for later guests to arrive, it'll buy her some time to look for him before she's forced into a conversation with one of these air-headed swines.
But then the doors opened to the throne room, and she realized she might not have to. At least, not for long.
A loud bang echoes through the chamber as the doors are shoved open. The thrust of the doors is loud as the musicians finish their song.
All heads turn, and gasps ripple through the crowd as a black cloaked figure stands in the doorway.
The conversations fall silent as Michael prowls in. His black boots the only sound against the wood floors leading to the dais. The crowd of revelers part as he walks through, as if he carried some deadly plague. His billowing black cape, the exquisite clothing, and the mask transforms him into a whisper of darkness. The only show being his eyes, their bold sapphire color twinkle with such mischief.
Elsa bites to lip to keep from grinning like a fiend.
While most of the guests cower in fear, some have the gall to snarl, despite their timid, retreating steps as he passes them, and swallowing his wake.
Ignoring their glares and keeping his swagger at peak, Michael approaches the throne. From somewhere to her right, Anna quickly comes scurrying up the two steps of the dais, her cheeks full of whatever she was stuffing in her mouth. She swallows quickly and clears her throat as she stands next to her sister and faces Michael.
He simply stares at them, his stunning sapphire eyes the only beauty that breaks past his attire of black.
Then, Elsa's smile finally breaks past her control as Michael bows dramatically to her, flourishing a hand before him. "Your Majesty."
The ball is being held in the throne room, and it takes all of Michael's self-control to keep from sprinting to the long tables tucked into the alcoves and horking down the food right off the plates of the gathered princes and preening nobility. Roasted lamb rubbed with thyme and lavender, fresh baked bread smelling of cinnamon, ribs swimming in green-onion gravy . . . Truly, it isn't fair.
The ballroom has been decorated in hues of lilac, rouge, and primrose, with swaths of silk floating from the ceiling and hollowed baubles of spring blooms hanging between. All while banners of wisteria envelop the overhang of the alcoves. It is something out of a spring dream, and it is in honor of the infamous Snow Queen, of all people.
Michael keeps himself stationed by a pillar near the throne. From this spot, tucked into an alcove near a servants' entrance, he can keep an eye on the glittering ball in front of him, as well as the Snow Queen whose spine remains steeled as she speaks with various nobilities. Though he isn't wearing the royal guards' green uniform with the gold embroidered Arendellian crest, he blends in well enough in his dark leather armor. At least he's so far away from it all that no one could hear his stomach grumbling.
Elsa had been standing at the dais, greeting all who wish to speak with her when he arrived two hours ago, but since then she's moved into the crowd, plastering that pleasant, but distant smile on her face, fulfilling her obligation to court and crown by speaking with whatever gentlemen demands her attention. Which, not surprisingly, is almost all of them.
The queen is resplendent in a pewter colored gown with silver-thread accents, her hair left in its familiar braid over her shoulder. Her delicate silver earrings glitter in the light of the chandelier, drawing his eye to her elegant neck. Elsa is easily the most stunning woman in the ballroom, and he hasn't failed to notice how many men—and women—have been watching her all night.
She plays her role well and smiles throughout the conversations, a graceful and competent listener, never once complaining or turning any man away. One talk finishes, Elsa gives a stiff dip of her chin, and before she can take one step, another courtier is bowing in front of her. She looks as though she'll be shedding tears, she seems so bored.
Michael overheard several of the princes ask her to dance, to which she respectfully declined with the same statement of, "I don't dance."
Somewhere, a champagne cork pops.
No one has bothered to come close to him since his arrival, but that didn't stop some of the women from ogling at him from afar. When he would flick his eyes to them – the only bit of him exposed – they wouldn't hesitate to giggle and smile coyly behind their lace fans.
He doesn't react, not that they would even see. Michael tilts his head left and right, groaning in satisfaction at the loud pops of muscles. Pushing off of the column he's been leaning against, he locks his fingers together and stretches his arms up. More pops. He's glad he only opted for his swords and not his bow. Trying to lean against something would be murder on his spine. He brushes his fingers against the rope tied to his waist, a casual gesture to the untrained eye. He opted to bring it for the sake of arrest, at least just temporarily until the guards can clack some irons onto whoever decides to attempt something tonight.
Michael does, and does not wish for something to happen.
His stomach growls, and Michael growls after it. He contemplated ordering dinner early before going to the ball, but decided against it for reasons he doesn't even know.
"Care for some lamb, sir?" a voice asks to his right.
Michael looks to find Princess Anna holding a plate filled with all of the food he's been eyeing, a small smile on her pink lips. The princess opted for a periwinkle gown, cinched at her waist with a red sash. The chiffon sleeves fall off her shoulders and ribbons of matching red are weaved into her hair at the back of her head.
His brows lift, though he's unsure if the princess noticed. He unfolds his arms to take the plate. "Are you sure?"
Anna giggles. "I've seen you eyeing them all night. You looked like you were ready to pounce on the tables."
The heat of the food permeates his gloved hand. His stomach growls like a savage dog. He looks to her with suspicion. "Are you sure?"
The princess's shoulders droop with a sigh. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Yes, I'm sure. And . . . I also want to apologize for my behavior these past weeks."
Michael blinks, the only sign of his surprise.
"I know I haven't been the most gracious host," she continues. "I just – well, you see I've made some poor choices in the past, regarding people and their motives – a-and it didn't end well. I'll just leave it at that, I'm sure you know where this is going –"
She's babbling, and her cheeks are beginning to turn red. Michael is about to stop her, but she manages to stop herself.
"Look, the point is, I'm sorry didn't trust you before, but . . . the way you helped my sister that night, the way you've been helping her – helping us," Anna bites her lip in hesitation. "I'm forever grateful."
He saw the way the princess's eyes darkened at the mention of Elsa's nightmare that night; saw the way her eyes went to his hands, as if she could see the damage that was once done.
Michael can't help but smile beneath his mask. "Apology accepted." He looks to the plate, then looks to the princess. "Are you sure?"
Anna smiles with a nod. "Everyone needs a lunch break. I don't know what I would do if I didn't have food."
Michael nods, his stomach growling again. "I'll only be maybe fifteen minutes."
"Take all the time you need. Enjoy something about tonight, at least."
Giving a nod of thanks, Michael moves deeper into the alcove until he's behind the servants' door. Tugging down his mark, Michael first helps himself to the duck while Anna stays by the pillar. Better she stays so no one asks questions as to where she's gone.
He was surprised no one really screamed when he first entered, half expecting some of the nobility to call upon the guards. Either the queen has spread the word about who's protecting her, or since she didn't react, the nobles put the pieces together themselves.
Either way, Michael hopes by now that the assassins put the pieces together too. if they want to get to the sisters, they have to go through him first.
A young servant woman mumbles, "Excuse me," as she shimmies by Michael with a handful of empty dishes. The latter offering his apologies and stepping out of her way. He didn't realize how hungry he was until he was halfway through the mashed potatoes and needed to get a drink from eating too fast. Thankfully, Anna has unique foresight, bringing him a glass of water.
"Thank you," he mumbles.
He expects her to go back by the pillar, but she remains at his side and asks, "So, how's everything looking tonight?"
Michael finishes half of the glass before answering. "Apart from some of the nobles' intentions with the queen being less than desirable, nothing out of the ordinary." The princess looks to him with concern, Michael quick to wave it off. "She'll be fine. No one would be stupid enough to try. What about you? Enjoying yourself?"
"Always," Anna says, but her smile doesn't reach her cheeks. She turns towards the crowd, as if she can see exactly where her sister is in the throng. "I've never had much interaction with people growing up. I don't know if Elsa told you . . ."
Michael takes a final spoonful of mashed potatoes, moving on to the two slices of baked cinnamon bread. "Only brief snippets here and there, and I never bothered to pry. It's none of my business."
Anna leans against the wall with her hands behind her back. "Well, due to Elsa's powers, our parents shut the gates and limited our contact with people. I kind of grew up, alone, in a sense." Her gaze is on her slippers, a sad expression waning her soft features. "I remember we were really close when we were little, and then one day she shut me out, and I never knew why."
"No one told you? Not even your parents?"
"No. And I never asked. I didn't think it mattered after I found out because, everything else made sense. The gloves, the seclusion; and when I finally got her back, after so long, I still never asked why they never told me."
Michael licks the gravy off the prongs of the fork before saying, "Well, if you're telling me all of this because you want my opinion, I definitely think you should ask her." Anna looks to him with her does eyes wide. "You're her sister. You deserve to know why you were left out."
"I think I know why, I guess I'm just wondering whether or not they trusted me."
"How do you mean?"
"Well, when I was little, and up until four, five, years ago, I had a single strand of hair that looked like Elsa's." Michael perks at attention at this, his eyes on the princess while still flicking to monitor the room, while scooping the last pits of his meal into his mouth. "And my parents told me I was born with it. But then, after Elsa struck me with her powers –"
"Wait what?" Michael interjects.
Anna looks and then gives a breath of a laugh. "Oh sorry, context." She clears her throat. "After Elsa put Arendelle into an eternal winter, I went to go look for her. I managed to find her with Kristoff's help –"
"And I'm assuming that's how you met him?"
"Yes. Anyway, so we get there and we're talking, and she freaks out from what I told her, and while I tried to calm her down and assure her everything would be all right, her powers reacted again and I was struck in the chest. I was told by the tro – um, some friends, that I was going to freeze solid into ice unless I had an act of true love save me."
"Odd, complicated, but still sweet. Go on."
"So just to make a long story short, I save Elsa from my crazy ex-boyfriend, who I thought loved meat the time, and after all was said and done and unthawed, I noticed that strand of hair was gone." Michael lifts a curious brow as he tugs his mask back up over his nose. "So, it left me wondering if something happened when we were little, and that's why she was always so distant from me. She always said how she was trying to protect me, and at first I thought it was about just me being scared, but now . . . I don't know."
"It would make sense, for all of them to try and protect you if something traumatic happened to. And especially for Elsa if it was her fault."
"Yeah, so like I said, for me it's more about if they trusted me or not to know. I mean were they even planning on telling me about it?"
Another servant woman comes over with a stack of dirty dishes, offering to take Michael's as well. He thanks the woman and carefully adds it with the silverware in the middle. "I don't know, and I don't have any easy answers, Anna." He walks back over to his spot by the pillar, Anna following wordlessly. He places his hand on her shoulder. "But one thing's clear: your parents – your family – has so much love in it, that I can say with certainty that every choice they made, they thought it was for the best. They thought they were doing what was right for you, and your sister. And with that said, you have every right to ask Elsa why. She's your sister."
Anna gives a pleased smile, looking out towards the crowd. She quickly begins to pat Michael's forearm and he follows her stare across the room.
A guttural growl rattles his throat.
A haughty-looking prince, a year or two older than Elsa, was standing a little too close for the queen's comfort.
Or Anna's.
Or his.
With a dark suit tight over his bulky frame, his long black hair is slicked back to reveal a sharp-boned face and eyes of peridot green. He says something to the queen, taking her hand and brushing a kiss to the back of it. His lips linger just long enough that he can see Elsa suppressing the urge to yank her hand back. She says a polite greeting back, only for his eyes to dip to her neck, then towards her chest. The prince's smile is so smooth Michael knew ten thousand women had likely been hopelessly swooned in minutes.
Michael can see Elsa say something that's supposed to be a quick conversation ender, but the prince's hand slips to her wrist, the other inviting itself around her waist. Apparently, a life of privilege made pricks like him think they're entitled to female company.
He prowls towards them, his dagger with a casual reach of his hand. His cloak trails behind him in a wave of ebony. As before, the revelers part like a retreating tide as he cuts a clear path through them to the queen.
Fifteen feet.
He can hear Elsa manage to say calmly, "Take your hands off me, please."
But the prince surveys her body with all the male, princely entitlement in the world. "Some men like it when women play hard to get." He smiles up at her again. "I, myself included. I'll make it good for you, you know."
Nine feet.
Elsa meets the prince's stare, some small part of her recoiling. The part that recognizes the prince as a predator and she as his prey.
Five feet.
The ball slowly grows quiet; the ripple of silence much like how a forest grows quiet when some bigger, more lethal predator has prowled in. Good.
Indeed, the prince's gaze drifts to his right as Michael approaches. His hand tightens on Elsa's. Just hard enough that the queen looks. The relief that floods her features blooms a warm feeling in Michael's chest.
Two feet.
Up this close, he has at least a foot over the prince, much more in muscle despite how the outfit frames him. Michael doubts that bejeweled hilt and scabbard of the dagger at the prince's waist was sharp enough to cut even butter.
The prince snarls in warning. "You are mine." The words so guttural Michael can barely understand him.
"Your Majesty," Michael starts, the mask having warped his voice into something deep and guttural, yet harmonistic and ghostly. "A word, if I may."
Michael fixes his eyes on the prince. Promising death.
The surprise cost him: his grip loosens, and Elsa rubs her wrist as she steps back. She quickly steps behind Michael, but peers over it to say with a leveled tone, "Thank you for attending, Prince Alvin. But I think it's time you go."
But the prince isn't paying attention to Elsa anymore. He is staring at Michael with as much princely pride as he can muster. All Michael can do is grin underneath his mask, uncaring whether or not the prince can see it. "And who are you to interrupt our conversation."
"I'm Queen Elsa's personal guard. And from what I saw, there was very little talking going on."
"How is that any of your business?" The prince snarls, angling his shoulders to look broader and extending his chest. Michael bites back the urge to laugh. He looks more like a young child trying to order around the other kids on a playground.
Michael narrows his brows, the mask warping his voice like that of a demon. "Anything to do with the queen is my business. And I believe she just asked you to leave."
"Hmph, you seem rather shady for someone's personal guard."
"And you seem rather handsy for a supposedly noble prince." With the entire crowd's attention on them, Michael couldn't give two shits about being polite. That was Elsa's job.
Thankfully, Anna must've gotten some guards to check the throne room, because some are making their way through the crowd, ready to escort this prince back to his ship.
As Prince Alvin begins his hollowed threats, Michael tilts his head ever so slightly. The mask hides any emotion he could have shown, each movement appearing casual. He unclasps the rope from his belt, barely glancing over his shoulder.
Swatting as fast as a cat's paw, Michael whirls around, sending the rope soaring across the room. It catches and he viciously yanks.
Something is wrenched from its hiding spot tucked into the upper corners of the throne room, hiding by the triangular windows, the rope around its neck. It's a brief blur as it crashes down into the wooden floor, having enough sense to try and roll with the momentum so its shoulder doesn't dislocate. But not before a crater dents into the wood and a board of jagged wood lodges itself into its sternum.
It screams like nothing he has ever heard before as the ragged cloth rips, revealing a bony, misshapen chest peppered with scars.
Michael's insides turn to water as he fully beholds what he snared.
Its face is something of a nightmare. The hood has fallen off the creature, revealing what looks like a woman's face – looks like, but no longer is.
Her hair is sparse, hanging off her gleaming skull in clumpy strings, and her lips . . . there's scarring around her mouth, as though someone had pulled her teeth out, sewed her lips shut, ripped them open and put them back in. Despite the humanoid appearance, she crawls on four spindly limbs.
She pants through her yellowed teeth as she looks at him – looks at him with such hatred he can't move. It is such a mortal expression . . .
The prince has ceased his threats and stares at creature with fear widened eyes. People are gasping to the right. Other are screaming. Glasses are being dropped, the party goers all staring at the hell-raised creature.
With his arcane knowledge in mind, Michael knew a demon when he saw one.
And he's seen worse conjured by some of the rebels' sorcerers.
It still unnerved him how similarly human it looks.
The creature charges for the prince, forgetting about the rope lassoed around its neck. Michael yanks on the rope, hurtling the demon back into the dirt. It rolls to look at him, snarling to reveal elongated, yellow canines.
Michael yanks the rope forward. The creature comes flopping at his feet like a fish on shore. He walks around behind him as the demon writhes with a spine-chilling shriek, the rope taught around this thin neck. Wrapping another end around it, Michael begins to strangle the creature, its gnarled, bony fingers trying to wriggle their way between the ropes.
Screaming erupts from all around the throne room, Kristoff and Anna yelling at the guests to leave the room, several guards running around rounding them up like sheep.
The demon lashes out its arm, catching the skirt of a young courtier. She falls to the ground hard, screaming as she peers back. The demon starts to pull her towards it, Michael drawing a dagger from his boot to stab it between the third and fifth rib, right where the heart should be.
Another ear-splitting shriek and the creature hauls back, releasing the young woman. Kristoff has her up on her feet instantly.
The creature whirls and rakes its claws at Michael's face. The fabric of the mask catches on the creature's claws, ceasing the blow; enough that Michael takes the dagger and stabs it two more times before it slams its head into his chin, causing him to lose his grip on the rope.
As blood begins to seep into his mask, and the fabric starts to shred, Michael blinks against the strs in his eyes. The demon grabs him by the torso, gripping between the layers of the armor before slamming him into the ground.
The agony barely has time to lance up his spine before demon's distended jaw opens unnervingly wide and attempts to chomp his face off. Michael manages to block with one arm, but the creature's left arm is whacking at his head again and again and again.
Michael can feel the mask begin to rip, and soon it will be his skin. He tastes more blood and he can almost feel his skull starting to break apart under the pressure.
"Michael!" Elsa shrieks.
He manages to angle his head in the direction he heard her from and bellows, "Go! Now!"
But not before a blast of white cold ice envelops itself around the creature's head.
As it flails wildly, Michael manages to roll out of the way of the next swipe, reaching and grabbing the dagger and jagged piece of wood lodged in the creature's sternum. Blood slides along the lengths in a single, sinuous streak as Michael twists and yanks them free.
"Elsa, come on!" Anna yells. At the sound of two pairs of heels rushing in the other direction, Michael allows himself the momentary reprieve.
With a heavy swing of its claws, it shatters the ice and snarls.
He tosses aside the wood and begins to slash the dagger left and right, the creature hopping left and right to avoid the deadly blow Michael intends to deliver. But as his next blow misses the creature's shoulder, it grabs his wrist, and a blow to his elbow makes him scream and drop the dagger.
Thankfully the mask is thick enough that it warps his voice to be unrecognizable. Deep and gruff like velvet midnight; his scream sounding like the howl of a demon, not a young man.
Before it has the chance, Michael kicks it in the sternum, over the spot where the branch impaled it. The creature-woman doubles over, but doesn't go down, allowing Michael to knee it in the face. He fights his twisting stomach as he hears the crack of its nose. Another solid uppercut and the it is sent skipping across the floor like a stone on water. It comes up on its knees, hugging its sternum.
As Michael walks over to him, he tugs down the cloth to spit out a mouthful of blood. He draws another dagger from his belt. The creature heaves up blood, dribbling like a dying fountain. It slinks along its chapped lower lip, trailing down its pointed chin.
The stars have been replaced with black dots, and they're swarming his eyes, his breathing slow as to not choke on the blood.
He asks, "What are you?"
The creature only hisses with bone-deep loathing.
Michael spins out the blade of the dagger, a different grip able to allow him to split it from navel to nose. As he goes to strike, Michael slides another dagger free from a hidden clasp under his forearm. While the creature blocked his left arm, his right was free to stab it right into the joint that connects the shoulder to the torso.
The pain and shock make it drop his right arm, Michael stabbing in the same joint as fast as an asp. He buries the dagger to the hilt, hoping to sever a tendon or a vain. As he removes the blade, he makes sure to twist, allowing a spew of blood to arc through the air.
As the creature slouches, Michael spins both of his blades out, both now dark and dripping with blood. Behind his mask, he smiles, and says. "Allow me to end your miserable existence."
He lifts his arms, the blades whining, but the creature lunges for him. Using its remaining strength, it grabs him around the middle and charges forward like an agitated bull.
It pins Michael against one of the columns of the alcoves; Michael's spine shrieking in pain as a white light flashes through his vision. He counters by stabbing his daggers into the creature's shoulder blades, burying them to the hilt.
The thing is resilient, because it slams its head up into his jaw, causing Michael's teeth to ache and red spots to flash in his vision like fireworks. Before it can deliver the blows that will surely knock him unconscious, Michael braces his spine and hands against the column, bringing his legs up to shove the creature back. It has enough sense and strength to keep itself from falling onto its back.
Pushing to its feet, its blood-laced scream echoes throughout the throne room.
With a drive of those surprisingly powerful feet, it's on the wall, climbing like a spider towards the windows.
Claws scrape, hissing sounds, and the sound of shattering glass and then it's gone.
Without hesitation, Michael launches after it.