He can't get the screaming out of his head.
Even if his release in the fjord had quelled his riled magic, he still couldn't escape the image he'd seen in that darkness.
He can't stop seeing his father's head roll to his feet, or the king disemboweled and broken by his hands.
It cracked open the old repertoire of his mind, bringing forth the memories of feeling each push of the dagger into the king's skin, hearing the king scream as he broke each finger, the blood permeating his armor, splattering across his face as he stared the man straight in the eye before –
Michael shakes his head, willing the images to cast out; just drop from his mind like a pebble.
He had to give himself simple orders just to keep his body moving, fearing that if he were to stay still for too long, the images would flood towards the front of his mind, then he would lose himself entirely.
If it weren't for her magic, for her voice . . . for her, he would still think he was trapped in that darkness.
But the caress of her ice . . .
The silkiness of her voice . . .
When he ran out of things to do, when his mind was clear enough but he couldn't draw a single thought, she carefully held him aloft through that raging sea of memory.
Seeing the damage that had been done, what summoning that demon created, Michael couldn't stop the shaking as Elsa guided him through the courtyard. It took all of his military training and insistent comparison to keep him steady, to keep his feet moving.
It's just like the wounded section of the infirmary, he told himself.
And though he could tell Elsa was ready to slap the freckles off her sister, Anna's question provided enough of a purpose that he was able part through his tangled thoughts to relay the information. Elsa telling him that Kristoff and Sven had made it helped calm him a little too. Even if he didn't see no sign of the man and reindeer, the sister's – especially Anna's – relief and calm helped assure Elsa's words.
As she guided him up the stairs and through the castle to his rooms, he was reduced to counting his steps to keep himself together. All while Elsa's cold hand kept him tethered to this reality; the feeling of her thumb stroking his knuckles, the coldness of her skin against his, pressing against the heat that still lurked beneath his skin . . .
It wasn't until they reached his rooms that everything started to settle, but not contently. The roaring silence that had been cresting him since he pulled himself up on the dock was slowly creeping towards him like a leopard.
Then she released him, and it took all of his remaining strength to keep him steady, to keep his steps focused on getting to the bathroom. Getting out of her sight before he completely collapses into a million, jagged pieces.
"Are you going to be okay?" she asked.
He couldn't answer her. Even if he wanted to.
He didn't dare break his focus. Not yet.
His chest nearly caved when he reached the bathroom, closing the door without a second glance at her.
He doesn't think he could stand the horror and pain on her face.
Now, standing naked and alone in the bathroom, Michael quickly realizes he is standing alone, in the dark.
With jagged breaths, he scrambles through the cabinets, setting candles all around the bathroom's perimeter, placing trios of them on the sink, around the tub and wherever he wanted the light. Half a thought from him and he probably could've lit them all, but instead he wastes the matches lighting them all, the golden flame settling his jackrabbit heartbeat.
He turns the gold knob of the tub and lets the water run freezing, the cool air a welcome in his nose, his throat even as it pebbles his nipples and sends his skin crawling.
He doesn't care. He would force Elsa to freeze him in a block of ice at this point.
He peels off the towel, his bruised skin already healing thanks to that half of his magic. he was so focused on releasing the wild flame, he didn't even give the golden glow a second thought; he couldn't tell them apart at the time. He assumed that part remained untouched, too . . . contaminated by the flame to know the difference.
Naked and already shivering, he steps into the tub, its edges already clouded with haze.
The icy water seizes his skin like venom.
He swallows his scream, his sob, his whimper, and doesn't balk from the glacial torrent.
Doesn't do anything as he lets it burn everything away.
She didn't want to leave him alone.
Even with her civilians crowding her courtyard, even if she should be there for support and ease of mind, she can't bring herself to leave his living room. They left Anna when they started up the stairs to his rooms, and her sister hasn't since come for her. Elsa lets herself assume it's a good thing; thinking they don't need her. She wouldn't be surprised if Anna went to go see Kristoff after leaving Elsa with Michael.
She doesn't know what to think: if he assumed she left, or if he was aware that she still lingered in the living room. Now she's finding herself looking for something to do, something to occupy her mind as he baths himself. She wraps her arms around herself as she takes careless steps around his rooms.
Gods, it already smells of him, of rain-kissed pines and sun-warmed leather. She could never really place his scent – likely because since his retirement from the rebels he hadn't deigned to wear any cologne – but now that she's here, now that she can let it envelope her senses, it makes sense.
His scent whispers tales of outside; working and playing in the summer sun, baking in the fall, warm fires in the winter. He hums with the aroma of the countryside, with a drop of urban cologne.
The silence wraps around her as he rounds to the front of the couch. Everything is quiet; even the fireplace has dulled, and frankly is the only sign of life and light in this room. The curtains are still open, the evening light casting divided golden squares along the wooden floors. It's near blinding at this angle, though Elsa doesn't want to pull the drapes in fear of startling Michael. So she settles herself onto the couch, as much out of the light's angle as she can, waiting for him to finish bathing.
There's little to no movement, no sound.
Twenty minutes.
Thirty.
Forty.
When the clock creeps up on an hour, she finds herself knocking on the door. "Michael?"
No answer. Not even a shift of water. As she goes to open the door, her heart sinks when she finds it locked.
"Michael." She repeats, knocking a couple of times.
Nothing.
"Michael. Michael, open up."
The delicate sound of water breaches her ears.
She moves, not thinking. Not caring.
In a heartbeat, her magic has the lock frozen in seconds, weakening the metal and wood enough that she has the door open with one hard shove of her shoulder, the lock shattering.
She braces herself for the worst, his name on her lips, cursing herself for even thinking that letting bathe alone was a good idea –
But there he is. Sitting naked in the tub with his knees curled into his chest, his head bowed down. His hair drapes over his scarred forearms; larger, thicker scars are stark against the golden light.
She blinks past her fear, her relief, realizing now how dark the bathroom is. Only lit by a gathering of candles. There are clusters of three on the sink against the left wall, and on the towel stand and in the corners of the tub pushed against the back wall. Single ones dotting around the perimeter.
Curled against himself, she can see the whole expanse of the ruined flesh of his back, each scar from training, from battles, and probably so much worse. She swallows past her fear of how some of them look like he'd been whipped.
The skirt of her tangerine dress whispers against the wood floor. If the chilled air wasn't enough, when she places her hands on the rim of the tub, it only confirms her suspicions. Ice cold.
"Michael." She says. He doesn't so much as move. She can see cuts and scratches on his shoulder and neck, now scarring too, and figures that's where the demon managed to strike him. Her stomach sinks at the thought of how deep they must reach.
She extends a hand and touches his shoulder. His skin is cold to the touch. She glances between him and the water.
He's trying to suffocate the heat, that fire, at any cost.
He doesn't move. Doesn't even look at her.
He's scared, she realizes. Scared of the uncharted territory of magic, scared of what'll happen if that fire seizes him again. Scared of that woman and her rippling darkness. What did she do to him?
Michael makes no indication that he knew she stood there.
But his breathing deepens. Becomes easier.
And she can't explain why she does it, but she grabs a bottle of shampoo and a block of freesia-smelling soap from the cabinet next to the sink. Then steps around the tub until she's facing his scarred back.
"I'm going to clean you off." She says quietly. "If that's all right."
A deep and terribly clear nod is his only response. Like words are still too hard. But he lifts his head slightly, revealing his eyes, his nose now atop his forearm. But he also curls into himself tighter.
So Elsa pours the shampoo into her hands, and then laces hers fingers into his hair. The thick strands are heavy, and she gently scrubs, reaching over to the small cabinet holding a bowl and pitcher. She dips the pitcher into the water and carefully pours it over his head to rinse. After the third pour, she combs his hair back with her fingers.
"That was her," he finally whispers, his throat tight. "The woman who was at the temple, when my magic –"
His voice hitches at the end, as if his throat had closed. Elsa removes her hands from his hair and quietly soothes him, gently shushing as she sets the pitcher down. Not to quiet him, but to tell him there's no rush. He can tell her when he's good and ready.
She picks up the bar of soap, dipping it, and lathering her hands, uncaring about the long sleeves of her dress. He is naked, she realizes, having somehow forgotten. Utterly naked. She doesn't let herself contemplate it as she begins lathering his neck, his powerful back, his broad shoulders. She scrubs down his upper body as best she can.
She thoroughly rinses each before coming to the side of the tub and pulling up a stool to wash his muscled arms.
"I'll . . . do what I can." She says, her face heating. He finally turns his head to her; the lovely panes of his face seem velvet-smooth and inviting.
Michael levels unfazed upon her. He blinks, his only sign that he heard.
As she works her way down his right arm, she pauses as she holds his hand, her fingertips bumping over the scar of when he shattered it with a blacksmith's hammer. She can't resist the urge to run her fingers over it, as gentle as the strum of a harp string.
"She dragged me through my memories." He says, his voice low and raw. "And not the good ones."
Elsa freezes at the wave of numbness that spreads across her body. He looks to her, his eyes seemingly drained of their color. She makes himself look to him, even as his features became haunted. Michael's eyes drift away from her as he takes a rattling breath, and another, but it does nothing to lessen his shaking. His face tightens, his lips folding in before releasing a strained sigh. A single tear streams down his cheek. The water shifts as he sighs into his fingers, his lower lip quivering as he runs them down his chin.
Not knowing what else to say, she merely reaches out and runs her fingers down the scars on his neck, as if she can somehow erase the wound. "I'm sorry." she says. And he knew she meant it.
She doesn't dare give him false hope that it'll be okay. That he'll be okay. Those memories – whatever they were – had cut deep; so much so that he is near unraveling. He'd confided to her that he lost his parents, and judging from his reaction . . .
Broken. That's what he is. Broken anew.
Whatever time he'd spent piecing himself back together after the death of his parents, that woman just completely shattered with one cast of her blanketing darkness.
Elsa blinks past the sting in her eyes, and she laces her fingers with Michael's. Her own breath trembles as she brings the back of his hand to her lips, brushing them against the surprisingly soft skin.
"I'm here for you, should you ever need it, Michael." She mumbles against it.
Her words steady him enough that he stops trembling. She releases his hand and stands up to walk around to the other side of the tub to wash his left arm. In the silence, she washes his left arm, even getting as far as underneath and along his ribs.
He needs rest, and the comfort of oblivion. So Elsa rinses off the soap, making sure that not one bubbles it left on him. Without a word of warning, Michael rises to his feet in one, graceful push. Elsa keeps her eyes averted from what, exactly, this brought to her direct line of vision. She stands, dipping the pitcher in to pour down the sides of his hips; as far as she dares to go, then reaches in and pulls the drain plug.
Only the dribbling of water eddying into the drain fills the lukewarm bathroom.
Elsa grabs a towel, keeping her eyes up as Michael steps out of the tub. She slings it around his hips, yanks a second towel from the cabinet and runs it over his skin, some of the color having returned. Then rubs his hair. He towers over her, enough that she has to rise to her toes to reach the crown of his head.
"Come on," she murmurs. "Time for bed."
He looks around at all of the candles, but doesn't object when she tugs him forward and out of the bathroom. With a wave of her fingers, a thin stream of snowflakes dances over the candles, extinguishing them all. She leads him into the bedroom, to the chest of drawers where he put his things. The clock on the fireplace mantle reads five in the evening. A little early for bed, but she knew he could sleep for three days.
She pulls out a pair of black undershorts and as she turns around, his warm hand grasps her wrist. He takes the shorts without a word, walking over to the bed and tossing the first towel from his shoulders.
Elsa looks away as he undoes the second. Despite having seen him utterly nude mere moments ago, he spared her the need to dress him, so she'll spare whatever embarrassment he has left.
Once she hears the soft snap of the waistband, she turns around and finds him hanging the towels on the divan at the end of the bed. She doesn't even bother with the thought of trying to get him into some shirt and pants, not with that exhaustion threatening to pull him down at any second.
Elsa walks around him and pulls back the blanket on the bed. She pats the mattress. "Come on. Get some sleep, Michael."
He obeys, sliding between the sheets with a soft groan.
She pulls the curtains closed, darkening the bedroom, and returns to where he now lies. He stares at her with raw openness. More intimate than any touch of his skin to hers. Like he can see everything she was and had been and might yet become.
Daring to stroke his damp hair away from his brow, Elsa's fingers graze the outer shell of his ear as she sets the hair. His eyes close.
"I was so worried about you." She whispers, stroking his hair again. "I . . ." She can't finish the sentence. The silence is too charged, his face too beautiful in the light. The muscles and perfection of him.
She makes to step back, to head to her own room and change into clothes despite the water only reaching to the middle of her forearm, like wet shackles.
But a warm, strong hand grips her wrist. Halts her.
She looks back and finds Michael staring at her again. "What?"
A gentle squeeze, and a slight tug on her wrist tells her everything.
Stay. Please.
Her chest squeezes to the point of pain. "Yeah. Um . . . okay."
At that moment, the thought of going all the way to her rooms, of leaving him for even a moment felt abhorrent. Like he might vanish if she leaves him for too long. And her rooms were a floor below him, the trek feeling like miles now.
Now she is beginning to quake, like a leaf on a windy day. She does her best to breathe, to hide her shaking hands as she digs through his wardrobe and finds a tunic. It'll have to do. She takes the two steps down from the bed's dais and twists away, unzipping her dress and letting it pool to her feet. She still has the decency of her undergarments, her only saving grace as she slides the royal blue tunic over herself. It hangs down to her knees, providing enough coverage to keep her thoughts straight enough as she drapes her dress over the back of the chair set by the fireplace, dwindling with life every second.
Taking the two steps back up the to the bed, Michael has moved over, giving her ample room. "Okay." She mumbles, more to herself. Promising she'll leave once he's sound asleep.
The sheets are warm, and smell of him – rain-kissed pine. She tries not to breath it in too obviously as she wriggles down and lays facing him. And she tries not to look too shocked when his arm comes across her middle, pulling her close to him.
Cold. He wants to feel her cold. And if she had to admit it to herself, she wanted to feel his warmth. She has been so cold, so lonely, for so long, and her body cries out at the contact, at the joy of being touched and held and alive.
The hand that had been on her waist slides across and hooks behind her back, the warmth of his hand seeping into her body as he presses it between her shoulderblades. Elsa rests her head between his shoulder and neck.
She tentatively brushes the hair from his brow again.
Michael's eyes close, but he leans slightly into the touch. A silent request.
Elsa continues stroking his hair, over and over, until his breathing deepens and steadies, his powerful body growing limp beside her.
And for the long hour afterward, her focus half remains on the rebel whose hands and mouth and body had suddenly made her feel awake — burning. It doesn't make her forget, doesn't make her obliterate hurts or grievances, it just makes her . . . alive.
Makes her feel as if she's been asleep for years, slumbering inside a glass coffin, and he has just shattered through it and shaken her to consciousness.
Even if he'll never voice it, she knew he was grateful for her company. As she was for his.
Sleep claims her faster than she anticipated.