On the third day of him not leaving his rooms, Elsa had ordered more guards posted by his front doors.

On the fifth day, when the guards still claimed he hadn't left, Elsa nearly tripled the routines of servants to check the room.

He would notice the difference, but she doesn't care. Especially because she doesn't know when he last ate or drank water. If it weren't for her duties as queen, she would've spent all day and every day with him until he returns to the man she's grown accustomed to.

The man she now finds herself craving the attention of.

She's at least advanced enough in their training to show Anna some of the basics in swordplay. Michael had promised he would teach her, but with the state he is in, Elsa took over, only showing Anna what she herself had mastered.

Her sister is strong, if a bit clumsy. Elsa can see Michael molding it into her benefit, making it more of a strength. That is, if he even bothers to train them anymore.

Sitting at the large oak desk of the castle study, Elsa sighs as she signs another piece of paper and casually tosses it onto the ever-growing finished pile. The letters to the mourning families are finished, and now it's back to the usual paperwork that comes with being queen.

She's been here for five hours since breakfast, and she's long since given up on trying to read every letter, having reduced to signing her name where she sees fit. Primarily requests for rebuilding and construction due to the damage left by that demon-creature. Other things such as apology letters to the suitors of her ball a few nights ago, she chucks into the pile set for tomorrow, uncaring at this point. She'd rather chuck them into the trash.

She gives a heavy sigh as the sun warms her back from the window behind her. She's been along for most of the morning into afternoon, Anna no doubt busy with Kristoff, and Kai having left to do whatever else it is her steward does in his day. She when she hears footsteps approaching the study, she assumes he's returned with more paper for her to sign.

"It's a lovely day to be cooped up inside," a male voice says. He sounds so normal, so like himself that Elsa nearly falls out of her chair.

Michael is standing a few feet away, leaning against the doorframe with his hands tucked into his pockets.

Elsa couldn't have stopped herself if she tried, she tells herself. Not as she nearly flings herself out of the chair and launches into Michael's arms, his name a relieved whimper on her lips. Immediately they wrap around her as she twines her own around his neck.

He smells of lavender and thyme, like he'd just gotten out of the bath. Only confirmed by the smoothness and sweet smell of his hair. He buries his nose in the crook of her neck, and Elsa tries to contain how her skin nearly sings at the contact, how the goose bumps wash over her like a wave on shore.

She can't, however, stop the giggle that breaks past her lips as he hugs her tighter, near lifting her all the way to the tips of her toes. Gods, she didn't realize how much she missed his warmth until this moment. Whether he's still warm from the sheets of his bed, or from the bath water, it feels even more refreshing than the afternoon sun.

She doesn't want to pull back, but she forces herself to as she gazes upon his face. Those days of sleeping did nothing for him, apparently; he is grave and pale, but his eyes shine with faint amusement. He wears a dark blue tunic she's never seen before, with golden embroidery that glints in the dim light. In fact, his whole outfit looks new.

Did he somehow go shopping without her knowing?

"How long have you been in here?" he asks, withdrawing his hands from her hips. She didn't even notice they had slipped down.

Elsa clears her throat as she walks back over towards the table. Suddenly the paperwork has become very important. "Um, since after breakfast, which was at nine."

He follows her with a feline gait. "Days never stop for a queen, does it?"

"I'm afraid not." She admits. If it wasn't for her own sense of obligation, in combination with the city trying to rebuild itself, Elsa would've taken a break long ago. Now she's glad she didn't.

"Do you think you could spare a moment . . . for me?"

Elsa is about to sit back down when her head nearly snaps to look at him. She could've sworn she saw color blooming onto his cheeks.

And then he is smiling. Hesitantly at first, then he shakes his head, and the smile blooms wide enough to show his teeth.

Honestly, she'd take a whole day for him if he asked.

"Is there something I need to see? Did something happen?"

"No," he says, tucking his hands back into his pockets. "No, nothing like that. I just wanted a walk."

She has the faintest idea of what topics will come up during this walk, but despite the fear of it, she's had enough time being caged in this office. And the day truly did seem lovely outside.

So, she puts the pen back into the inkpot, organizes the paper as best as she can and smiles brightly as she aims for the door. He steps aside, letting her through before shutting the door behind her.

She figures she'll let him lead the way as they meander through the hallways and down some stairs. Their take their time with the walk; casual, unhurried like someone does when perusing the marketplace. All the while, their conversation doesn't stop. They are a comfortable, casual distance apart, but . . . but he is talking. His shoulders are relaxed, his gait smooth. So different from the man of shadow and darkness that she's always seen.

But he is talking. To her.

They make it to the castle gardens, Michael's attention now diverting towards the weeping willows, the color blooms, even to the sky up above, speckled with fluffy clouds this afternoon.

Even with his face still seemingly troubled, he still looks brighter than before. Her heart aches at the thought of how he might've slept all during those days, haunted by whatever nightmares that woman had dragged him through. She should've been there for him. She should've checked on him herself.

It is only when he looks at her again that she realizes she's been staring, trying to pick out the difference between this smile and the horrid expression of fear and agony she'd seen when he burst from that cloud of impenetrable darkness.

As if he can read his thoughts, he says, "I wanted to apologize for my behavior lately. I haven't . . . been myself."

Or he's just been a part of himself that he usually keeps tucked away, deep within his own silent darkness, she thinks. Her own chest hurts at the memories of when she herself was tucked away in the silence of her rooms. And she says, "I understand."

And from the way his eyes soften, that's all she needs to say.

Michael looks down at his feet, rolling his shoulders to relieve tension. "How have Kristoff and Sven been faring?"

Elsa shrugs her own shoulders. "A few minor injuries. Nothing they can't recover from on their own. Anna has barely left his side for the past few days." Michael simply nods in response. Elsa bites her lip in contemplation, but then she says, "She's very grateful to you . . . for what you did."

He only looks to her for a moment before his eyes go back to his feet. Could it be he's being . . . bashful? Elsa tries to fight a grin as they pass under an arc of wisteria.

"Kristoff seemed to be in shock that you went for him."

Another nonchalant shrug. "It's all from the training. I mean, what else was I supposed to do? Especially since he went for the effort of trying to get to know me."

Elsa blinks, admiring his profile; the way the light of the sun casts across the panes of his face, shadowing the line of his jaw.

"I wish I could've seen it." Elsa says abruptly, instantly clamping her mouth shut.

Michael narrows his brows. "Why?"

Elsa covers her mouth, her heart racing, flooding the color fast to her cheeks. "I . . . I don't know." He's still looking at her, his lifting in question. Elsa fiddles with the tips of her fingers. "It's just . . . the way Kristoff described it – how you completely switched your demeanor: ordering the guards around, getting him to his feet. To see that soldier side of you, it just seems . . . incredible."

There. A truth is out there. An awful truth rooted in morbid curiosity.

A heartbeat of silence.

"Incredible isn't exactly how I would describe it." Michael says dryly.

Elsa is regretting her words, ready to just drop the subject entirely, until –

"Like I said, it's all just training. There's so very little I'm proud of when it comes to the rebels, but that's one of them."

Elsa grabs his hand, making them pause underneath one of the weeping willows.

"What do you mean? You were a soldier."

"Doesn't mean everything I did was valiant, and noble."

"It can be for a cause you believe in." Elsa insists.

Michael heaves a sigh that tells her he doesn't fully believe her, or her words. He shuffles and goes to sit on one of the wooden benches perched under the willow. He runs his fingers through his hair and leans back, fisted hands resting atop his knees. Elsa joins him, the skirt of her dress pooling like liquid int the grass.

It's a mint green piece of simple design, Elsa having added her own construct of ice sequins along the front of the skirt; curling whorls that twine like the vines crawling up the castle walls. There is no train with this one – in fact there haven't been many dresses she's worn with trains lately – and instead the dress has long gossamer sleeves that are loose and billowy, falling off her shoulders before gathering at the wrist.

"It's just . . . what makes my rebellion different from the rest? It caused war, there was so much loss, on either side. Even if we were more considerate for the lives of our soldiers . . ."

Elsa folds her lips in before carefully saying, "Michael, if your cause led to a better world, a better future, then you shouldn't feel ashamed of yourself. You didn't willingly and gleefully risk innocent lives to further your rebellion. You only targeted adulterous spouses and corrupted politicians."

Michael shakes his head, his sapphire eyes sliding towards her. "It's not that I'm ashamed of the outcome; the kingdom is way better off. It's just . . . at what cost? The things I saw. The thing I did . . ."

Oh. Oh.

He's staring down at his hands, as if he can see all the gathered blood of every life he took while in service. The nobles he tricked and seduced, the enemy soldiers he likely tortured . . .

"Perhaps I'd been so blinded by the anger of my parents' death that I couldn't see what was actually right and wrong. Who really deserved to die, and who didn't."

Icy dread fills her stomach. "Is this about the memories that woman made you see?"

His mouth thins, and he croaks, "Yeah. Made me realize what a despicable person I am."

"Don't say that."

"But it is true." He keeps his gaze straight, staring into nothing. "You can assume the kind of things I had to do."

She doesn't that often, but even still, it makes her feel queasy, like oil in her blood. She doesn't know what possessed her ask her next question, and she immediately regrets it.

"Were you ever captured? Taken prisoner?"

He says without looking at her, and surprisingly, without hesitation, "Yes."

Elsa didn't know what she expected – well, yes, she did; she didn't expect him to even answer – but still that single word ripples through her, sending goose bumps across her skin.

"How long?" she whispers.

A slow blink. "To be honest, I don't know. I lost track of time, but not of my own accord. With magic, some of the soldiers and commanders had very . . . clever ways of torturing people. There are those with the ability to walk their way into a person's mind. As easily as opening a door to a room. And without proper training, they explore until their heart's content, perhaps even control the person without even realizing."

She brings a hand to her chest as the weight of the words crack through her. Elsa has to take a steadying breath, seeing the path the story is taking.

"I was supposed to be on a covert mission, and I had insisted to the commander that I worked better alone. To spare you the details, I was arrogant and still broken from the death of my parents. And it all led to me being captured. I would be tortured for hours, physically . . . and mentally. Sometimes it would be my body for one day, or for one hour, my mind the next, or sometimes both. Days felt like years, and years felt like days. Whenever the torturer was done, or even during it, sometimes, they would worm their way into my mind. They would spin fantasies that felt so real . . . felt so normal." His lip trembles. "It almost felt like I was home."

Half of her doesn't want to know, but she asks, "What kind of dreams were they?"

A long pause. "It doesn't matter now."

She bites her lip, her heart skipping a beat. Too soon – even after all this time.

Then it clangs through her like the Yule bell on Christmas . . .

Michael was barely out of his teens when he joined the rebellion.

When he had lost everything.

Of course things like that would be branded in his mind.

"The healers repaired me after each session. Those agonizing, and terrifyingly calm in-between moments were filled with sweet-smelling sedative smoke. Until everything blurred together, and time became an illusion."

Erase his scars, and they stood a better chance at tearing apart what he perceived as real and fantasy.

Her eyes flick to the scar atop his right hand. Her brows furrow. "But if they healed you so proficiently . . ." She pauses, unable to ask the question. But she raises her hand and points her finger towards the scar.

Michael follows her gaze and an unnerving smile creeps across his lips. He lifts his hand up in front of him, splaying his fingers.

"This was the one scar they couldn't heal. When I initially broke my hand, I made sure to rub salt into it so it never could truly heal. They couldn't have one without the other, because each was a reminder to me on what was real and not real. They couldn't hide the scar and not fix my fingers, nor could they fix my fingers while still leaving the scar. And if they left it all together, that question of: Where did that come from, always came up. They were screwed no matter what, so instead they tried to convince me that I had an accident. But I knew better. I knew that a scar that deep wasn't caused by running around the yard with my knife. And I could never forget that pain. It was so deeply rooted into my soul that even if they changed the origin of how I got it, I knew deep down there was something more."

Because of having to bring the hammer down again and again and again and again.

Another imprint.

"I didn't break. I didn't tell them anything, and eventually they gave up." Michael continues, lowering his hand and bracing his elbows on his knees, "and they just started torturing me like every other prisoner of war; stopped the sedatives, stopped the fantasies. And even after I was rescued, when our healers offered to help me, I refused. Well, I screamed my refusal at them. I wanted something to help me remember what had been done to me, what I had endured and what I survived."

No wonder he had so many scars.

No wonder he didn't let anyone touch his injuries.

No wonder he might fear even the gentle caress of his healing magic, compared to the wildfire that accompanied it in his veins.

His hands are shaking enough that Elsa reaches out and cradles them in her own. She almost cringes at the difference. His so rough and gritty, while hers is as smooth as freshly fallen snow. The callus on his palms and fingers rasp against her skin.

"Hatred was the only thing that got me through it. Not hope, not love. Only unrelenting, raging hatred. That camp had taken everything from me all over again: every scar and marred skin I had earned while at my family's home . . . it was gone. My parents were gone, again. Erased. From then on, I was careless. I didn't care how hurt I got, because it was just further validation for me that this isn't a dream. Isn't some memory that happened in a flash."

Elsa knew from the beginning he never wore his scars like some fine jewelry or silk. Never wore them to gain attention or show bravado. And yet it breaks her heart to know this true reason.

That almost every day he wakes up, worried that this is all just some twisted fantasy, and that he's actually back in the torture chambers of his enemies. That with every cut he gets, every bruise, and any and every amount of pain elicited upon his body just help remind him that he is alive and whole.

And here, with her.

Wait, what?

She doesn't let herself consider as she shakes her head. "You never tried to escape?"

A cold, hollow chuckle. "I did; several times. That's how I got those lashings." Michael says, jabbing a thumb over his back to the jagged scars that claw their way down his back. "Pretty sure I pissed them off because I kept escaping so many times. After that . . . I don't think I ever left that stone alter. They just kept me chained to it, binding my hands and feet for good measure."

Elsa knew those were shackle scars, but never had the guts to say anything. A cloud moves in front of the sun, casting a gray shadow across the garden. She didn't even notice how quiet the garden has become.

She pushes her braid over her shoulder. "Michael, why are you telling me all of this?"

Michael frowns. He looks down at their hands, her ivory skin contrasting with the deep gold of his. Elsa holds her breath, waiting for him to snatch his hand back. She's not disturbed by what he's told her; far from it, in fact. She's just, curious.

Then he says, "Because I know how I see myself. And during those days on that stone altar, I felt like I had deserved everything that had been done to me. That I had deserved death. Now, after being dragged through my memories, seeing all the things I've done . . . I guess – I guess I just want an outside perspective. To see if I truly am as despicable as I feel, as I was shown."

He looks to her, his eyes as hollow as they were on the pier. The weight of that stare presses into her skin, warming her face. She rubs her thumb across his knuckles, the same way he did for her. "Do you still rely on anger to get you through the day?"

A single blink. Then another. "No. For some days, yes, but overall. . . no. It's been quite the opposite, lately."

Her cheeks grow warmer. He begins to withdraw his hand, but she clamps her fingers around his. "You might think you're a horrible person, Michael, but you're not. You might see yourself, but I see you too. I see your kindness, and your bravery . . . your selflessness." She pries open his fingers, lazily tracing her finger in a circle in his palm. "You are not a horrible person, Michael. You've been dealt a heavy hand in life, and yet you didn't let any of it harden your soul in cruelty. You're not bad person, and you never will be."

She withdraws her hand as casually as she can, trying not to notice how his fingers seem to hesitate to let go; similar to how he gripped her wrist when she had tucked him to bed.

Michael blinks, as if snapping from a witch's spell, and leans back into the bench. Elsa mimics the movement, relaxing her arms in her lap. They sit in comfortable silence, listening to the returning chirpings of the birds and ducklings; the gentle whisper of the willow's vines as they waft in the gentle summer breeze.

A few moments pass by when Michael says, "I still need to properly thank you for what you did for me."

Elsa's heart races, her posture stiffening. A part of her had hoped he forgotten about it, even the part where she shared his bed to comfort him.

And yet . . . the other half of her . . .

She does her best to shrug simple. "You did, technically."

Michael snorts. "I'm almost insulted a queen would consider that a thank you."

"Why? You meant it, didn't you?"

"Of course I did." Michael says as he drapes a muscled arm along the back of the bench. "But I was still rather . . . lucid. Not fully there."

Fair enough. His eyes had seemed glazed at the time. Elsa herself didn't really know if he was truly seeing her, or some figment of his imagination.

He stands up from the bench, stretching his arms long and up over his head. Elsa blinks at the many pops she hears go through his back and up those arms. With a pleased sigh he takes one step towards her, utterly closing the space between them, and holds out his hand.

Though she's used to the gesture as queen, seeing it come from him was – different. A rouge rebel soldier gesturing to a queen with respect and perfect etiquette. She reaches out, her fingers once again grazing along the callus of his palm, seeing the mold of the sword handle fitting perfectly in place.

As his hand wraps around hers, as he effortlessly pulls her to her feet, Michael leans in, closing the space between them. His mouth brushes over her cheek. Brief and light and sweet.

Yet still it tingles through her skin like pins and needles, traveling through body and pebbling her nipples.

"Thank you," he mumbles into her skin. Gods, is that a purr in his voice?

Elsa can't help herself as she presses her cheek into his lips. The motion has her own grazing along his smooth skin. It smells like he shaved this morning; fresh and strong, yet rugged. It nearly undoes her.

Michael pulls back, giving a charming smile; as if doesn't notice that she can't move a single muscle, can't utter a single word. The urge to grab him, to pull his face down to hers and mold their lips together practically blinds her.

She at least manages to bring her arm up to cover pebbling breasts, masking it as the urge to fiddle with the end of her braid. Still her fingers twitch as if she can feel those hard muscles beneath them.

"Here, I also wanted to give you this."

It spears through her thoughts and she clears her throat. "What is it?"

Michael reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small velvet box that's a little bigger than his palm. Elsa blinks at it, bewildered. Her mind flashes at what it could be, easily dismissing it because it would make no sense for him to buy her one.

But he opens it, and a gasp fills her chest. She claps her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide.

Inside the box sits a beautiful necklace of amethyst and blue topaz, modeled like the many snowflake motifs and sequins designs she puts on her dresses, around the courtyard.

The three diamond-shaped charms cradle the blue topaz, joined together at a glittering amethyst that connects to the silver chain.

Elsa can only gape at the beautiful piece, stunned and flattered at how well it matches . . . well, her. From the color to the snowflake design. It's like he has every aspect of her memorized.

Finally, her mind begins to process words again; though not that fully. "What –? What is –?! Why would you –?"

"It's just a gift. Something to show my own appreciation to you, especially after what you did for me." Michael grins.

"You – You didn't have to do this." Elsa says, unsure of what to say.

"You insisted I take the payment. It was just supposed to be a simple gesture, but after what you did . . . it means a lot more now."

No doubt it's also the reason he finally decided to get out of bed. It might be wishful thinking, but . . . he did get out of bed to give her the gift. He got out of bed, for her.

His fingers delicately loop the chain around and pull it from the box. "May I?" he asks.

Elsa nods, clamping her mouth shut when she realizes it's still hanging open. Gods, her tongue might as well have rolled to the floor.

She turns around, facing the bench and the trunk of the willow, and the small gatherings of flowers.

Gods, her heart is starting to race.

She attempts to look over her shoulder as she hears Michael fiddle with the chain. But as she's about to glimpse, the necklace glints as he brings it over her head to her front.

The metal is warm from being inside his pocket, the gems near swallowing the sunlight. They glow like a blue and purple fire, gleaming like a polished sword.

It sits right in between her collarbone. Her fingers tickle the charms, tracing along the chain. She turns back to him, giggling when she finds him smiling.

"What do you think?" he asks.

"It's . . . it's beautiful." Elsa says through a breath of a laugh. "How does it look?"

His eyes linger on the charm, but she could've sworn they flicked up to her lips, and then down at her breasts.

Because of this, she doesn't know what he's talking about as he responds, "Beautiful."

After a couple more blinks, Michael clears his throat and slides his hands into his pockets. As if on cue, a clock tower sounds from the city; the chime signaling it is noon.

"Well, I think I've taken up enough of your time. I'll let you get back to your joyous paperwork."

Elsa chuckles. "Oh! And don't forget to talk to Anna about training." His eyebrows lift in surprise. "I've taught her all of the basics you showed me, and she has potential. She's been wanting to tell you."

Michael nods, seemingly grateful for a change of topics as she is. "Thanks. I'll try and find her, once I'm done with my meal."

He's eating. That's good.

Elsa sighs, dipping her chin towards him. He notions her to follow, probably to lead her back to her office. But her cheeks are still so warm, her body still pulsing with a ravenous desire.

So she lies, saying, "I need to take a quick detour before I get back. Get myself some more air before I have to be cooped back up inside again. But I'll see you around the castle."

He must've felt something, because he doesn't argue, nor tease as much as she expected.

Regardless, they turn their backs and walk in opposite directions. Elsa tries to keep her pace smooth and patience, unhurried. But as soon as she turns two corners and a third one for good measure, she breaks out into a full sprint towards her rooms.

She shuts the door behind her, hurrying over to the vanity to see the necklace. She almost laughs at herself, without how wide her smile is, and that feminine but childish glint in her eyes.

Gods, the necklace is so beautiful.

Clasping it between her fingers, Elsa stands from the vanity with blushing cheeks and a beaming smile. The wave of jubilance instantly has her twirling and dancing around her room.

Wonderstruck.

Enchanted.