Michael fights a burp as he sits on one of the leather-padded benches in the castle's painting room. There are papers and books to his left, having intended to use the room as a place to study. But the words on his notes are starting to blur, his eyelids feeling heavy. Perhaps he shouldn't have devoured nearly three whole meals before dedicating himself to his studies. Let alone in the second quietest room in the entire castle.
He's lost precious time trying to figure out the odd runes and murders going around the kingdom. And while a part of him feels so ashamed . . . it really felt like there was nothing he could do.
And now is not the time to be thinking about it now. Especially when that lead weight has barely lifted off of his shoulders. His walk with Elsa helped; even more so when she loved the necklace. But once she left, a little bit of that weight pressed back onto his chest.
It was really the only reason he got out of bed. A young servant man – one he didn't recognize for his rooms – had knocked on his door saying a package had arrived for him. The woman who was in his rooms at the time answered for him; Michael still feeling too heavy to even turn over in bed.
But once she approached with the velvet box and said who it was from, it was like a knife of white lightning shattered through the fog in his mind. He sat up in bed – too quickly from the dizziness in his head – and practically snatched the box from the poor girl. He vaguely remembers giving a piss poor apology, before throwing the sheets off and hurrying to the bathroom as quick as he could without running.
Seeing her eyes light up with such joy, such amazement . . .
Now it would seem that energy has dissipated. But Michael would be damned if he let himself crawl back into that bed. Not after the way Elsa threw herself at him, literally. And because she has been so worried that she nearly doubled the amount of tripled the number of guards and servants to keep an eye on him. The room was beginning to feel more like a cage, but hopefully after seeing him today, she'll call everything off.
With a heavy sigh, Michael attempts to look at his notes one more time. When comparing what he's scribbled down at the crime scene, to the books he pulled from the library, they seem very similar. Unfortunately, with the runes at the murder being written in blood, some of the letters were left looking more curved than straight like in the book. He almost wants to consider it being from another culture, but that would broaden his search dramatically and make it harder for him to find out where it comes from. Even with their collection, it doesn't seem like Elsa and Anna have many other books outside their culture.
The second problem is being able to understand what the marks even mean, what they translate to. He tries to remember what his fellow soldier Danika had mentioned about runes, overall.
No matter what culture they're from, runes are a kind of neutral magic. They can be used for both good and evil, it just depends on the user. To use runes, they need to be written down or chanted, usually the preferred ink is blood. He shudders at the memory of the crime scene. There was blood everywhere, the writing so thick it dribbled down the brick stones, near smudging the marks.
He remembers something about how a person has to have magic in their veins in order for the runes to even be effective, but that was something he never really believed, or could never clarify. There were plenty of both magic and non-magic users who could utilize the marks just fine.
The skill really fell into knowing what marks a person was using, and how. Runes can have a million different meanings, with many more intentions if not written properly. Just one small mistake, and a healing spell can end up splitting a person in half. They weren't encouraged much among the rebels, only using ones that were necessary, like for the healers.
He knows the ones written at both the murder scene and the clock tower are being used for summoning; their preferred contact being demons. But the ones that were at that temple . . . they still summoned, something . . . But instead of demons, they summoned something within him. With such vague and thin lines dividing the differences between the runes, it's no wonder why only the Master Scholars and sorcerers could use it. Even then they have to go through rigorous trials just to get qualified, but all within good reason, at least in his opinion.
Michael sighs, crossing his ankles and leaning his back against the wall, mindful of the painting's frame resting at the base of his neck.
He's really not going to get anywhere just by looking at the notes. He can stare at them all day and the only thing he'll succeed in is giving himself a headache. He needs to learn Old Norse, maybe then these things will make sense.
"Do you do anything else besides read?" A female voice suddenly chimes.
Michael looks up to find Princess Anna peeking into the room, a hand on the threshold. Her eyes seem dimmer compared to their usual shine; full of naïve amusement and fun. But given what's happened over the last few days . . .
"Ha ha." Michael amuses. "Do you do, anything in this castle besides prancing the halls with Olaf?"
The princess takes the banter in stride as she approaches. "As a matter of fact, I do. I just got back from a meeting regarding the plans for my birthday party."
Michael's brows lift, his eyes widening. "Oh, that's right. I completely forgot."
"Don't worry. I did too." Anna says with an exhausted giggle. She might've recognized it herself with the way she puts more of a spring in her step as she hops up onto the bench next to Michael's right. The skirts of her olive gown cling to her legs as she spins, fanning out in a bloom of pink and purple embroidery, her pigtails whipping left and right.
"After everything that's happened, it almost feels . . . wrong to be celebrating. Especially considering all the families that lost someone."
She hops down into a sit on the bench, her hands gripping the edge of the leather cushion. Michael averts his gaze back to his papers but doesn't see the writing. Together they sit in a palpable, yet comfortable silence.
Then Michael finally asks, "How many?"
A heartbeat of silence. "Elsa says the total count is around eighty, many more injured and still recovering."
That weighted silence begins to settle on his heart. Desperate to banish it, Michael forces himself to say, "Maybe celebrating is just what they need. Either to forget, or to remember."
"Remember what?"
Michael folds his lips in. "Remember that life still goes on."
"Doesn't sound very uplifting." Anna says, Michael hearing the pout in her tone.
"Everyone deals with grief in different ways. Some choose to get drunk out of their minds, others choose to lay in bed for days. And that's fine. It's alright to sit around; be depressed for a minute; cry about it, do whatever you have to do. But don't stay there too long. You have to get up and go on with your life."
His voice hitches on the last few words, as if a part of him was denying the truth he was telling the princess.
Or telling himself.
"It's not that easy, Michael."
"I never said it was. But you also have to think: for the people who love you, or did love you, you really think they would want you to waste your life away? They would want you to succeed, because that's all they want."
Looking over to the princess, he finds her eyes glittering, but no tears fall. "How often would you tell yourself that?"
"In the beginning, very little. I had to be told that by someone. Well, technically she punched, then slapped me, then told me all the motivational stuff."
Anna scoffs. "You have some really messed up people in your life. It's a wonder how you turned out the way you did."
It isn't meant to be an insult, they both know that. More like an offering of honesty; likely the best way they can communicate with each other. One of the few ways they both can understand.
"I often wonder that, too." He mumbles.
He decides his study session in the painting room is finished. Maybe he'll have better focus after a nap. He'll likely double the time of his morning training. His former trainer might be rolling in his grave with his slack.
He stands, tapping the papers into place when Anna asks, "How long did it take, for you to be okay?"
When he looks to the princess, her hands are folded in her lap, her gaze downcast. He knew what she meant. His thoughts go back to the first time they met, the first ballroom he crashed.
And that painting veiled in black.
"I'm not." He admits. He can feel Anna's eyes on him, but he doesn't look as he gathers his books. "And I don't think I ever will be. That kind of loss, the . . . trauma, it lingers. And I've met so little few who are willing to navigate their way back. Myself included on those, heavier days. But despite what I've been through, what I've lost, I gained some things as well."
Such as the skills needed to defend himself. To not be the helpless little boy he was when they came. Maybe a friend or two along the way.
To escape death, he had become death.
The princess didn't seem so convinced, and he doesn't try to persuade her.
Not knowing what else to say, Michael changes the subject. "So, when is your birthday?"
The princess obliges him. "It's in another week. We're going to host it in the castle courtyard, like always."
"Everyone invited?" Michael asks, as he finishes gathering his things.
"Yeah. With the gates open now, we have the villagers come and enjoy it too. I don't see why we have to limit our fun to just the royalty."
From the way she nearly sneers at the mention of royals, Michael can already assume there will be some unwanted, but forcefully invited guests. Like at Elsa's ball. He also won't mention how her party is going to be quite the temptation for those Inferno Assassins, or whoever they are. She seems stressed enough, and frankly, it bothers him to see the usually chipper and bubbly princess so downcast.
"Well, if you'll allow me to join, perhaps I can save you from the poor gossips of the court." Michael smiles as he motions towards the doors.
Anna follows with a puzzled expression. "You mean you won't be dressed in your usual spooky, shadow black?"
Michael shrugs his shoulders, keeping his grin. "Unless you want me to stay out of sight. I don't mind either."
They exit the painting room, Michael closing the door behind them. The princess manages to smile. "I appreciate the offer, but I have Kristoff for that."
"How is he, by the way?" Michael has been so absorbed in his own darkness that it never occurred to him.
Anna nods, her eyes growing brighter. "He's awake and talking. Sven is starting to walk around again, but we've been keeping him the stables still. I don't think he could really handle the stairs yet."
"Everything seems okay?"
"Yeah. His speech is fine, minor headache than some tea and simple medicine can't fix."
Michael hums. "I'm glad."
"I can't thank you enough, for what you did." Anna mumbles.
"It was nothing."
"Yes, it was." Anna steps in front of him. "You saved the love of my life. And after everything I said –"
"You already apologized for that."
"But there was still doubt." She turns and rests her back against the wall, folding her arms. Her fingers fiddle with the end of one of her braids – perhaps an inherited nervous tick, though it has its differences compared to Elsa. "I guess, I was only just starting to trust you. I still didn't know where we stood, but now I do." She faces him and smiles. "We're friends."
This take Michael by surprise; enough that he lifts his brows and slightly widens his eyes. "Oh, well, I suppose."
"You wouldn't have saved Kristoff if we weren't."
He doesn't want to blanche the hope in her eyes, nor does he want to ruin this new, relationship he has. But truthfully, he doesn't know where he stands. And he tells her so.
"Well, I actually don't know where we stand. What I did, it was out of training; and I usually keep my business and personal separate."
Anna tilts her head. "Why? Wouldn't it be better? Connection around the world, and all."
"It's just . . ." Michael fiddles with the bent corner of a paper. "I feel like people around me have a pretty low survival rate."
Anna's brows furrow, her eyes softening with worry, and not fear. In a blink, they waver with understanding. "Michael, you were a soldier. You can't blame the death of others on you when you were in a war."
"It's not just that, it's all the times we weren't fighting. Either just drinking in a bar or walking through the streets. As a rebel, or criminal, as our former king had called us, we had bounties on our heads. And even after we won, even after we were cleared . . . I've just always kept my distance."
"What about those two friends of yours, the ones you sent the letters to?" When he looks to her with narrowed brows, Anna clarifies, "Kristoff had mentioned it while we were talking. He said they were your friends."
"They are." He admits. "We were part of an elite group of soldiers. They were the only ones I didn't have to worry about, because they were the best. Everyone else . . . I just never bothered."
"Sounds lonely." Anna says with a droop of her shoulders.
Michael shrugs. "You get used to it after a while."
When Anna is quiet, Michael begins walking again. She stays leaning against the wall for another few seconds before her hand grips his bicep. She nearly swings herself around to his front again. "Well, no more of that. From now on, we are friends."
Michael chokes on a chuckle. "What?"
"You've proven it by saving Kristoff, and my sister – a few times by now. We're friends now."
"Anna –"
"If you need anything, you'll come to us, right?"
"Anna, I can't promise anything. Even the friendship I have with my former soldiers, it's . . . a bit rough."
"You seem to forget, I climbed to the North Mountain to find my sister, survived a frozen heart, and saved her from my ex-boyfriend. I think I can handle 'tough.'" Anna says with a confident grin.
"I'm just, not very good at this kind of stuff."
"We'll be fine. Come on, Michael."
She extends out her hand, her pristine nails glinting in the light of the window. He looks and huffs a laugh. "You're not going to let this go, are you?"
She simply says, "No."
Michael sighs, despite feeling a bit of his own, excitement and . . . relief. He takes her hand with a firm shake. "Alright. I'll, try."
They continue their walk up until they reach his suite, sparing pleasant conversations, and Anna reminding him about their training. To which he agrees to start tomorrow morning, if she deigns to awaken by that time. She poked her tongue out at him.
As he has his hands on the knob, Anna exclaims. "Oh! Before I keep forgetting, we may be able to see those friends I told you about."
Michael turns to her, "You mean the ones who can read Old Norse?"
"Yeah. We may be able to see them tomorrow. If you're willing to take the trip."
"Is Elsa coming?"
"Of course, we all are. And when I say friends, they're really more like family. Kristoff's family, actually."
Michael's eyes widen. "I didn't think Kristoff had any family."
"Of a sort," Anna says with a cringed smile, fiddling with her fingers. "They sort of, adopted him when he was a kid."
His heart softens at the note. "What time are they expecting us?"
"Well, depending on when Elsa can get away from her desk, I'm hoping early evening."
Michael nods, opening the doors to his room. "I look forward to it."
In a flash, Anna steps through the doorway and wraps her arms around his middle. Michael is stunned for a moment, holding his books and notes aloft.
"Thank you," Anna mumbles into his chest. "Thank you for saving him."
With his free hand, Michael pats her shoulder. Stepping back, Anna smiles before smoothing down some nonexistent stray hairs in her braids.
"I'll see you tomorrow." He finalizes, before she shows herself out.
Despite himself, despite the heavy promise, Michael finds himself humming throughout the rest of his studies.
The following morning, Michael's bedroom door opens, and a familiar gait and clicking heels echoes through the room.
The Princess of Arendelle stops short when she finds him dangling from the beam of the solarium doorway, repeatedly hoisting himself up to touch his chin to the wooden bar.
Sweat soaks his bare torso and runs in rivulets down his tan skin. He's been exercising for an hour already. The light of the dawn setting his skin shining like polished bronze. His body doesn't tremble once, his form perfect and fluid with each repetition.
He doesn't pause his exercising as he smiles at her panting through his clenched teeth. To his pleasure, she smiles back.