~Hey guys! Sorry I haven't been uploading but I've started school and my writing classes are very demanding, so I apologize if my uploads are a little slow. The classes demand a lot of creativity. But I hope everyone is staying safe! And I thank you for your patience and understanding.
To anyone who's in school, stay focused and study hard!
KeshaRocks~
There is a gate, and eternity lies beyond its black archway.
But not for him. No, this isn't some doorway into the Afterlife.
It is a glimpse into another world.
It is a land of unimaginable perfection and beauty, existing somewhere beyond the brilliance of the sun. A paradise.
From far beyond the threshold of the gate, he could hear it. Singing.
One of the most beautiful and haunting melodies known to man – so perfect that even the gods had to pause and listen to the sweet notes.
But he cannot reach it, cannot go to it even when his blood roars and his magic writhes.
The woman – the Midnight Beauty – has built a coffin, crafting it of dark, glimmering stone.
Stone his fire cannot melt. Cannot pierce. The only way to escape is to become it – dissolve into it like sea-foam on a beach.
Every breath is thinner than the previous one. She didn't put any holes in this coffin.
She's trying to smother his flames.
Smother him.
Beyond his confines, he knew a second coffin sits beside his. Knew, because the muffled screams within still reach him here.
A Snow Queen and an orphaned soldier. Silver and gold. Fire and ice. Both trapped by the Lady of the Dark.
The air will run out soon. He's already lost too much of it in his frantic clawing at the stone. Attempting to get out, attempting to get to the queen. His fingertips pulse where he's broken nails and skin.
Those female screams became quieter.
He should accept it, embrace it. Only when he did will the lid open.
The air is so hot, so precious. He can't get out, can't get out—
Michael rockets up in bed, immediately red lighting flashes down his abdomen, drawing a heavy grunt from his clenched teeth. He places his hand on his stomach and takes deep breaths.
His body is covered in sweat, the sheets clinging to his legs. Slowly, a thin wave of nausea creeps through his head. His throat is raw, his mouth full of ash, his face soaked and sticky.
Looking all around the room, he remembers where he is. In the Kingdom of Arendelle. In the Snow Queen's castle. In Elsa's castle.
He's safe.
He's free.
He's –
"Michael." A voice softly mumbles.
Michael. His name is Michael. He's an orphan. A rebel soldier with no purpose in life, reduced to a mercenary –
"Michael." The voice says again.
He flinches at the soft tone off to his left. He blinks and finds Elsa standing with an outstretched hand and brows knitted together in concern. His eyes flick back and forth, all over her body, to the windows and curtains behind her, seeing the rays of the dawn's light spearing through the slim opening of the curtains.
The smell of something burning wafts towards his nose, but the fireplace is baren . . .
The sheets, the blankets are ripped. Shredded. But not with a knife. And that ashy, smoky taste coating his mouth . . .
His hand is unnervingly steady as he lifts it to find his fingers ending in simmering embers. Living claws of flame that had sliced through the bed linens like they were cauterizing wounds —
Without thinking – without processing that he pushes past the Queen of Arendelle; pushing past her with claws of flame – Michael shoves her aside and yanks the curtains open, snapping them to their sides and flooding the open bedroom with light.
His breathing becoming uneven. Michael presses his hands against the glass, resting his forehead against its bite before scrambling into the living room, throwing more curtains open.
"Michael –" Elsa calls, but he doesn't hear her.
Within the roaring in his ears he can only hear her dream specter screaming and banging against the stone coffin. Michael throws open the curtains to another window, near yanking it off of its bar. Elsa's footsteps follow him into the solarium where he stands at the epicenter, taking a deep breath as the dawn's light is already warming his skin.
He's here.
He's alive.
He's free.
Unfortunately, the feeling doesn't last long.
"Michael –?"
Suddenly the world tilts beneath his feet, and his head is swimming before he hurtles into the bathing room, falls to his knees before the toilet, and is sick to his stomach.
Again.
Again.
His fingertips hiss against the cool porcelain.
Breathe, he tries to think. Wink them out like candles, one by one.
He heaves into the toilet again, shuddering as light and heat crest and rush out of him, and savors the empty, cool dark that pools in their wake.
When he dares to look at his hands, braced on the bowl, the embers have been extinguished.
Even that power in his veins, along his bones, slumbers once more.
The whispering of Elsa's slippered feet hurry over to the bathroom, her hands bracing against the threshold; no doubt cringing as she beholds him. Michael clings to the toilet, spitting once, and reaches up to flush. He watches the water swirl away entirely before he twists his head to look at her.
Her hair is braided once more, back in its place over her shoulder. She wears an off-shoulder dress of simple make; the color a shimmering apricot with its long sleeves and paneled skirt.
What is she doing here? He thought she left him earlier in the night. Or was that already a day ago? Gods, he slept like the dead he doesn't even know.
And frankly, doesn't really care, right now.
"What happened?" she asks gently.
Michael slowly shakes his head. "I had a bad dream."
An understatement. But he can't muster a proper response yet. The feeling of that roughened stone against his back, his flames unable to do anything –
Michael pivots, barely turning in time. Elsa's soft footsteps approach and her hand strokes long, cold, and soothing lines down the curve of his back, as over and over he yields whatever dinner he managed to devour. When the latest wave has ebbed, he breathes.
The calm tenor of Elsa's voice is unwavering as she asks, "Do you want to talk about it?"
He should, but still he can't answer. Michael leans against the coolness of the nearby bathtub and closes his eyes. Within seconds, Elsa hand – coated in all its glorious ice – is placed on his forehead.
Michael sighs with pleasure as he feels the chilled wave ripple along his body, down his neck and over his shoulders, right down to the tips of his toes. He keeps his eyes closed, but when he feels Elsa's hands gently grasp his chin, he wraps his fingers around it to move it further down his neck. He hopes she doesn't mind how slick with sweat it is.
She doesn't, it would seem – as the feeling of her magic shifts to evaporate the moisture, careful not to freeze it against his skin. Like when fanning one's self on a humid day.
"Are you able to walk?" Elsa asks.
A slow nod of his head. "Maybe. Just . . . give me a few minutes."
In answer, a sharp pinch in his hip has him hissing before settling with his back against the cold tub. He completely forgot about his injury. His shoulder begins to throb, and Michael places his hand on the bandages. When he pulls his hand away, he sighs when he sees a thin stain of blood on his skin. The gauze is fresh – hopefully, it'll hold until later.
"I'll get you some water." Elsa says, leaving without waiting for his answer – or washing her hands.
Already his skin feels like it's reheating without her glacial touch. Michael keeps taking deep breaths, brushing his hair off his forehead. He hears Elsa's footsteps come back, a glass of water in her hand.
Despite his state, he can't help but smile as he watches Elsa's fingers twiddle and wave, and four ice cubes drop into the glass. She kneels next to him, holding out the glass. The skirt of her dress pool around them.
Michael bites the inside of his cheek as his hand quivers when he reaches. He takes a couple of gulps before slowly sipping, imagining the water flooding his heated core.
"What happened?" Elsa repeats, brushing a hand along her legs to tuck the skirt beneath.
Another deep breath. Michael could've sworn something grumbled inside him. The groaning of some ancient behemoth settling down into slumber.
He takes a couple more sips, his throat tight. "In my dream . . . well, it felt more like, a vision . . ." Michael doesn't bother hiding the quiver in his voice, "I heard, singing. I saw . . . some beautiful place. It looked like a heaven. But I was trapped, in this . . . box. I think the same one from Pabbie's vision."
Elsa is silent, offering a comforting hand on his shoulder.
"And there was that lady, the one from the darkness. And there was another box, or coffin." He swallows. "And I heard banging from inside . . ."
Elsa's brows furrow, and Michael's throat constricts so tight he has to take another sip, finishing the glass.
Slowly he turns to the queen, uncaring of the stinging lining his eyes. "And it sounded like you. You were banging from inside the coffin; screaming, trying to get out. A-And I couldn't do anything."
Tears roll down his cheeks, and Elsa inches closer to him, resting her hand on his shoulder. Michael's inhale of breath quivers.
"I couldn't do anything." He repeats. His voice hitches on the last word. "And I had that same feeling I did when I watched my parents get slaughtered."
Elsa's head lifts from his shoulder. He can only close his eyes as she feels the back of her hand caress his cheek to catch a tear, followed by a brush of her lips against his skin. He's too weak to care despite the flurry of rousing chills that wave across his chest.
"Are you okay?" she asks, her hand resting on his shoulder.
"I don't know." He mumbles. At least his head feels better. Feels like it's actually secured to his shoulders.
"You can stay with me until they replace your sheets." She states, already standing.
He eyes her leerily, before arguing, "It's already dawn. I might as well stay up." He rests his head against the rim of the tub, eyes closed. "Which, why are you already up?"
He can hear Elsa's smile as she answers, "Because I'm the Queen of Arendelle. I do have duties to perform."
"Even so, at this hour?"
"I'd like to enjoy some time to myself before I have to sign papers and greet visiting dignitaries."
A jaunty slant of his lips. "Oh you, poor, poor thing."
The queen gives a gentle giggle. "Well, if you're able to give such backtalk to me, you're fine to walk to my rooms then."
Michael flutters his eyes open, taking a deep breath. Thankfully, the room is still. "I'm fine. I can sleep on the couch."
"You are not sleeping on a couch with a still-healing pelvis." Elsa pouts. "Just sleep in my room until they change your sheets."
He finishes the water before slowly and carefully getting to his feet, Elsa placing the glass on the counter. Lifting his head, he carefully looks around the room, waiting for something to tip, waiting for something to spin, but thankfully, everything is still and solid.
Still, he doesn't argue when Elsa wraps her arms around his middle. "Did the doctor give you a cane at all?" she asks as they enter the main chamber of his spacious suite.
"Not that I recall. I don't think they planned on me shredding the sheets with fiery claws."
Elsa chuckles, placing a hand on his chest to help steady him. Michael tries to keep most of his weight on his left foot, the doctor mentioning the fracture was on his right side; that and he doesn't want Elsa to carry him.
They come to the living room and Elsa rests him against the back of the couch. Michael keeps himself steady, visualizing his healing magic pouring itself over his damaged bones – imaging it like gold ore casting his bones in armor. He tries to ignore the delicate pop he feels beneath the skin of his waist.
Elsa rotates her hands, fingers twiddling with streams of blue wisps and snowflakes. Michael can't stop his chuckle as a small ball of ice slowly stretches and thins into a walking stick.
"I assume since your fracture wasn't as bad as we all thought, by now it should be safe for you to walk." She says.
Michael shrugs, noting the dampened pain in his right. Looks like the magic is doing its work. She holds it out to him, and he takes it with an exaggerated dip of his chin. With the cane for his right and Elsa for his left, Michael stands as the queen gathers a couple of tunics and pants, triple the amount of underwear. He applauds her for not flinching when touching such intimates. However, there is the slightest hint of color in her cheeks.
Sloppily packing them into a satchel, Elsa slings it across her body before hurrying to his side. "You think you can make the trek?"
Michael smirks. "I've made worse. You're sure about this?"
Elsa raises a brow at him. "It's fine, Michael. And right now, you don't really have a choice."
"I just hope you'll a good explanation ready. Especially for Anna."
"Anna needs to learn when to mind her own business." Elsa says as she wraps Michael's arm around her shoulder.
Helping him gain his balance, they begin to make their slow trek up to Elsa's room. Michael wasn't lying when he said he made worse, with far more injuries – still the stairs proved to be quite a nuisance. Not that he'd ever confess that to her, and they make it to her rooms, nevertheless. Luckily at this hour, few servants are just awakening; they didn't encounter even one. He'll have to figure out how he's going to leave without drawing many eyes. But that can wait.
Elsa opens one of the two doors leading into her room. Smaller, to his surprise. The bed is pushed against the left wall, a beautiful velvet canopy of that same berry color hanging overhead. A balcony takes up most of the back wall with floor-to-ceiling windows and three sets of doors. Over on the right sits a corner fireplace surrounded by plush couches and chairs, a vanity sitting parallel in the other corner next to a changing screen.
"The bathroom is the second doors on the left, the ones at the back leads to my closet." Elsa instructs.
"Doubt I'd have much use for that, unless you want me to steal your style."
Elsa smiles brightly as she guides him to the bed. She pulls back the quit and the sheets, motioning him to sit on the left side of the bed. He almost sighs when he settles into the firmness of the mattress.
The walking staff she created disappears in a flurry of snowflakes. The clock on her fireplace reads six-thirty in the morning. Elsa pays no heed as she pulls the covers over him. Michael fights a smile as he watches her almost tuck him in, then moves to adjust the pillows.
"How soon do your queenly duties begin?" he asks.
"Too soon." She grumbles. "You won't be having any plans today."
Michael shrugs, the smile starting to show. "How about Anna and Kristoff?"
"They'll be in bed most of the day, but they're encouraged to exercise."
"I remember you saying they'd be okay but, I don't know, I just wanted to be sure."
Elsa nods. "Of course."
From the light of the windows, he can see that her gown is indeed a nightgown, but she could pass it for a formal wear if she tried. The glittering ice sequin winks at him in the light of the growing dawn, setting her form rippling like a lake surface.
He also notices she's wearing the necklace he'd given her. As well as when she wrote it earlier in the night; and the day before that. Did she even take it off since he gave it to her?
The thought makes his smile break free. Not enough to show his teeth, but merely pleased.
When she's satisfied with the arrangement of the pillows, Michael leans back with a grunt. "How long was I asleep, after you left?"
He doesn't bother bringing up the kiss. He didn't think it really mattered or meant anything. He kept chalking it up to some kind of emotional response to him saving her life, nearly watching him die, and then having a huge magical battle, and nearly watching him die again.
Or something like that. At least that makes sense.
"You slept like the dead all night. I was just checking up on you when you woke up." Elsa sits at the foot o the bed, hopping herself up and tucking her hands beneath her skirt. "And I wouldn't be surprised if you fell back asleep for the next three days. You still need to recover."
"I'll be out of this bed before you know it. And I don't know if I can even sleep for the rest of the day."
Indeed, the visions from that nightmare still haunt the back of his mind, crisp and clear like a moonpool. Michael folds his hands over his stomach, exhaling sharply.
Elsa leans closer, placing a palm on the blanket. "Do you want to talk about it some more? Maybe we can try and figure some things out."
"Doubtful. I can't make sense of it. I saw so much . . . heard so much." He says quietly.
He looks down and turns over his hand, as though he could see those fiery claws. Not a moment later, Elsa's pale fingers slide across his palm and clasp around his hand. Michael's fingers fold over hers. He didn't even notice her crawl onto the bed to sit next to him.
"Are you going to be okay?" She whispers.
A small shrug, barely any effort behind it. "I guess."
Elsa hums, but suddenly chirps brightly. "I know what you need. Come on."
She scoots herself further onto the bed until she's buried on the pillows, rearranging the ones she just set for him. He can't help but chuckle as Elsa removes her slippers and settles herself.
"Come here." She motions with a smile.
"What?"
"My mother's words: Cuddle close. Scootch in."
Another chuckle, and even some warmth flooding his cheeks; but when he smiles, it's real. Unrushed. Unhidden. It grows wider as Elsa reaches out and takes his good wrist, pulling him further into the bed, closer to her.
He's a little hesitant, but she doesn't seem to care. Because her grip doesn't relent until he's tucked under her arm, his head resting on the nape of her neck. Rather close to her chest. This behavior surprises him, and he almost wonders if he's dreaming again, until her cold hand strokes along his hair, her fingers combing his bangs away from his face.
And yes, admittedly some small, innate, childish part of him does appreciate this sort of intimacy. He still remembers all the times his mother sung him to sleep, each memory branded into his brain in those final moments she died.
He can still feel the touch of her hand – gentle despite the callus she built through burns in the kitchen, splinters from chopping wood; still feel the vibrations of her humming through his skin, down to his bones; still hear her once strong, beating heart through her chest. And for a moment, he thought she was invincible.
The memories make him grow still; heavy, even somber as he settles next to Elsa. The queen seems to notice, as she delicate traces a line down the center of his nose. He looks up to her, and she gives a smile he can describe no other way than motherly. Her hand caresses the back of his neck, combing through his hair again.
And when she sang, the whole world fades.
"Where the northwind
meets the sea, there's a river
Full of memory"
Her voice is soft, ethereal, the sound of a lullaby half-remembered.
He knows he's smiling like an idiot, but as Elsa rests her cheek atop his head, he damns the whole world to hell. He snuggles – actually snuggles – deeper into chest, as though he were no more than a toddler once more, back in his little cabin home.
"Sleep my darling safe and sound
For in this river all is found."
"What river is this?" Michael interrupts, earning a displeased click of the tongue from Elsa. He can't help but chuckle with a sly grin.
"It's a special river my mother told me about, which she heard from her mother. It's said to hold all the answers about the past; about what we are a part of."
"Wish I knew where to find something like that. It would defiantly help me solve a lot of problems."
Elsa giggles, the charm of the necklace resting a hairsbreadth away from the neckline of her gown. "Hush and let me finish."
Michael relaxes with content as Elsa hypnotizes him once more.
"In her waters,
Deep and true
Lie the answers, and a path for you
Dive down deep into her sound.
But not too far, or you'll be drowned."
"Why do lullabies always have to some sort of terrible warning in them?"
"I wonder that all the time." Elsa says with a breathy laugh. She then gives a hard tap to his shoulder. "Shush."
She continues her song, speaking of this magical river that only sings to those who hear. How magic flows in her song. He assumes she can only speak to magic wielders; wonders if the river is really a woman herself. Some kind of oracle calling to the hero to begin their life-altering journey.
Her song continues to tell – or ask, more like it, if you can brave what you most fear. If you can face what the river knows.
Michael's skin crawls with goosebumps.
He doesn't know when he begins crying. Somehow he skips a breath, and it sets his lips wobbling. He shouldn't cry, not here, not with her. But then her cold, smooth hand grasps his to drape it across her abdomen, Michael angles his head up to find Elsa looking at him. She smiles slightly — and he knew she understood.
So Michael looks at his Queen of Arendelle and smiles back.
"Will you sing it again? Please?"
With a smile that could rival the Northern Lights, Elsa adjusts her legs and grants his wish.