~Hey guys. I want to apologize for not updating in a while. Spring Semester at school and my job have been really draining on me creatively, even when I manage to find time for myself. It feels so good to get back into writing. I've missed updating this story, and I'm sorry for keeping you guys waiting for so long! I appreciate your support and your patience!
I hope you enjoy, and everyone stay safe!
KeshaRocks Xxx~
Despite what had transpired between him and Elsa, he hasn't really heard much from her.
He'd awoken hours later after Elsa had left – the coolness of the sheets indicating she left to fulfill her queenly duties. He didn't really see her for the rest of the day, and given she had no weapons in her room, Michael opted to return to his own suite at an hour of downtime for the servants. Upon returning to his rooms, his bed looked as if nothing had ever happened.
It disturbed him in a way, but as he slipped into the cradling stiffness and smell of the fresh linen hit his nose, he settled down for one of the best naps he's had in years.
In all honesty, he doesn't mind not seeing the queen – the memory of being so violently sick in front of her still warms his cheeks.
He's towing a dangerous line.
And yet, he can't seem to stay away from it.
He'd managed to stay on this side of it last night, even though her comfort and support had stirred him so bone deep it was like he'd found a part of him he hadn't even realized was missing.
It was another reason he made his workouts so severe, not to punish himself, but because he can't stop thinking about the way she'd looked at him.
Between small conversations with the servants who tended his room, he learned he might not see neither Elsa nor Anna since the princess' birthday party is in a couple of days. Both women are going to be swamped with work and scheduling. With his condition still up in the air, he gives orders to the guards himself to watch over the royals if he is not able to attend.
Over the next couple of days, when he's not pooling all his strength and magic into healing his pelvis, Michael spends the time training when he can, using whatever he can to exercise — chairs, the doorway, even billiards tables and cue sticks. A part of him feels bad for tricking Olaf into snatching the tools, but he's near climbing the walls just lying in bed. The balls made for remarkable balance tools.
He made himself do all sorts of activities: walking on his hands, juggling blades . . . It's not anything new, but it is unpleasant. Each exercise brought back memories of his first learning back at the rebel camps. And the pain in his hip slowly seemed to ebb bit by bit. He could now walk without that distinguishable sharpness stabbing its way up his side. The limp he experienced just from walking to the bathroom gone.
When he wakes up on the day of Anna's birthday, all the pain seems to be gone. Fluttering his eyes open against the morning light leaking in through the draperies, Michael rolls over on his back and stretches his body to its full length. There are no aches, no sharp pains like this used to cause, and he even finds himself smiling with content at the beautiful summer morning.
Well, summer merging into fall – the past couple of days has been testy with its ever-changing temperatures.
Shifting under the down comforter, nestled on the fluffy pillows, Michael groans with pleasure as he stretches long, smiling at the complete coziness. The curtains to his windows have all been opened, his roaring fireplace alive with crackling logs. Sitting up, Michael looks to find a small breakfast banquet already set for him on the dining table.
He looks around the room smiling contently. He's always loved the morning light – something in its purity as it signifies the start of a new day. The way the world seems to be calm just for these few small hours, when everything and everyone are relaxed with its warmth. He leans forward, resting his chin on his knees, his fingers clasped together around his ankles.
Michael just stares at the center of his room, watching the golden light shift as clouds roll by outside. He tosses of the sheets and pulls on a pair of loose trousers. He does several minutes of pacing before sitting down for breakfast, as an assurance that the pain won't come back.
As true to word, he hasn't seen Elsa or Anna those entire two days. The only silver lining is that no assassin or Lady of the Night has attempted anything either; which only makes more anxious for the princess's birthday. It would be odd if they didn't bother to try anything.
As he dumps a mountain of sugar into his porridge, Michael forces himself to go over everything that has transpired these past few weeks, and to look through the new doors that have opened on this investigation. Those workouts were intense for a reason: it didn't grant him the strength to really look at the massive shift in this job.
Despite the knot in his stomach, Michael forces down a few scoops of porridge.
The group of Inferno Assassins is just a bunch of bullshit. The group is nothing more than a collective puppet for that dark empress, whoever she is. She is the cause of all of this, at the center of everything.
Magic plays a bigger part of this investigation that any of them had thought. The demons, the runes, even the woman herself. He still hates how his skin crawls at the thought of that dark power she possesses. And worst of all, the power she awakened inside him.
His stomach tightens again, and Michael takes a few gulps of water. That roiling purr deep within him settles, the heat of his palms withering.
Easy, he thinks to it. Healing, that's all we're doing.
Magic is the biggest factor here – next to the woman, it is the root of everything. He barely put any research into the meaning of those runes other than the discovery of that secret room. Looking down the length of the table to his desk, his eyes immediately find that book containing the Northuldrian runes.
That will be his priority, for now. This is his only lead. Whoever that woman is, she knows the power of these runes, knows how to use them. If or any of the royals are going to stand a chance, he needs to understand them as well. But who in this entire kingdom knows Northuldrian? It doesn't even sound like a language Danika would know.
At the thought of the rainbow-haired shapeshifter, Michael thumps his fist against the table. She sure is taking her sweet-ass time responding to his letter. He shouldn't be surprised – she's probably enjoying her life of retirement in wine and nightly lovers. Still, the thought of that wild woman makes him smile. Wait until she and Caiden find out he has magic of his own. She'll probably wring his ass into next week.
Those runes also had something to do with his magic awakening – Michael distinctly remembering those circles of them that night at the temple.
Now he has to set down his spoon and take a deep breath. He leans back in his chair.
It was like he could feel invisible claws ripping their way through his skin, through his mind and everything that he was. Dark hands spearing their way into the recesses of his mind to find that kernel of magic he never knew he had. Healing wouldn't have been much of a surprise – that was something he expected, but flames. Fire magic.
It's not a rarity by any means, but Michael had always thought of it as some kind of burning curse.
Fire is alive. It breathes. It grows. It will spread and destroy everything in its path if one does not have the will to control it.
Fire wielders had to be especially careful in regards of control; the constant practice and meditation he's seen them go through – they could be up before dawn training, and still be the last ones to go to bed.
It forces those who are burdened with its care to walk a razor's edge between humanity, and savagery.
Until eventually, they are torn apart – mentally, or literally.
He's always had this tingling feeling in his chest from the morning light ever since he was little – a feeling of excitement as he would leap out of bed and dance around his room in the sun's golden rays; how he would look out his window and see the sunlight breaking through the boughs of trees and reflecting the dew on the grass and wild flowers of the meadow. Other days he would just lay in bed for those hours with his eyes closed – utterly content being cradled by its gentle fingers, feeling its touch along his cheek.
He never could explain why, other than it was something he had inherited from one of his parents. The purity in light being an embodiment of his mother's spirit.
Despite himself, Michael's heart falters a beat. He leans forward, resting his cheek against his knuckles, breathing in the breaded scent of the cooling porridge. His fingers entangle in his hair.
There was no other word that described his mother other than opalescent.
From the jewelry that glittered against her skin, to the dresses she would wear . . . even to her magic.
Though his mother had never shown any signs of magic, Michael could've sworn there were times when he would see a shimmering halo about her head. In a blink it would be gone, a simple trick of the light, or a figment of his imagination. He could never forget the warmth of his mother's hands; the way they cradled him, her stunning sea-green eyes holding same light as a morning sun. Both just as comforting, as soothing.
His father had been just as gentle, perhaps just as secretive too. But his father was a man of his word; he wouldn't try to hide something as inevitable as magic in the family. He would be the person to try and train Michael if it were possible. The man was an open book – which only further confuses Michael when he thinks about why the king's men had come to slaughter his family. His father would never hide any fact of him being part of a rebellion, especially if his family's life is at risk.
Maybe if they had known, they could've done something to prevent it.
He could've done something to save them.
Michael takes a deep breath as resumes his breakfast.
He hadn't really thought much about either of his parents since what happened; hadn't let himself think about it. His last image of them before he had to run: the blood, the darkness, yet there was still love and fierce determination in his mother's eyes as she told Michael she loved him, and to run.
Gods, what would his parents make of him now?
Michael can't remember a time when he wanted to be something different – something other than a soldier who slices necks and hides in shadows. After he fled his homeland, after being strung up in chains and training and blood for years, his heart grew cold at the idea of helping people who were like those men – are like the men he hunts for money. He kills adulterous nobles and corrupt politicians, he's always been led to believe he's doing his part in making the world better, not like the men who slaughter upon the word of a tyrant, or capture innocents and sell them for profit.
Michael always thought there was a difference, but no one ever confirmed it. Danika and Caiden agreed, assured he was different. But their opinion is biased. They too had their own struggles.
But what would his parents think?
A door to his mind is starting to open, starting to let the memories flood forth. Michael could've sworn the firelight became brighter.
They were an average family, living in the countryside of his long-forgotten kingdom. His father would leave early every morning to work inside the kingdom's walls, his mother would tend to him and the house. Michael can still picture the little garden she tended to in the backyard. His father hunted as a side job, his kills always clean and usable.
Both his parents befriended everyone that they knew. There was not a single person who didn't know who they were.
Yet it didn't seem to help when his parents had been murdered; left to die and burn in hungry flames.
Blinking his sudden tear-lined eyes, Michael takes a deep breath and runs his hands through his hair.
Michael kept those memories – ones of light and laughter, and love – tucked into his heart, carried them with across kingdoms; a bright light for when the darkness became too much.
Over the next few years, Michael could almost feel his soul being tainted, growing with such darkness with every throat he swipes his blade across, every skin he peels apart, every intestine he leaves strung about the walls.
He could feel his light – one he shared with his parents – grow dimmer and dimmer until it had to retreat into that darkness just to maintain a kernel of what it was.
Michael can smile; he can go to the churches; he can donate all his earnings to charities and homeless shelters, and yet it won't make a damn of a difference.
He is not their son anymore.
He can thank the gods for Danika and Caiden. They had become his friends, his support -especially when he didn't realize he needed it most.
But they never became his new light once he had lost his own. They never filled that hole in his heart; even with such friendship, nothing ever became intimate with either. Through physical or emotional comfort.
Not that they've ever tried. It's not what he needs anyway.
Their fire matched his own – kindled with rage and hatred for those who robbed them of their childhood.
None of them could ever seem to move on – even Danika with her many lovers and late nights at taverns and wild smile always seemed to be burying the memories she refused to face.
Caiden was never one to talk, and that's why Michael liked him. they never wasted time trying to pour their hearts out to one another in an attempt of friendship, but more of a presence in a quiet comfort. He would be pouring over some papers while Michael read a book. Just a solid, but quiet presence.
Michael sighs as he hears the doors to his suite open up, and in steps a servant woman with a cart full of fresh bread and desserts. She looks over to the dining table, giving a pleasant smile as she approaches.
Michael nods to her before pushing the bowl of cold porridge aside, plucking a grape from
He might not have his own light anymore, but at least he'll always have the light of a new day.
But the question still tickles the back of his mind, hauntingly whispering in the recesses of his mind; will he ever find a new light again?
Anna's party has gone off without a hitch, for once. Next to decorating and organizing and buying gifts, Elsa was determined not to let another Snowgie ruin the celebration.
Her sister dances with Kristoff at the center of the courtyard, mingling in a throng of subjects. The sunflower in her hair glittering in the late afternoon sunlight. Clad in a gown of velvet green, the sleeves drop off her shoulders, ending in points at her fingers. Half of her hair is weaved up and around the ends of the sunflower, leaving the rest to cascade in a waterfall of curls over her shoulder. Embroidered flowers trail across the hemline of the skirt, twining up the bodice with Arendelle's crest resting at the base of her chest.
As Elsa stands at the top of the steps before the front doors of the castle, she smiles as she adjusts the sleeve of her own dress, shivering from the breeze that tickles her bare shoulders. Today she is swathed in yards of periwinkle silk and a matching, chiffon shawl lined with silver lies relaxed around her elbows. Her hair is set in its usual braid, twined with pearls.
Before her, the nobility strut across the floor of the courtyard, gossiping, scheming, seducing. An orchestra plays minuets in a corner, and servants slip through the gathered nobles in a dance of their own as they refill and clear plates and cups and silverware.
Her decorative pillars of ice flank the dining tables, shimmering with opalescent colors. The fountains twinkle with floating sunflowers atop its surface – the plant represented in the center pieces, the tablecloths, and even the balloons scattered tastefully about the yard. Strung in between is a banner of Kristoff and Sven's making, reading Happy Birthday in sloppy but colorful painted letters.
Some nobles start dancing, weaving in and out among each other. Many are her age, but she somehow feels as if there exists a vast distance between them. She doesn't feel older, nor does she feel any wiser, but rather she feels . . . She feels . . .
She feels as if there's something inside her that doesn't fit in with their merriment, with their willing ignorance of the world outside the castle. She doesn't fit with the typical template of royalty. It goes beyond her title, or her magical ability. She had enjoyed their company early in her adolescence, but it had become apparent that she's always be a step away.
The worst of it was that Anna nor Kristoff didn't seem to notice how different she felt — even after years of acceptance from their subjects.
What unnerves her more is . . . she didn't realize how immensely lonely she still felt until Michael had come.
To meet someone else who shared magical abilities such as hers . . .
"Elsa!" a voice suddenly calls.
She didn't realize she had been looking down until her head snaps to attention. She giggles when she finds a pink colored Olaf dancing atop of Sven.
"Look, Elsa!" the little snowman says, "I'm a snow cone!"
Kristoff and Anna approach, color flushing her sister's cheeks. She's a giggling mess, the ends of her beau's hair sticking to his forehead. Anna reaches out her hand, and Elsa takes it.
Giggling, her sister says, "This has been amazing, Elsa. You did great!"
Elsa matches her sister's smile, unable to contain her own laugh. "I'm glad you're having fun. But I think it's time we cut the cake. Olaf's been staring at it since it arrived."
The two sisters lock arms and walk down the aisle towards the four-tiered ice cream cake. Its outer later a glittering turquoise with white frosting decorating its edges. The sisters nuzzle one another as they both catch a glimpse of the tiny ice figures standing at the stop of the cake.
Kai has just finished lighting the candles when the sisters approach, citizens and servants alike clapping and singing the princess a lovely birthday song. When finished, Anna blows out the candles with more merry clapping and cheers.
As the steward begins to cut and distribute the cake, the band resumes playing as Elsa and Anna walk back towards the castle front doors. Both prepare themselves as twin princes begins to approach them with gleaming smiles and matching attires.
But before they can utter a word, "Who is that?" breathes a young courtier beside them.
Elsa turns.
She can't tell if it is a dream or reality until several heads, then many, turn to look. Though the waltz is playing, those not dancing quiet themselves as the mysterious, stunningly handsome man takes a step, then another. He walks down the courtyard aisle, Kai and the other servants having moved the cake out of his way, leaving nothing to disturb that swagger in his walk, his hands tucked in his pockets.
He might have his faults, but Michael never does anything half-heartedly. He's outdone himself with that attire, seemingly unaware – or uncaring – of how spectacular he truly looks.
His jacket of thundercloud grey is fitted to his muscular form. The thick, braided ebony threads loop around matching black buttons, and trail along the cuffs and collar in detailed embroidery. The grey stems through to his pants, tucked into polished black boots.
But while the clothes were of fine make, it wasn't what captured the attention of the many women and the attendants.
No, it's the sculpted features of his face: the distinct cheekbones, the sharp jawline, and the sapphire blue of his eyes that rival the ocean. Were it not for those, Elsa would not have recognized Michael in such formal attire.
He looks only to her as he walks, a dangerous smile on his full lips, making Elsa feel warm to her core.
He is something out of a dream—a dream in which she was not a magical Snow Queen, but a woman. He reaches the bottom of the steps, and Elsa took a step forward. She stops hearing the crowd, and her mouth becoming dry as he stares at her.
Michael bows low. "Pardon my intrusion, Your Highness." It's a voice made for the bedroom. The words and tone flowing like liquid midnight with a gentle gruff.
The broad, muscled shoulders and powerful frame; the knowing smile; even his beautiful face radiated a sense of maleness that had her struggling to remember that he'd spoken to her directly.
She has to fight the conspirator's smile creeping across her lips. Unlike some of the flashier and softer male court men, Michael's appeal had always been more ruggedly masculine.
"But I'd hate to see a beautiful woman such as yourself be stuck standing around during this occasion." His posture his perfect: one hand behind his back, the other flourishing before him. "If I may, it would give me the greatest pleasure if you would do me the honor of letting me lead you through just one dance."
Elsa has to restrain herself from wrenching herself free from Anna. But her sister is already releasing her, stepping back to link arms with Kristoff. Elsa didn't even see him approach.
"Yes," she's able to mutter.
She delicately lifts the skirt of her gown, but not above the ankle, and slowly descends the five steps to Michael's outstretched hand. He bows to her upon taking it, Elsa offering a polite curtsey. His fingers are warm, making her cringe at her cold ones.
The crowd began chattering as Michael leads her from the steps. He guides her towards the center of the courtyard, all eyes upon them. She doesn't fake, nor does she hide her smile now. The musicians begin a new number, the rhythm they keep is a steady one-two-three, one-two-three. Dancers turn like dervishes, bead-and-gemstone-encrusted skirts flaring out.
"What are you doing here?" she asks.
"Are you not glad to see me?" His hand slips to rest on her back, his fingers grazing her bare skin.
She snorts with a smile as they turn to face each other. "I thought you were busy healing."
"A benefit of magic, I've come to find. Besides, you didn't expect me to sit still, alone in my rooms while there was a celebration going on."
"I didn't know you cared."
A shrug of those shoulders. "Who am I to pass up free food?" at the disapproving click of her tongue, he gives her a pitiful pout. "Not like I was going to get any sleep from this music anyway."
Michael slides his other hand around her waist as she braces one of hers on his arm. She looks up at him when he begins to move—a slow step, then another, and another, easing into the steady rhythm of the waltz.
"I am glad to see you here, by the way." Elsa says quietly.
He spins her before she can utter another word, and they coil in a tight circle. The world blends into a mesh of chaos, color, and noise.
"I'm glad. I'm happy to be here." Michael pulls her close, his lips brushing the outer shell of her ear. "You look beautiful," he says quietly, running an eye over her in a way that makes her ears burn.
"Likewise." There is such beauty in his face—and strength, and honor, and loyalty. Elsa clears her throat. "You do know the trouble you've now caused, don't you? At Michael's puzzled expression, she emphasizes, "Now the courtiers aren't going to stop asking about you. They'll want to know all the details."
"What can I say? I wanted to see that creative mind of yours at work." His grin never falters. "Do let me know what magnificent story you come up with, and the next time we meet, I'll let you know where you went wrong."
Elsa can't stop the chuckle that breaks past her lips. He spins her out and in, never missing a step, as graceful as any swordplay she's seen him demonstrate. She crashes flat against him and he spins her again. As they rotate about the floor, she can see more and more couples leaving the floor, giving them space.
He twirls her. The skirts of her gown sparkle underneath the disappearing sunlight. His mouth is a work of art, too, all sensual lines and softness that begged to be explored. She allows herself a moment of peace as she leans her head to the side, guiding Michael as he moves to spin her again, throwing her into revolution after revolution.
Smooth, never faltering, never breaking her stare.