Late March, 1853
Halsten Castle,
Southern Isles
Victoria, Albert and the children returned to Britain after the Jul holidays with hugs and kisses and promises to let them know when the babe was born; Victoria had asked Elsa and Hans to be the babe's godparents, and had been overjoyed when the pair had agreed. Anna and Lord Bismarck had kept away from each other in the weeks since the ball, only returning to their secret courtship two months into the new year, once the gossip and speculation had once more died down.
Annes had turned seven in January, and Sof three in March. Liesel, at eight months old, had become more curious about the world around her and even started walking- similar to Anja at that age- while holding onto someone's hands. The blonde curls she'd been born with had quickly turned snow-white like her mother's, and her blue eyes had shifted to green like her father's- opposite to Sof, who looked exactly like their mother, right down to the snow-white curls and big blue eyes.
Things had settled down since the holidays, and the family escaped to Halsten for a few weeks in the spring; Anna had asked that Lord Bismarck come, and after some discussion, Hans and Elsa had relented. Both kept quiet in regards to the pair's courtship, knowing that when they had to put their opinion in, they would. So it was lazy afternoon in late April that a missive arrived, addressed to the two monarchs.
"Tsar Nicholas wishes to form an alliance with the Isles and Arendelle."
Elsa looked up from where she sat on the window seat, the sun splashing over her, forming a halo effect around her snow-white hair as it tumbled down her back and shoulders and onto the floor, wild. Liesel pulled herself towards her mother, holding onto the side of the window seat, and after a moment, Elsa leaned down and scooped their youngest up, settling her upon her lap. "Tsar Nicholas of Russia?"
Her husband nodded, green gaze skimming the letter before looking up at Liesel's soft whimper. The baby reached for the scooped neck of her mother's dress, attempting to put it in her mouth as she had a habit of doing with everything at that age. Hans and Elsa had nearly avoided disaster on more than one occasion when the baby attempted putting whatever she could get her hands on in her mouth- and it had gotten to be commonplace for the servants to hear, "Liesel, no! Let go!" when passing by the royal family's chambers.
Absentmindedly, Elsa removed her daughter's hand, not at all surprised that her daughter- like her other children- didn't react to the coldness of the material, for it was crafted of her ice and snow. Denied the lace on her mother's dress, and therefore the teat of her mother's breast and her milk, the baby reached for the strand of hair that hung loose down her mother's chest; curling her small, pudgy fingers around the strands and yanking before slipping them into her mouth. Her mother jerked, and with a groan, moved to remove her hair from her daughter's hand and mouth. "Liesel, no! Let go!"
The baby whimpered when her prize was taken away, and without missing a beat, her mother loosened the ribbon tied at the center of her dress and shrugged out of it, as soon as the fabric was loose and began to fall away, her youngest snuggled closer, shifting to take the nipple of her mother's breast into her mouth before settling down to nurse, content. Elsa sighed in exasperation, glancing down at her daughter with a shake of her head. "There, is that better? Must be, since that's clearly what you wanted."
Hans chuckled softly, joining her on the window seat and handing her the letter. His wife scanned it quickly, softly reading it to herself. "'... an audience with the King of the Southern Isles and the Queen of Arendelle, at the Catherine Palace in St. Petersburg this coming June...'" She lowered it, turning to him. "Is he aware that we- well, I-" She amended, for the sake of the letter. "have children to raise? We cannot just go to Russia; is he aware of how long it would take us to get there? Why not have him come here instead?"
He stood before Elsa could give him the letter back. "Do you know that the Tsar believes it is best to conquer the Ottoman Empire?" She shook her head. "In twenty-six, he went to war with them, believing that if they used this... policy from seventy-four, they could influence the Ottomans and force them into Russian Orthodoxy, essentially. He believes that Russia has a right to interfere in Ottoman affairs, and most likely all affairs of all countries he deems worthy of his interest. My parents were sent a similar request in thirty-five, and they refused him." He added before she could ask. She watched him pace, adjusting her hold on Liesel. "I remember my father saying to, 'Be wary of 'sar Nikolai, for he believes the affairs of all other countries are the affairs of Russia.'"
"Do you think that?" She asked, as her husband sighed, gaze going to watch his daughter as she finished nursing. After a moment, he returned to sit beside his wife.
"I don't know. Part of me wants to think that, as the years have gone by his policies have changed, but part of me still remembers watching my father worry and debate the merits of such a meeting with a man like him." He sighed, watching his youngest, chuckling softly as she looked up at her father with wide green eyes. "And part of me wishes to ignore the entire thing and focus solely on you and this beautiful little miracle you gave birth to eight months ago- and her siblings."
Elsa chuckled softly, thinking. "Put it away for now. He isn't expecting a reply immediately, is he?" A shake of the head. She nodded, as Liesel, sitting on her mother's lap, reached for her father, who took her into his arms. Her mother folded up the letter, tucked it into her bodice, and then retied the ribbon at the front. "Then put it away for the time being, or better yet, let me focus on this problem for a while, and you just focus on being a Papa."
She stood in their bedchamber that evening, completely stripped bare, studying herself in the mirror. Nothing much had really changed, other than her tummy had returned to normal- within reason, there was a small pouch to it- and the marks that had decorated her skin had faded once more to silver stripes. The only thing that hadn't really changed was that her breasts were still full and round and heavy with milk, but the more the baby nursed, the more milk her breasts would release and the better she would feel. She had to admit, staring at herself in the mirror was a strange experience; this seemed to be the first time in a long time that she took the time to actually look at herself, and she didn't exactly recognize the woman she saw.
Had she really changed so much in the last few years that she didn't recognize herself? Where was the spritely little sixteen-year-old who had grudgingly attended the Tercentenary ball that long ago day back in thirty-eight? Where was the fresh-faced newly-crowned queen who had reluctantly stepped into the spot her parents had unfortunately vacated with their deaths? Or the blushing young bride who'd married her dearest, truest love that moonlit night on the Southern Sea? And the young mother-to-be, who carried her first child secretly for six months before revealing her condition to her council, who had given birth to a healthy little princess in November of forty-four? Who had delivered her second child and oldest son with only her sister's help two years later? Who had gone to war with Weselton while her third grew strong healthy in her belly? Where did she go?
What happened to you? Who are you?
She had gone from a skinny, straight girl of sixteen to a woman who possessed more than enough curves to put her natural hourglass figure to shame on any other woman by the tender age of thirty; her form had filled out in the intervening years, but she was not the stoutly matron most women became after having children. Despite the five babes who'd left her womb in the intervening years, she was still slender and supple- and still very much desired, by not just her husband, but any man who laid eyes on her.
Would her daughters suffer the same glances and looks as they got older? They were young enough that it would not affect them, but she worried about when they got older. Despite their diverse looks- her two younger daughters possessed her thick snow-white curls while her oldest had followed her Papa and possessed his fiery auburn curls, and while her two oldest daughters had her blue gaze, the baby had her husband's fresh cut emeralds- all three were as beautiful as she, and the whispers among the court only confirmed it. She knew that the rumors swirling among the court centered around the assumption that she was having a wild, passionate affair with the King of the Southern Isles, and that her children were the king's out of wedlock...
But none of that is true, and they know it. Wild and passionate it may be, but it was a marriage through and through, even if they could not say a word about it to any but their trusted few. Her children were very much the legitimate heirs of both kingdoms; for after they'd exchanged their vows that long ago night before the priest and their loyal few from both households, they'd signed the certificate and had it ordained, certifying that their marriage was legal, despite being unaccepted by the two countries if ever discovered.
She reached up, fingering the smooth gold of the ring that hung from the chain around her neck. It settled between her breasts, shimmering in the light, and she swallowed thickly. Would there ever be a day when she could watch Hans slide it upon her finger? Would there ever be a day when she could stand before her court, her council and her people and call him her husband? Would such a thing ever happen in their lifetimes, or would they have to die with the knowledge that in the eyes of their people and their courts, in the printings of the history books, they would always be kept apart?
Tears began to mist her vision, and she quickly tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, reaching up to brush the tears away. Her long, snow-white locks, thick and glossy like the freshest of snow, tumbled past her shoulders, past her waist, her hips, her knees, down towards her ankles and two inches past. It was heavy, but she was used to it. By fourteen, her hair had been to her waist, and by sixteen, it had tumbled thick and long to just past her hips. By the time she'd been crowned at eighteen, it had hit the backs of her knees, and then Gerda had shorn it to her waist, removing inches upon inches of splits and dead ends- mainly caused by overbrushing. By the time Milla was born, her hair had once more reached past her hips, and by the time Liesel entered the world, it had surpassed the length it had been at her coronation.
Taking a deep breath, she tugged the hair that covered her breasts back, gathering it all together behind her head before releasing it. Anna's hair reached to just above her hips; unlike her sister, the princess had never taken care of her hair as much- she was constantly running around, getting leaves and twigs and general knots within her hair to the point where, as a child of twelve, their mother had finally instructed Gerda to sheer it all off, if she refused to take care of it. Anna had looked like a young boy, with her hair shorn that short, and she'd embraced it; using it as an excuse to go gallivanting around in breeches and boots as opposed to dresses and satin slippers. However, as she'd gotten older, and it grew out, she was forced to manage it, because proper society- but moreso their mother- dictated that her daughter dress like the young lady she was. Now that she was older, Anna chopped it short every few months to revive it, but never did she wear it so short again.
She sniffled softly, letting her gaze roam over her figure; she saw the little imperfections- the freckles that dotted her chest and seemed to dart into her cleavage, her belly, and the faded red marks that reached up from her most sacred of areas and moved over her belly like hands reaching for the sky. She found the small pouch left in her tummy from her pregnancies, and the line of hair that ran from her naval towards the curls above the area between her legs.
After several minutes, she closed her eyes, trying to stop her tears. She couldn't even understand why she was crying. Was it for the girlish figure she'd lost over the years? The so-called scars pregnancy had left on her body? The added weight- which wasn't much- she'd put on with each child? Or was it a combination of everything?
"Hey, now, don't do that." Her eyes opened, and she watched in the mirror as Hans slid his arms around her from behind, pressing a kiss to her head. "Eliza, look at me." Slowly, she raised her gaze to meet his. "What's with the tears?" She shrugged.
"I... I don't know..." She breathed as he gently brushed a kiss to her cheek from behind.
"You are beautiful, don't ever doubt that you are. That you've given birth to our children and nursed them over the last few years has only made you even more so, and I will never love you any less for it. From the moment you told me you were carrying our little Camilla, all I thought was that there was no way I could love you any more than I did, but discovering that just proved me wrong."