AN:

So, so, so. The famous scene that arose from the dead

This fluffy little scene ended up being a slice of cozy content, but tbh it's also one of those moments I had to wrestle with the most and I decided to kill it. Not because it wasn't fun, but because finding its perfect place in PaT was… well, impossible

1. It would have belonged in Arc I, but was written loooooong after its end
2. Arc II is about Elsa more than it is about Garret - and even in Garret's story, this felt a bit too self-indulgent
3. Alastair's character, while I love him, is not relevant to Part II at all, and his presence in Arendelle raises a lot of character interactions I did not have time to handle
4. I find the scene overall a bit repetitive

I cleaned it up a bit but it might be still be rough here and there, sorry about that. Hope you'll enjoy it still!

The Clumsy Envoy

"Thank you, Your Majesty."

Alastair Carter's voice carried that same half-serious, half-mischievous tone she'd grown used to hearing from his son. Elsa stepped into her study, unable to suppress a small smile at how the now General almost bumped his head over the doorframe. Where Garret wasn't overly imposing and didn't look intimidating unless he wanted to, his father was an entirely different story. Broader, taller, his neat beard and dark hair showing only the barest hints of gray despite his age; he occupied the room in the same sense that a galleon occupied a port – hard to miss and harder to ignore.

"Please, make yourself comfortable," she said, gesturing to the chairs by her desk.

He settled with ease but kept his back straight.

"Lovely view you've got here," he commented, his gaze drawn to the fjord beyond her windows. "Though I'd wager the winter vista is even better."

"It is," Elsa agreed, taking her own seat. "Especially when the bay freezes over. Though I fear the castle ornaments pale compared to your crystals."

Alastair's eyebrows shot up. "You've been to the galleries? In the short time we had the honor of accommodating you?"

Not refuting the comment on the castle. One.

"I'm afraid not. But Garret's descriptions were quite vivid," she answered.

"Ah." A fond smile. "He always did have a way with details. Gets that from his mother—she could spend hours telling me about the grain patterns in a single piece of wood. I was always going on about bigger things, whatever that good did."

His hand drifted to his chin, absent fingers stroking his beard. It was a different gesture than Garret's habitual cheek scratch but the sentiment behind it was probably identical.

"Speaking of details," she said, steering them toward official matters first, "I understand the Crown still has some... reservations about Arendelle?"

"Bloody politics," Alastair muttered, then immediately startled. "Beg your pardon, Your Majesty. What I meant to say was—"

Elsa had to bite back a laugh.

That's two. And how many times did Garret catch himself that way exactly?

"I've grown quite used to colorful language, even if your son does try to be more careful with his words these days."

"Does he now?" Alastair's dark eyes sparkled with amusement. "Must be your influence. He used to swear like a sailor on leave. My, admittedly not proud, influence." He cleared his throat. "But yes, about the brass back home. They're... cautious about creating official ties. Magic isn't something they're comfortable with, even after all this time. And you've managed to host three summits without a single diplomatic incident; believe me, that is far more shocking to them. Though I must say, your handling of the Weselton affair has earned you some respect in certain circles."

"How are the guests we returned faring?" Elsa asked, tensing ever so slightly at the memories the question unearthed.

"Roger and his lot? Model prisoners, or so I hear." Alastair's expression hardened. "Apparently he's taken up poetry. Poor guards have to suffer through his attempts."

"That sounds... awful."

"Bloody dreadful, more like. Almost makes me wish we'd given them harsher sentences, if only to spare the staff." He seemed to repeat that in his head, eyes slightly larger and a light flush appearing. "I mean—that was supposed to be a jest, Your Majesty. Sometimes my mouth runs ahead of my sense, you see, and—"

This time Elsa allowed herself a clear laugh. "Please, General Carter. As I said, I'm quite familiar with your quirks. He takes after you more than what your appearances might suggest."

Still three, unfortunately.

Alastair relaxed, but his posture remained impeccable. "Aye, I suppose you would be. And, please. You give me too much honor." He rubbed the back of his neck, and she honestly questioned how hereditary such movements could be – it was a perfect replica. "You can call me Alastair, if you'd like. Seems only fair, considering."

Four.

"Considering?"

"Considering you'll always have a friend in the Empire. Mind you, this might get me some side-eyes back home, but..."

Five… One left.

"But it has nothing to do with politics and everything to do with a certain Lieutenant?" Elsa finished for him.

"He always says you are sharp." Alastair's gaze drifted back to the window, taking in the kingdom spread out before them. "He writes about this place, you know. In his letters. When he first started, I thought he was just trying to make me feel better about him staying. But now I see what he meant."

"Oh?" Elsa leaned forward, curious. "What did he think about it?"

"Said it was like nowhere else he'd ever been. That the people here saw him for who he was, not what he could do." His voice softened. "He likes it. It could be somewhere he'd belong."

Her heart warmed at his words. She'd heard similar sentiments from Garret himself, but there was something different about them coming repeated by his father. Something that made them feel more real, more permanent, more tangible. Elsa sighed, remembering how the only place he had ever felt home was now burned to the ground.

"May I..." She hesitated, then pressed on. "May I ask about Aileen? I avoid raising her subject with Garret, knowing what happened."

The change in Alastair was subtle but immediate. His shoulders lowered while he looked outside, and when he spoke, his voice was so much like Garret's that she wondered whether anyone with eyes closed could make out any difference.

"She would have liked you," he said. "Always had a way of seeing past the surface of things, my Aileen did. She'd show me a chunk of wood, and ask 'Do you know what this wee bit is?'. I'd answer with a strong and resolute No, then she'd pinch my cheek and spend an hour telling me it's actually an ornamental lion that I somehow managed to scare away." He smiled, and though his features were nothing like his son's, the warmth in his expression was familiar enough that nobody could question their filiation. "Rather like how you saw past our Garret's rough edges, I expect."

"He wasn't that rough. Just… hesitant."

"Was he now?" Alastair sighed. "He wasn't like that as a boy. Downright unstoppable, he was. Should have seen him when he was learning to whittle – even when he needed none of it because of his ice. Didn't ask anyone for their opinion, just grabbed a knife and gored his fingers into understanding how it worked. Aileen kept encouraging him, said he was hiding a spectacular sculptor that only waited for an arrow to miss."

As he continued reminiscing about his late wife, Elsa grew more and more captivated not by the words themselves, but by the way they were delivered. The careful choice of phrases, the subtle variations in tone, how he watched her responses. It was exactly how Garret spoke to her during their quiet moments together.

"She used to talk about making rainbows out of storms," Alastair continued, apparently lost in memory. "Always rolled my eyes at her sentences, but it was part of why I was so bewitched watching her work... Not quite yours, but she had her own magic." He stopped, looking embarrassed. "Sorry, I'm rambling now."

"Not at all," Elsa said through the small lump in her throat. "Please, go on."

"Well, she had this way about her. Could make anyone feel at ease, she could, just by listening. Really listening, you know? She forgot when her turn came, always moved her fingers around too much, but she did always listen."

Elsa's mind clicked another piece into place. That's what had been nagging at her—not just the similar mannerisms, but the entire way of expressing them. The careful observation, the attention to detail, the way both father and son spoke about those they cared for with such tender precision.

"I saw it here," Alastair said, "After we lost her, neither of us handled it the way we should have. But I see her in him. The way he watches, the way he tries to understand. The way he... Well, I'm sure you know what I mean."

"I do," Elsa answered, and she was surprised at how her voice got out smaller and quieter than she'd intended. "I do perhaps more than anyone."

Alastair cleared his throat. "Right then. Enough of an old man's memories. I should probably let you get back to your duties before the conference. That boy promised me a full tour and I intend to squeeze it out of him." He stood, and Elsa rose with him. "Though, if I might add one more thing?"

She nodded.

"Thank you," he said simply, extending his hand.

She watched it for a moment, her own clasped before her. Then she raised an eyebrow, and Alastair's eyes widened in sudden realization.

And there's number six.

"Oh! I apologize, Your Majesty—Garret specifically mentioned you weren't fond of—He warned me about—" He withdrew as if burned, looking mortified. "That was terribly presumptuous of me."

Elsa laughed quietly, her hand coming up to cover her mouth.

"You are welcome, but if we were counting diplomatic faults, Alastair, I believe the last fifteen minutes' six infractions would entitle me to at least a small territory."

"Umm – I don't know if – I mean…"

"Kirkwall's too northern. I'll take Inverness."

Alastair watched, silent, for a few seconds. Then he groaned. "He told you I'm a lousy diplomat."

"He also told me you would figure out he did. He didn't give up on you," she continued. "And I don't think he wants to."

Alastair's knowing smile was gentle. "Gets that from his mother too."

As she watched him leave after common curtseys, Elsa remained by the window, her mind replaying the conversation. She thought of all the times Garret had spoken to her of ice sculptures and magic. All the times he'd caught himself swearing, all the times he hadn't apologized for a bad joke, all the times he'd watched her with that careful attention that made her feel truly seen.

Alastair joined Garret by the fountain, and even from this height she could see in the way he walked how sheepish the General was looking. Garret's curious gaze snapped up to her window then, probably drawn by instinct. Elsa lifted her hand in a small wave, and his answering smile warmed her heart even as he reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose at whatever his father had just admitted to.

She could almost hear his exasperated sigh.